AN INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART IN VERSE  
By Raj Nandy : Part One

INTRODUCTION
Background :
The India subcontinent and her diverse physical features,
influenced her dynamic history, religion, and culture!
The fertile basin of the Sapta-Sindu Rivers* cradled one of
world’s most ancient civilization, (seven rivers)
Contemporary to the Sumerians and the Egyptians, popularly
known as the Indus Valley Civilization!
The Sindu (Indus), Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Sutlej, Bias, along
with the sacred river Saraswati, shaped India’s early History;
Where once flourished the urban settlements of Harappa and
Mohenjodaro, which lay buried for several centuries;
For our archaeologists and scholars to unravel their many
secrets and hidden mysteries!
Modern scholars refer to it as ‘Indus-Saraswati Civilization’;
By interpreting the text of the Rig Veda which mentions
eclipses, equinoxes, and other astronomical conjunctions,
They date the origin of the Vedas as earlier as 3000 BC;
Thereby lifting the fog which shrouds Ancient History! +
(+ Two broad schools of thoughts prevail; Max Mullar refers
to 1500 BC as the date for origin of the Vedas, but modern scientific findings point to a much earlier date for their Oral composition and
their long oral tradition!)

On the banks of the sacred Saraswati River the holy sages
did once meditate, *
When their third eye opened, as all earthly bonds they did
transcend !
From their lips flowed the sacred chants of the Vedas, as
they sang the creator Brahma’s unending praise!
These Vedic chants and incantations survived many
centuries of an oral tradition,
When Indian Art began to blossom into exotic flowers like
Brahma’s divine manifestations;
With all subsequent art forms following the model of
Brahma’s manifold creations!
The Vedas got written down during the later Vedic Age
with commentaries and interpolations,
And remain as India’s indigenous composition, forming a
part of her sacred religious tradition! *
(Rig Veda the oldest, had hymns in praise of the creator;
Yajur Veda spelled the ritual procedures; Sama Veda sets
the hymns for melodious chanting, & is the source of seven
notes of music; Artha Veda had hymns for warding off evil
& hardship, giving us a glimpse of early Vedic life.)

IMPACT OF FOREIGN INVASIONS:
Through the winding Khyber Pass cutting through the rugged
Hindu Kush Range,
Came the Persians, Greeks, Muslims, the Moguls, and many
bounty hunters storming through north-western frontier gate;
Consisting of varied racial groups and cultures, they entered
India’s fertile alluvial plains!
Therefore, while tracing 5000 years of Art Story, one cannot
divorce Art from India’s exotic cultural history.
From the Cave Art of Bhimbetka, to the dancing girl of Harappa,
To the frescoes and the evocative figures of Ajanta and Ellora;
Many marvelous and exquisitely carved temples of the South,
And Muslim and Mogul architecture and frescoes along with
India’s rich Folk Art, enriched her artistic heritage no doubt!
Yet for a long time Indian Art had been the least known of
the Oriental Arts,
Perhaps because from Western point of view it was difficult
to understand the spirit behind Indian Art!
For Indian Art is at once aesthetic and sensual, also passionate,
symbolic, and spiritual !
It both celebrates and denies the individual’s love of life,
where free instinct with rigid reason combine !
These contradictory elements are found side by side due to
her culturally mixed conditions, as I had earlier mentioned!
Now, if we add to this the constant religious exaltation,
With the extensive use of symbolic presentation, from the
early days of Indian civilization;
We have the basic elements of an Art, which has gradually
aroused the interest of Western Civilization!

The further we get back in time, we only begin to find,
That religion, philosophy, art and architecture,
Had all merged into an unified whole to form India’s
composite culture!
But while moving forward in time, we once again find,
That art, architecture, music, poetry and dance, all begin to
gradually emerge, with their separate identities,
Where Indian Art is seen as a rich mosaic of cultural diversity!

(NOTES:-In the ancient days, the Saraswati River flowed from the Siwalik Range of Hills (foothills of the Himalayas) between Sutlej & the Yamuna rivers, through the present day Rann of Kutch into the Arabian Sea, when Rajasthan was a fertile place! Indus settlements like Kalibangan, Banawalli, Ganwaiwala, were situated on the banks of Sarsawati River, which was longer than the Indus & ran parallel, and is mentioned around50 times in the Rig Veda! Scientists say that due to tectonic plate movements, and climatic changes, Saraswati dried up around 1700BC ! The people settled there shifted east and the south, during the course of history! Some of those Indo-Aryan speaking people were already settled there, & others joined later. Max Muller’s theory of an Aryan Invasion which destroyed the Indus Valley Civilization during 1500BC, supported by Colonial Rulers, was subsequently proved wrong ! Indo-Aryans were a Language group of the Indo- European
Language Family, & not a racial group as mistaken by Max Mullar! Therefore Dr.Romila Thapar calls it a gradual migration, & not an invasion! The Vedas were indigenous composition of India. However, they got compiled & written down for the first time with commentaries, at a much later date! I have maintained this position since it has been proved by modern scholars scientifically!)

SYMBOLISM IN INDIAN ART
From the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic to the Cretan Bull
of Greece,
Symbols have conveyed ideas and messages, fulfilling
artistic needs.
The ‘Da Vinci Code’ speaks of Leonardo’s art works as
symbolic subterfuge with encrypted messages for a secret
society!
While Indian art is replete with many sacred symbols to
attract good fortune, for the benefit of the community!
The symbols of the Dot or ‘Bindu’, the Lotus, the Trident,
the Conch shell, the sign and chant of ‘OM’, are all sacred
and divine;
For at the root of Indian artistic symbolism lies the Indian
concept of Time!
The West tends to think of time as a dynamic process which
is forward moving and linear;
Commencing with the ‘Big Bang’, moving towards a ‘Big
Crunch’, when ‘there shall be no more time’, or a state of
total inertia !
Indian art and sculpture is influenced by the cyclic concept
of time unfolding a series of ages or ‘yugas’;
Where creation, destruction and recreation, becomes a
dynamic and an unending phenomena!
This has been artistically and symbolically expressed in the
figure of Shiva-Nataraja’s cosmic dance,
Which portrays the entire kinetic universe in a state of
eternal flux!
The hour-glass drum in Nataraja’s right hand symbolizes
all creation;
Fire in his left hand the cyclic time frame of destruction!
The raised third hand is in a gesture of infinite benediction;
And the fourth hand pointing to his upraised foot shows the
path of liberation!

It was easier to teach the vast untutored population through
symbols, images, and paintings in the form of Art;
For a picture is more effective than a thousand words!
The Dot or ‘bindu’ becomes the focus for meditation,
Where the mental energies are focused on a single point of
creation,
As seen in the cotemporary art works of SH Raza’s
artistic representations!
Yet the same dot when expanded as a circle becomes
wholeness and infinity;
The shape of celestial bodies of the cyclic universe in its
creativity!
The Lotus seen in many sculptures, on temple walls, and
majestic columns, denotes purity;
A symbol of non-attachment rising above the muddy waters,
retaining its pristine color and beauty!
The Lotus is a powerful and transformational symbol in
Buddhist Art,
Where pink lotus is for height of enlightenment, blue for
wisdom, white for spiritual perfection, and the red lotus
symbolizing the heart!
This Lotus symbol also finds a place in Mughal sculptural
carvings and miniatures;
The inverted lotus dome resting on its petals, forms the
crown of Taj Mahal’s white marble architecture!
The trident or ‘trishul’ symbolizes the three god-heads
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva;
As the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer, in that cyclic
chain which goes on forever!
The ***** stone of Shiva-lingam surrounded by the oval
female yoni symbolizes fertility and creation,
Usually found in the inner sanctuary of Hindu temples!
Finally, the symbol of ‘OM’ and its vibrating sound,
Echoes the primordial vibrations with which space and
time abounds!
All matter comes from energy vibrations manifesting
cosmic creation;
Also symbolized in Einstein’s famous matter-energy equation!
The Conch Shell a gift of the sea when blown, sounds the
ancient primordial vibration of ‘OM’!
It’s hallowed auspicious sound accompanies marriage
ceremonies and rituals whenever occasion demands;
And pacifies mother earth during Shiva-Nataraja’s sudden
seismic dance! (earthquakes)
Dear readers the symbols mentioned here are very few,
Mainly to curb the length, while I pay Indian Art my
artistic due!

A BRIEF COMPARISON OF ART:
Despite the many foreign influences which entered India
through the Khyber and Bholan pass,
India displayed marvelous adaptability and resilience, in
the development of her indigenous Art!
The aesthetic objectivity of Western Art was replaced by
the Indian vision of spiritual subjectivity,
For the transitory world around was only a ‘Maya’ or an
Illusion,- lacking material reality!
Therefore life-like representation was not always the aim
of Indian art,
But to lift that veil and reveal the life of the spirit, - was
the objective from the very start!
Egyptian funerary art was more occupied with after-life
and death;
While the Greeks portrayed youthful vigor and idealized
beauty, celebrating the joys of life instead!
The proud Roman Emperors to outshine their predecessors
erected even bigger statues, monuments, and columns
draped in glory;
Only in the long run to drain the Roman treasury, - a sad
downfall story!
Indian art gradually evolved over centuries with elements
both religious and secular,
As seen from the period of King Chandragupta Maurya,
Who defeated the Greek Seleucus, to carve out the first
united Indian Empire ! (app. 322 BC)

SECULAR AND SPIRITUAL FUSION IN ART:
Ancient Indian ‘stupas’ and temples were not like churches
or synagogues purely spiritual and religious,
But were cultural centers depicting secular images which
were also non-religious!
The Buddhist ‘stupa’ at Amravati (1stcentury BC), and the
gateways at Sanchi (1stcentury AD), display wealth of carvings
from the life of Buddha;
Also warriors on horseback, royal procession, trader’s caravans,
farmers with produce, - all secular by far!
Indian temples from the 8th Century AD onwards depicted
images of musicians, dancers, acrobats and romantic couples,
along with a variety of Deities;
But after 10th Century ****** themes began to make their mark
with depiction of sensuality!
Sensuality and ****** interaction in temples of Khajuraho and
Konarak has been displayed without inhibition;
As Tantric ideas on compatibility of human sexuality with
human spirituality, fused into artistic depictions!
Religion got based on a healthy and egalitarian acceptance
of all activities without ****** starvation;
For the emotional health and well-being of society, without
hypocritical denial or inhibition!
(’Stupas’= originated from ancient burial mounds, later became devotional Buddhist sites with holy relics, & external decorative gateways and carvings!)

KHJURAHO TEMPLE COMPLEX (950 - 1040 AD) :
Was built by the Chandela Rajputs in Central India,
When Khajuraho, the land of the moon gods, was the first
capital city of the Chandelas!
****** art covers ten percent of the temple sculptures,
Where both Hindu and Jain temples were built in the north-Indian
Nagara style of Architecture.
Out of the 85 temples only 22 have stood the vagaries of time,
Where a perfect fusion of aesthetic elegance and evocative
Kama-Sutra like ****** sculptural brilliance, - dazzle the eyes!

KONARAK SUN TEMPLE OF ORISSA - EAST COAST:
From the Khajuraho temple of love, we now move to the
Konark temple of *** in stones - as art!
Built around 1250 AD in the form of a temple mounted on
a huge cosmic chariot for the Sun God;
With twelve pairs of stone-carved wheels pulled by seven
galloping horses, symbolizing the passage of time under
the Solar God !
Seven horses for each day of the week, pulls the chariot
east wards towards dawn;
With twelve pairs of wheels representing the twelve calendar
months, as each cyclic day ushers in a new morn !
The friezes above and below the chariot wheels show military
processions, with elephants and hunting scenes;
Celebrating the victory of King Narasimhadeva-I over the
invading Muslims!
The ****** art and voluptuous carvings symbolizes aesthetic
bliss when uniting with the divine;
Following yogic postures and breathing techniques, which
Tantric Art alone defines!
(Both Khjuraho & Konark temples were re-discovered by the
British, & are now World Heritage Sites!)

Artistic invention followed the model of cosmic creation;
Ancient Vedic tradition visualized the spirit of a joyous
self-offering with chants and incantations!
The world was understood to be a structured arrangement
of five elements of earth, water, fire, air, and ethereal space;
Where each element brought forth a distinct art-expression
with artistic grace!
Element of Sculpture was earth, Painting the fluidity of water,
Dance was transformative fire, Music flowed through the air,
and Poetry vibrated in ethereal space!

CONCLUDING INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART:

Indian Art is like a prism with many dazzling facets,
I have only introduced the subject with its symbolism,
- without covering its complete assets!
After my Part Three on ‘Etruscan and Roman Art’,
Christian and Byzantine Art was to follow;
But following request from my few poet friends I have
postponed it for the morrow!
Traditional Indian Art survives through its sculptures,
architecture, paintings and folk art, ever evolving with
the passing of time and age;
Influenced by Buddhist, Jain, Muslim, Mogul, and many
indigenous art forms, enriching India’s cultural heritage!
While the art of our modern times constitutes a separate
Contemporary phase !
The juxtaposition of certain concepts and forms might
have appeared a bit intriguing,
But the spiritual content and symbolism in art answers
our basic artistic seeking!
The other aspects of Indian Art I plan to cover at a later
date,
Hope you liked my Introduction, being posted after
almost forty days!
ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY
E-Mail: rajnandy21@yahoo.
    FEW COMMENTS BY POETS ON 'POETFREAK.COM' :-
I have a vicarious pleasure going through your historical journey of Indian art! Thanks for sharing this here! 2 Mar 2013 by Ramesh T A | Reply
•
The prism of Indian Art is indeed has myriads of facets and is an awesome mixture of many influences some of which you list here so clearly - a very understandable presentation of symbolism too - -thank you for your fine effort Raj. 2 Mar 2013 by Fay Slimm | Reply
•
Oh what an interesting read with immense information capturing every single detail. You painted this piece of art with utmost care. Truly, it's works Raj…tfs 2 Mar 2013 by John Thomas Tharayil | Reply
•
First, I have to say, the part about the lotus symbolism reminds me – My name ‘NILOTPAL’ can be split into ‘NIL’ meaning BLUE and ‘UTPAL’ meaning LOTUS. So my name represents wisdom (although it contradicts ME.. LOL). A lot of things were mentioned in the veda and other ancient Indian texts that were way ahead of the time Like the idea of ‘velocity of light’ got considerable mention in the rig veda-Sahan bhasya, ‘Elliptical order of planets, ‘Black holes’ , although these are the scientific aspects. The emphasis on contradictory elements or even the idea of opposites in Indian art is interesting because India developed the mathematical concept of ‘Zero’ and ‘infinity’. Hard to believe Rajasthan was a fertile place but now it possesses its own beauty. It was great to read about the Natraja, ‘OM’ and the trident(Trishul). Among symbolisms, Lord Ganseha is my favorite because a lot is portrayed in that one image like the MOOSHIK representing

Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.

Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
  
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
  
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
                      
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.
Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner

Happiness

I wake up fresh and happy as can be
Monday mornings are just simply nothing for me,
A new day has been given to me
Oh for what this day has in store for me I just can't wait and see,

Class starts with the teacher telling a joke
Recess and gotta sip on some of that coke
At the math class the quiz was postponed
At lunch my crush sat with me and I'm feeling like I'm ******

Just got home and mom bought some pizza
And how i enjoyed grobbin' down on that meat
Pepperoni, ham and bacon now that's just neat
Oh how today was a good day

Endin' everything at night
Just chillin on my bed not a ****** in sight
Oh how today was cute like some pup
But it was all ruined when I heard wake up!!!

The place smells the same. Garlic, undergraduate angst, oven flame.  The menu hasn’t changed. The Antony and Cleopatra.  Italian sausage and snake meat. The Macbeth. Cooked in a cauldron.  Blood sauce won’t wash off. The Julius Caesar.  Served bottom side up.  You have to knife it from the back. The Timon of Athens. Only bitter, separate ingredients, overcooked to black. The Frankenstein.  Assembled from ingredients at hand.  Served smoking from a jolt of high voltage. The Dramatic Irony. It’s a surprise.  Everyone at your table knows what you’re getting while you cover your eyes.

You said tragedy means playing out a ****** hand. The game has to end badly. Bigger Thomas. Joe Christmas.  Hamlet.  Everybody dies.  No choices. The end. I said, no, it means you have a fatal flaw.  Macbeth and Ted Kennedy—ruthless ambition.  Gatsby—pride. Lear—vanity. Richard Nixon—douchebaggery, deep-fried. Bad choices.  

“Can’t be both,” you said.  “One is character, the other one’s fate.” “What if character is fate?” I asked smugly. “Then we’re *******, Heraclitus. It’s late.”

I smoked a pipe.  You wore a beret and severely bobbed hair. I wrote sarcastic love letters to the universe. You wrote hate lyrics to Ted Hughes, love notes to Jane Eyre. We kept relations on an intellectual plane. You had a set of big firm ideas, dark-eyed principles, and a dimpled scorn of life’s surly crap. My eloquence was tall, square-jawed, curly, tan.  Together we solved the world’s big problems as only undergraduates can.

“Can pizza be tragic; or is it merely postponed farce?” I wondered. “Here it is clearly both, though not at the same time,” you said. “Does tragedy plus time equal comedy?” “Sounds right.” “No, tragedy plus time is any order in this place on a Saturday night.” After what seems like decades our orders finally arrive.  

“What did you get?” I asked.  “Looks like the Double Tragic,” you replied. “Flawed choices and fate. I leave you. You were unfaithful to every love sonnet you ever wrote.  Yet you are the first man who makes me feel loved, the only one who ever will.  I strain for that feeling again and again but it becomes a boulder that keeps rolling back down the hill. And fate—my beautiful ******* that got so much attention from men will **** me.  The only thing they will ever nurse is a cancerous seed. You?”

“The Too-Many-Choices, done to perfection. Choosing everything means choosing nothing. Loving too many women, I love none.  I follow a simple path home but try to stay lost. Living in the space between lost and found has a cost.  My life becomes a solitary pilgrimage to no place.”

“Let’s not reduce our lives to a Harry Chapin song,” we agreed. So we toasted the beauty of what never was. I went back to my hotel to write, found my way to a few easy truths, and called it a night.

I did what I love,
Now I pay the price.
My very happy weekend,
Now stalked by sleepless nights.
What have I become?
They've stripped me of my rights.
No longer have the option,
To do what I would like.

So goodbye dreams,
Goodbye dreams of mine.
Maybe just postponed,
Until I find the time.

In a peculiar, far off, world, time and place,
The trivial past would be irrelevant, chased away then erased.
Contrary to the reality of distorted lies in front of my face,
These eyes cannot mask fraudulence or disgrace.
Chasing them down with a trace of a defaced case of toxic waste,
I pace as my thoughts race of the time that’s left until I dissipate.
Looking into the murky vase with dying flowers desperate to be replaced,
Misplaced to the one who’d obliterate the beauty I once embraced.

Within my sorrow I woke, shattered love replaced with a heart no longer broke.
Soaked with what I could never cope, I felt passion and choked on my once false hope.
This vision evoked a note; a call of duty for you, my eternity to devote.
Instinctively I knew, the words stuck in my throat, but blindly every incline eventually has a *****.
Surrounded by mirrors shielded with smoke,
As we stared we shared yet nothing we spoke.
Your presence was felt but disguised with a cloak,
Confined in your skin, comfortably lost afloat, for your soul I searched to perpetually stroke.

With blurred vision I envisioned, stood silent, anxious of your condition,
Division of indecision was nothing less than your frightened inquisition.
A hallucination on a mission of who was out to hurt you with consistence,
I understood as you tried to piece together the suspicion of our composition.
Guarded and in position to react upon intuition then the smoke disappeared and you saw our reflection.
No longer was my presence an imposition now in recognition you accepted the ignition of a united evolution.
Successful revision disposed internal superstition,
Our collision created a premonition for our future decisions of precision.

The past’s paths we chose were restricted to our addiction and careless indifference,
The assistance of negative influence stripped us of our innocence.
Blood shot eyes, negligence of appearance, abstracted resistance only creating distance.
Ambiguous and inexperienced, taking shots and hits in an instance,
Distorted images, lacking clarity, the abuse of substance left an absence of existence.
Building tolerance whilst sabotaging resilience, guilty and unable to admit repentance,
Without a witness, secret and safe, no justice to serve and no one to listen.
A mission incomplete and persistent,
We continue to envelope in our disappearance.

In the seam of my sickness I submerge within these contaminated nerves,
Fearing the silence with thirst not to be disturbed,
But absurdly I yearned your unhealthy and perplexed words to be heard,
My tender nature reserved an exclusive place to keep you conserved,
Unstable but concerned I’d preserve you like an herb,
I slurred for forgiveness but observed perhaps this was my turn,
But with your freedom you turned away and flew away like a bird.
Now relentless and pure I burn the surface of my figure, no intent to return.

Yet once we were young, wild and free,
Conducting our train with no fear of where we’d soon be,
The sweet breeze guaranteed the destination with ease,
Imagination without knowledge, amid glee and degree,  
We’d dive and rise above the salty sea,
Later meet beneath that tree with belief the starry sky we’d seize,
Through the debris you still held in your hand the key,
And we’d conquer our dreams, what we sought and believed.

But as I’ve grown within my questioning dome,
My home of stones has nothing to be shown,
Prone to disown my weakened skin and bones,
Candidly I pacify the clone I’ve never known.
In hopes to be flown far ahead of this zone,
I’d hover above in a whispering tone, draining my disease as it’s blown.
My soul will glisten and roam, looking down at my new golden throne,
As I’ve postponed to recognize the beauty of the Earth & my own – No longer shall I be alone.

The first suicide hit like a bullet

BANG

One of us dead, and at his own hand

The tension in the hallways filed into the ears of all those who walked
through its thick silence

It was a struggle to move through the heavy weight of a quiet hallway

People cried, whether they knew him or not

Teachers made promises,

“It’s worth it,” he said “I swear to you, it’s worth it.”

A moment of silence for the boy who is no longer living,

Whose hidden pain was known by none

Whose family will never be the same

Whose future which once was mystery, is nothing but imaginary

The second suicide hit like a rock

THUNK

The hallways rang with growing confusion,

At every turn, each whisper faded into the next in a mirage of sadness

But mostly confusion

Letters were handed out, but there was no time for more tears and
speeches

They had postponed the moment of silence for the girl who is no longer living,

Whose hidden pain was known by none

Whose family will never be the same

Whose future which once was mystery, is nothing but imaginary

The third suicide did not hit

SWOOSH

It was not silent anymore

There was laughing and talking, as the excitement of yesterday’s
football victory buzzed throughout noisy hallways

The letters were passed out late and no one read them

Teachers continued with their lesson plans

Students continued with their joke making and picture taking

Because people don’t have to keep caring after strike three

There was no moment of silence for the boy who is no longer living

Whose hidden pain was known by none

Whose family will never be the same

Whose future which once was mystery, is nothing but imaginary



This is our dystopia

"Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life
and do not die a half death
If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent
If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance
Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes
Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you nowhere
Half an idea will bear you no results
Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time, yet in the same space
It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn't live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you,
and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability,
but you are able for you are not half a being.
You are a whole that exists to live a life,
not half a life."

--Khalil Gibran

Prelude  PART I


"Today when the threat is looming, as close apocalyptic years approach, it will be by cohabiting itself and the ruining valley of debris, which will make this world corrupted the next issue of the numeral scale of the new count, a rising hyperspace , concerning the parts of the kingdom of God ... "

Then on the Lord's day, John saw the glory of the risen Christ, and she understood from the point of view of God, he saw that the fate of the Church and threatened in the first persecutions took the appearance of a dark beginning.
And the time John wrote the Evangelist, including books were Jews called Revelation, that is, "Revelations". With fantastic images of monsters, angels and cataclysms, evidence of the Jewish people are stressed and are invited to await the judgment of God who intervenes from heaven with all his power.  So my beloved world is harsh and does not represent an apocalypse, but it is the true reality is when I will bear its overwhelming slaughter.

" Today when I walked with my winged feet near my friend Victor, I confided down the road crushed by afflictive legs; how difficult the taste of laughter when the decadent surrounds you, the human, the vile, the loose ...
Even though the celestial charisma invoke his memory and help nourish the weakness of Robert in hyperspace, with clean clothes, I can see his beloved mother consumed as automaton can take care of him. She is also her father, because it carries rooted in its members and manners, infinitely sharp look; in their arms they will gather wherever his soul is under his patronage that lives there ..."
I am  who  say that Roberto is a dog, who bears all the faces of dogs humble and serene. Perhaps tired of hearing young people, it is flush adults who do not accept, and who do not share as young faces were watching them, getting them to receive them what they should disclose them.
This is how we are numbed and distraction is fleeting, and he looking aside in his astrayed, he would be saying ...:
"Among the cradle and the grave I have a feeble scaffolding, and then complains, though his other I demolishes; unsconcient defends his executioner ... that the threat of death is its widespread depravity, which dominates it and want to go on like mortifiying.

      I want to talk about life ..., he said in his short years of life, which is more of it; possibly coming to complex, what our Somatic territory responds in normal or involuntarily. Comparative anatomy, and its innermost portion, the link body and mind, as a pure white as Samadhis and nature.
Homeostatic factors regulating our vitality, making its experimental modification, increasing to evolution, or maturation as a criterion of personal psychology go with the passage of time into in the depths of our mind.
Thus in a known threshold of Vedic architecture, its sensitivity is excited by regulating the effectiveness of the response to be made ... and everything related to the world of Ludwig Garroch; brother Robert in his strange Emigrate.
Yesterday when my arms away from hers, my fingers pounding away and recording what the heart more than a song, was a symphony sonata with a single end, long and sustained movement; It was the adage inner melancholy with an eye romanticism, which dominates the
passions of the visible world, which inhabits Antonieta, causing me, unbalanced living.


                                       CHAPTER I


In the beginning years of his childhood, little Ludwig sitting at home, in the gallery. Ask her aunt who was ironing ... Madelain, how I would always be a child of five ...?, And being as such, a privileged to receive toys for many years. Attentive aunt, maybe go to hear with little complacency as his hands only want unroll clothes.
After two years at the age of seven, when her aunt arranging his coat to go to Mass, she teaches a carol that had been taught in childhood. When many wondered whether there is a Santa Claus ...?, And among his friends they looked to unravel the mystery. One year later, when he enjoyed his unicycle, who just dominated him, called him a cousin telling her it was her birthday. He did not hesitate to go to find out what was behind the call, so he found the means by which we celebrate, we live and cooperate towards happiness and delight to have us at each other.
Not long after a friend told him .. "You do not have ten years are too big And Ludwig thought he was well endowed and well stopped, so not your friend was wrong in the above. It is my label and my stance has put the world on me.
Every passing day came the stamp of manly character, a woman or girl who made change her hairstyle, and he did dress more attractive every day.
Later, in his teens, his gaze was well received and their voices radiated security screening. Where He must continue the line of men. Even when I was living as smoothly, looks out strong destination with which calls us to live with skin clean or *****, because it is inside the feeling and the pain does not come out, it is enclosed by the overflowing affection. Here is the portion of good or evil haunting things casual and destroys the healthy, it fertile.

                                        
              ­                           CHAPTER II


Then was a year with a sports compensate pleasant summer sated outdoors, almost fugitive ... will not wonder that life smiled on him serfdom, and very willing opened his prudence.
Every time I decided to go to his favorite places, he went with his burly comrades in the best mood to conquer optimistically. Thus, no wonder he wanted when he was alone and put your reasoning judiciously, because nothing is distant, nothing is impossible.

After unite desires and forces, to clean your bike, piece by piece, in full sun know much security would not allow the mother of vices ruin their fun, that scarce alive to possess the desire to move and go on compliance instinct. Casts on itself, the vigor of the inner, its desolate world full of free enthusiasms who obey no doubt the vital complex activity.
Ludwig and entering the maelstrom of men love hate Godson, you can glimpse the friction with the air, with people ... I wore. That their voices heard their soul contracts, and thus puts light feet towards an acceleration which does not afflict his troubled stomach, nor regret his decision and put fearful, but, bring himself retained encouragement of his mind to remember the maternal cooing, comfort and timely relief to protect forever the suffering, the suffering of torment without end, not he shut the inspiration of the good man that no harm will result, and not for nothing the valence of living and not quarrel prancing. No existing could shed some light on what role, and that little thought is not complicated, and thus shown kneeling and unable to distressing oppressors and agents tangled conduct to chaos, those characters of ambition and discrimination.
Ludwig, who lives in the Ecologist City, where large forest ... budded, is home jungle floral site, whose relations are flowers, trees ..., next to Strange birds migrate flower in her intra nature reproduced, and pods evacuated by butterflies.
His close friend, is the watery and salty sea, which is beloved because he falls in love, puts on alert and curses him by his surroundings and invoking him. Anyway, it dwells wherever it is, and is accepted as a basic element of the universe.

                                    
                                         CHAPTER III

The act of tender love would be fulfilled later ..., what his voice fell silent and had his eyes and heart fortify, which will be linked from far inside.
At night, with Roderick going to a festive night, they climbed the rungs center alone, with heat in his shirt skin later. And in a deliberate action, someone asks you a sign that taking care tired and distinguishing see that John was his friend, school mate. He did not hesitate, he approached, greeted him and his sister and a cousin when she noticed well, he saw that he wore perfect for your night.
Debra wore elegant, dark clothes and sang with her dark brown wavy hair; his white brunette and harmonious ****** complexion line, gave her constant reflection. Fate was present, as it would not go around the world to be looked at by someone, he would watch his choice. Little was said, he only realized he was not passing and North America came eleven years ago.


They roasted the hours and the party ended, Ludwig remained with her new friend and his old friend John. They went downstairs, thinking about committing his new friendship, as I had noticed a slight interest in it. This happened and the meeting lasted for several hours.
The next day, he went to see her lawns roads where she lived, always with its mystique and kneeling the beast that wanted to impose upon him, that gives it excessive materialism unloved peace.
She arrives at her house, which was to John, though not very comfortable, but sure to please and attentive to host it.
And that night said much that was the tender feeling and liking her, but as his policy was rigid and concerning celibacy, only mattered to him, the unknown world of madness in his brawling to survive.
Time passed and deepened love, Ludwig went to say goodbye to his beloved, especially that he had faith, but that day would betray him. And so I wanted to put his heart and iron sleep peacefully, but Debra no secret  to tell ...:

"Ludwig, do not abandon our own, we must have faith, and I understand what it is. Ludwig rested and then brought her hands to her, hugged her and kissed all over her face, covering her eyebrows, nose, forehead, mouth; his lips positions in the middle of it, wanted to feel her warmth and tell her he loved her and would miss a lot of pain. But there was no show weakness, he must be strong and not to complicate the farewell from North America. Mourn scared him, because he had forged the feeling, because his aching grief was deep and it was at an undetermined point, with great desire to hold her and kiss over his face.
So ever, it was unbearable, she would like to die in his memory and had to remember in the collective thinking of his family circle. Which it fits the feel shivers ideas with sensations, such as the best in its inherent upstart point.

It was hard, as if more than man Ludwig out the feminine side of himself. But irremediable was the end, eager poisonous reaper approached. Ludwig hugged her, kissed her and stroked her right breast ... saying: "Do not forget me ..." and so left. Then he wrote her, that madness had transformed her away, but the distance was prevented against carcinoma being all postponed.
To know he could not boil your blood heavy thinking, they were contracted muscles. When he relaxed, he saw back through the hatch of his head, the soul that was in an ****** tragic holocaust, where Eros tenaciously and rebellion dictated its laws. Ludwig slept, and consciousness became natural color, as if it were safer, eternally fresh and manufactured this dream a poem ...:  

" That one corresponding to the celebration,
I wish to reunite with enthusiasm and strength ...
touching eyes closed
the sad sky, the dry ground, dried flowers
and people backward habits.

As meaning if it takes itself ...,
is the meaning
although they are scattered
in flows oppressions ...
the animosity of delight just widow and desultory,
losses and more losses at the time of aging ...
and profits to appease others.

For more like,
there seems to be a big drop ...
the same credibility ...?
and setting as a feeling
remain imagination stationary.

As hard it corresponds to the body,
It is destroyed inside ...
and hardened thoughts
tears falling to the esophagus,
without recognizing either way.

Who the pace of living is customizable,
and no opportunity is lost ...
but growing and creative
rears its profile,
as an unforgiven mirage. "


    Have been and unrestless forms of peremptory perceive, and when it starts to wander in my solitude, transporting my sorrow with grief, wherever I go I will take silent and vivifying separation completes the probable brain, which lives and endures in avidity stamped man with his need to want the Lord's command that made me forge this creation .--- he told himself, as a witness epilogue of his poem, albeit as the cry to its essence it was about. Originally from the Ecologist City, where reigned the wise and calm, where he healed their diseases, which has dodged the putrefaction of their wounds, where you inhale the aroms most want and cordoned off its without a grave lack of soft and flowering odour.
To believe missing, do not be afraid and trust that will grab everything, that not a drop of air was not lost on her fingers, which will not fail to display their imaginative stuff Alma Mater.
With all their eating, you want to cure your bad like venereum, and would go into the hands of a counselor or a warlock who extirpated the curse. Heal her feet and hands to despair, to heal the memory of his thought that I seasoned and voluptuous breaks the veins of his caleter, which seems not of it like a dwarf be provided with a dagger will break their venal, and this to commit such surgery, he laughs loudly with garnets eyes, full of the worst evil.

And this way Ludwig Garroch, vague without fear of rags, without fear of hunger or the messiness, only idles so that someday I can walk on the water surface, leaving their hydrocentric footprints where plankton reverence their sense of pain, his infarcted heart , her long fingernails of violence.


TO  BE CONTINUED….

Suicidal thoughts often flashed across my mind.
I might have lived and died million times.
I searched for the way to reach suicidal point
Short cut, long cut any cut to reach.

But I couldn't get one
So I just postponed it for an hour.
My thoughts went on traveling too far
But it hanged between
If, that and this.
What will happen after this?

So I went on postponing
For days, months and years.
If I announce,
I will be self imprisoned
With charges of penalty and some punishment maybe,
For keeping such thoughts with me.
It's just illegal and burnt of shame just adds another one.

If I bring into action and I am dead
I will be just buried down dead with few tears shed.

If alive after all these stunts
A severe punishment on self
And I may come into the notice of many
Ashamed and chopped I will
Be whoever sees me!
It's as good as being buried alive!

For time being everything stands Postponed!

Though the topic is too harsh and rough,
Based on reality.
Such things happens when one looses control on self.
Be in a light mood while reading this poem
As you may also love
And I request you to postponed
If such thoughts you are keeping  in your mind!

Postpone it for sometime!
Just see you may find another way out
As some minute changes in our life
Can bring a lot of difference in our thoughts
I know its just easy to spell be positive
Just postpone it for time being for you aren't going to loose anything
As the life is too valuable and precious which can never be reverted back
Once dead.
Just wait and watch patiently.
Sure a sun will rise in your way as it did for me too!

©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY GEETHA JAYAKUMAR 2014
Geetha Jayakumar

The beholden larva beckons
for none to behold
the simplicity of its movements.

The predator of hole-ridden leaf fields
begs for notice
to be postponed.

There is safety that will follow
the eyes that continue
to follow past it.

In another cycle it will leave
behind the simplicity
that it now knows.



The beholden chrysalis beckons
for none to behold
its lack of movement.

The loiterer of leaf-ridden branch
begs for notice
to be postponed.

Lacking the safety of hymenopterans
its predecessors continue
to follow past it.

In another cycle it will leave
behind the simplicity
the pharate now requires.



Behold the transformed beckon
for none to behold
its clumsy movements.

The maunderer of pushing winds
received no notice
of what it postponed.

There was safety before
the forceful gale
followed past it.

In this cycle it has left
behind the simplicity
it now longs for.



It struggles to hold fast
to the branches
it once traversed so easily.

A gift to observers
is the burden's cause
carried in silence.

these things are best written about later,
when you could be anyone, and I can lie
(as heartsick yet composed narrator)
about small things, like *'I really tried.'

a little pitter-patter,
postponed the celebration
and clatter.

a little pitter-patter,
**** on our family gatherings
like it made no matter.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

no screaming lights,
the night to
shatter.

boys went on before.
went to unjustified war.
felt the hot

pitter-patter
of hatred,
of lead.

old polititcians
produced
a downpour of pretty promises.

in the form of
"freedom"
"independence"

give 'em pride
and a rifle.
push 'em a trifle
to strengthen their hide.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

pit-pit-pitter-patter.

postponed 'til the fifth.
so we could remember
dead boys

in convenience.

sitting there, fiddling with my beard,
trying to manage a pseudo-payot -
twirling it, and twirling it -
attempting to lose weight
with due process - of gaining
a pointy shrub of *****...
            i really had something to attest
for:
      ah!
             ****, lost the marbles...
      going to see a turkish
barber is about as obnoxious for
me as seeing a doctor...
     no one ever heard of going for
the feral look?
              in whatever agony,
i'd rather that sort of a death sentence,
than this, prolonged,
power ****** / grabbing delay
of:
      i seem to dream up  the following
scenario,
   given that the space we call
universe is primarily a medium
of time...
               and death row?
the execution bound to an electric
chair, isn't the actual execution...
the actual execution?
   it's the waiting "game"...
   by the time the shitshow is over...
sitting in the electric chair...
is a death's bargain of:
gambling on death's gambit...
  there is no pain in concentrated
posits of delayed "gratification"...
         Empedocles
    (who jumped into a burning
volcano)...
     Diogenes (who died by holding
his breath)...
there is nothing inhumane
about the rite of the execution...
it's the delayed artifact of it being
postponed that's degrading...
    mind you...
all the ****** victims,
at least experienced the pain
numbing adrenaline shock intermediate
effect...
     like hannibal lecter noted:
the shock, numbs the pain...
       but waiting
for an execution?
      up in arms for the death penalty -
but, not... cat teases mouse
waiting game...
          only last night i found myself
lying in bed...
humming out, groaning,
   an attempt at relief...
              pain is ultimate...
waiting is relative...
    here i'd side with Cain...
     execute... but please...
            don't make him wait;
waiting is the execution in itself...
if not more...
   this: reflection of what
the victim's life could have been...
taking the bible literally:
what, marked, and allowed to roam
free in a place like Siberia, or
the Canadian woodlands?
       keep it fresh, keep it simple,
give the perpetrator the same
adrenaline high...
some laws are non-debatable -
    on a high, squiggly clean, fast...
the death penalty makes sense...
but only if there is no
waiting game involved -
             the waiting is worse
than the actual execution...
                  say what you may about
the french revolution...
   but since the guillotine?
  the american electric chair...
  wasn't exactly any bias
for improvement...
          snap tactic!
   i hate, what these covert sadists
disguise as a course
of justice...
            this waiting game...
it's like Einstein's relativism never
took off...
           because a caged, waiting game
with a Cain, has no objectivity argument,
and there's no quality filter to
ascribe to this argument...
          by comparison -
   the Abel of the matter was shown
more justice, even if within the confines
of the irrational premeditation of
the abhorrent act...
                   don't people realize that,
being confined...
   subsequently providing the original
zenith of sentencing (i.e. execution) -
death, becomes a saint,
and found itself a friend and martyr?

       it is no longer an execution...
but a release -
and the person being executed -
has an inability to recant for the past crime...
he slobber and makes solipsistic
incantations...
                there is no closure...
with the evolutionary sadism of capital
punishment delay...
          
     why not make the killer and victim
lovers - in the case of Cain and Abel,
Siamese twins?
              
        waiting for the execution,
           is worse than the execution itself;
last time i heard,
in england, the pork was "herded",
piling onto each other, in claustrophobic
cages... suffocating each other...
        
     i sometimes dream of being a
maximilien robespierre -
dreaming of ghosts -
  and supervising the drop of the guillotine,
like i might think, about reconsidering
having a shave.

waiting for a spark
    your eyes lock
    on my dark and
    hopeful ones waiting
for the right
    kind of love
    you'll someday give
    out to me

I fret torpidly in my lair;
Your scent is around, but I've seen nobody.
'Tis sordid about me, with rolls of dutiful smoke—
and unleashed winds growling about unseen.
Beside me here stands a perfect mirror, a perfect glass,
But nothing seems imperative, nor talkative, nor patient;
Everything is just silent—what a robust fear—foolish impediment.
Ah, if only can I fast **** this petulant temperament—
do you think I shall feel better, or magnified?
I feel that myself is like a wind:
Thin, fragile, and constantly diving and swelling upwards.
Even my narrative is about to betray me;
Vehemently indeed—should this happen,
I might be able no more to write any poetry—
As my chest above there hysterically bellowed, I shall be pushed upwards—
Upwards, upwards, I am curling upwards—like we all naturally are,
Over the earth, along the oceans, and their sample images of Paradise;
Every single day, at noon, and against this midnight sky.
 
My darling has left, and thus I have but Him in my shabby hands;
With skin marred and scratched and dried by the rude winter;
Ah, say, but who says that winter is clever and polite?
Like my love perhaps is, she is but a relic—or even statue, of blunt disgrace—
She is neither merry nor cordial; she never is aromatic, and flaws us with its brutal haze.
 
I am alone, alone, alone, and totally alone—
O my love, my love, my love, where can I peruse
your felicity just once more?
I have but loved thee all along;
I love thee as magnificently and preciously
as I loved thee one year back and yesterday.
You are my purplish, reddish, greenish, but incompatible moon,
You are comparable still, to the joyous soul of this stained poem;
by whom my love has thrived, by whom I can always replenish.
I shall rise you again within my dreams;
I shall face myself within your sour vapour—but never let you fade.
I shall let you halt my paint, and brush dirt upon it;
I shall let you scatter your grossness over me, and acquire even your sins;
But as long as you are there, over me, I am not scared but keen;
I shall not be mesmerised, nor even heart be broken and pained.
May my heart break, so long as it has its consolation floating by.
 
Ah, and who, beside this breakable moon—can claim my erupt forth;
To comfort my sleep and give solace to my shrieking doors;
And throw unheeded calm into my quiet walkways;
While looking me in the eyes as we step sideways.
Who can ambush my chest along this hairy path;
With a charm far stronger than yon behind the grass;
Who can heal me, and who can heal me not,
Ah, have I but still the courage to make this right?
I shall look for you again amongst the city roars and rumblings;
I shall look for you again in the mornings—and amongst the bleakness of evenings.
 
Look, my love, how the rainbows have a turquoise face today;
So beautifully crafted and charted like the skies of yesterday;
I should fall asleep now, but still—I don't want to be lulled alone without you;
Even though you are faraway, I can still feel your breath and air.
Your absence, as I hope then, shall fast perish;
For I want to grow old not by the countenance of miseries.
I want to be injected into your space now—as maelstroms of sleeps greet me again,
And as the clouds of heaven start to feed on me;
I shall feel light again, and thereby not turn grey;
I shall feel that you have welcomed me back;
I shall feel your breath tingling by the sides of cheeks;
I shall feel my hairs anew—as they raise against the corners of my neck.
 
And there we shall play together against the sky;
Against its pedal who anew blooms in wan suspicion;
Ah, my love, I shall entangle you then—in my varied, and multiplied visions;
I shall tell you the funniest of one thousand lies.
I shall give you only the finest of kisses, and jokes;
I shall startle you by my poem and my beautiful black locks.
Ah, thee, to you whom I have written this poem, and shall always do;
To you whom I have loved, and have to this day admired;
To you for whom a forest of grace and salutations has been dreamed;
To you for whom my heartbeat grows, and fastens and slows,
To you for whom I woke up today, and open my eyes tomorrow;
 
To you whom I have loved in the name of Him;
To you for whom I lit the glitters of the sky;
To you for whom my heart was startled and passed justly by;
To you for whom my palms sweated and eyes started to cry;
 
To you for whom griefs disperse into brighter saturations;
To you for whom life continues, and gives birth to more immediate sparkles;
To you for whom I have celebrated my soul; and made one true promise;
To you by whom I have halved my heart, and without whom shall never 'come the same anew;
 
To you for whom all favours are spelled, and words dedicated;
To you for whose grins I shall wait again forever;
To you whose eyes are darker than the midnight river;
To you by whom my belief shall stay strong, and consciously devoted;
 
Ah, you, my love, so this remorse shall fall over me and back again,
With creases I curse, and remarks that my ruined chest censures;
Abhorred by the moon, and its very own celestial abode—
Which shakes and stretches along the crimson universe,
I have thrown my life into your horizontal, and longitudinal spectrums—
In both superficial and artificial ways, you have haunted me.
Ah, but still—cannot I erase your name from the fruit of every essentiality;
You are the sweet tyranny of my soul, and the leaves of my very gay sensibility;
You are the throne of my love; you are the specified satire—
though but funny and not—you are my destiny.
 
Like a vinyl birch tree that howls when stabbed, I have become your prey;
I shall wait for you at dawn and give my whole self to you at dusk.
I shall wait for you to claim my destined—and prescribed heart;
I shall wait for you to finish your abominable task,
As long as you can emerge for me—and listen to my poems and follow what I say.
 
And like a scar that stays for long in one's fair skin;
You are stubborn though things not go well;
Ah, let's now confess that your heart needs me;
But still—you are too proud, and far too docile, to admit your sin.
The question now is: how should we ever eradicate love?
Love is a prison, I know, and it is the most unforgiving jail;
It is merciless and painted by colours of abomination;
And nothing in it is plentiful—like Him in the shivering sky;
It is where tears crowd and gather—as I have perused;
It is where insolence and crudeness unite—even when not provoked.
 
Ah, my love, but have I fallen into this snare of love—whether or not I want it;
And your gaze is still the sole sweetness I hope to meet;
Never is my love sweeter—or petite, than a grain of wheat;
You are the foreverness for whom I shall sweat;
 
And in the loss of you lies my venomous assassination;
And I am wary now—and afraid of facing this everlasting trepidation;
Your shadows shall never go away, and for this I can be wronged;
For when I am dying—shall my mouth be falling asleep and recite your song.
 
My art has torn; it has been filthily murdered.
Its fervour was lost in, as you saw, just one wave of scenic mortality—
But still, the true essence might still be there, as it was once fertilised—
As by you, my Imagist, my Wilde, I was terrifically astonished by you.
You are my painting, my picture, and even the shared portrait of my self.
You share my veins, as how I supposedly hold some share of your blood.
Ah, and I remember now, how your warm blood did once touch my wrists—
So engagingly, so thrillingly, so brilliantly.
My heart, my head, my mind—all were brutally consumed by thee.
 
I want to die by thee, but you pierced my heart—
and in brief, made my spine grow dead tears;
Everything grew worse and I was manifested into your bitter triangle;
I was your lonesome moon who got forgotten soon;
Ah, it seems that yon French lady is better than I am—
With her curly hair and tittering oceanic eyes,
She was the filter of your noons, the storms
And devilish desires of your nights.
She was as gusty and spooky as the windblown thorn;
poisonous were her words, but still, you carried yourself to her.
I fretted and screamed and my blood gurgled—
but I guess I was fortunate still;
for I had the chance to keep myself pure and chaste
while you unstoppably sinned and defiled yourself.
So you were disgraced.
 
And you were enduringly consumed by your own fires;
The fires to which you confined yourself;
Not the calming, sooting, leafy bonfires we use in winter;
but ones you will also greet in the earth after.
Ah, thee, I felt but disgust towards your molested heart and deeds;
You grew for yourself, instead good ones—sick, avoidable seeds.
At that time, I swore to never ever share any more of my blood with you;
I would looked for one more honest, playful; one decorated with more virtues.
 
But still—as I said before,
I have again decided to sit and pray for you.
While my love for the other is not true;
It has faded and you are irreplaceable still;
You are congested, invalid, and not new;
But should you come back again to me;
I shall receive you with open hands
And one seal of heartfelt goodwill.
Ah, my love, look at the smiling heavens above—
As night deepens and snowfalls come low,
I shall think and think again about our postponed love—
Which, perhaps—though happens not amongst the jumble of this juvenile night,
Shall come again when dusk is cleared, and the first bud of spring leaps into sight.

Procrastination
Is some kind of action
Which needs no talent
Nor does it need passion
Procrastination
Time is always delayed
Meetings are always postponed
It gets nothing accomplished
Procrastination
The silent thief of time
Leaves no trace nor sign
In the end you'll fall behind

When I met you
I developed an instant liking
Though it was not in a romantic sense
You seemed to be a bit shy
But at the same time, quite friendly
Not to mention, down-to-earth
We got along nicely
And when I met your family
I was impressed
Not due to wealth, class or social status
But because of the fact that they were all very good human beings
With no attitude or airs whatsoever
And they were already okay to accept me as one of their own
Well, we soon started speaking over the phone
On a daily basis
And since we had developed a good understanding
I agreed to marry you
The engagement was a simple affair
But I got the feeling
That we were a cute couple
Especially when we took you on a trip
Right after the engagement
As I mentioned earlier
Though I didn't have any romantic feelings
When I first met you
They soon started to develop
During the period between the engagement and the marriage
I even funded your marriage expenses
Because I trusted you
Never did I imagine
That you would eventually betray my trust
Especially after the date we had in Pondicherry
Of course, COVID19 struck
And our marriage had to be postponed indefinitely
Naturally, you were very upset
I myself was quite depressed
But I thought we could at least talk it out
Instead, you started avoiding me
As well as my family
I let it slide
Since I truly loved you
Eventually, after a week or so, we started talking again
However, things were definitely not the same as earlier
I could sense a lack of enthusiasm from your side
Moreover, you were free to talk only around 9 PM
Though ideally you should have been free throughout the day
Considering you lost your job due to COVID
Something for which you were duly compensated
By my father, who kept sending you money every month without fail
Anyway, I let it slide again
Because I loved you
On the eve of our wedding, I wrote a heart-touching poem
Which was appreciated by almost everybody
Except the person for whom it was written
That is, you
Anyway, I thought things would change
Once the wedding finally happened
However , they didn't
I made many attempts to strike a conversation
But you were only interested in watching your precious serials
I too began to watch them, for your sake
Mind you, I am no fan of serials
But I thought I should make an exception
For my dear wife
However, was I ever dear to you?
You never talked to me on your own
And when I tried to talk to you
You kept repeating the same thing
That we would eventually talk at some stage
I kept wondering and wondering
As to when that "stage" would eventually arrive
Then came the ultrasound pregnancy test
With its shocking results
From then on, you were a changed person
You kept clinging to me
And refused to let me out of your sight
You even forced me
To stop talking to my best friend
And your own best friend did her best
To make me feel as guilty as possible
Blinded by love, as I was
I refused to listen to reason
Believing that you were being discriminated against
Because of your class and caste
When you finally confessed
That you had slept with another guy
You couldn't even look me in the eye
Because of your betrayal, I went through depression
For more than a month
I am not going to waste my time
Discussing the tedious and protracted divorce process
But you took advantage of me
And my frigging autism
You lied to me and cheated me
And I loved you
Yes, it sounds difficult to believe
But I genuinely loved you
And was thus made to suffer
It's time all feminazis take note of this
Rather than jumping into conclusions
And blaming the male whenever there is a divorce
Or even an estrangement
That's all I have to say
Amen!

Here I am walking exhausted and merciless - under the shadow of promises - bumping into every rock on either side of the road. My feet are so cold that they despair, and my forehead is a legendary promise that knows no death. I am a man who is very postponed and dull. My life is dark, its knees are tired of emptiness, and its forehead is filled with cold wounds.
How can I wake up while the shattered mirrors await me, scattering my body in space, holy wars, their stalks dancing above my capitals like branches of dewy corn. And they laugh and tell me that I am something immortal, bleeding here and there with pleasure. Oh, my miserable luck, is there other choice than holy wars?
Yes, my friend, this is how I fall, a waterfall that knows nothing but crying. I disappear in my longing like a traveler of snow, whose ribs have been shattered by the stories of passersby.
Yes, this is me, a postponed man and a crippled dream. When I live with all my voice and when I drown in my pain to the marrow, the harsh afternoon devours me, and many great voices swallow me in a moment. Then I know that the beloved earth is lying when it sheds a tear as pale as the color of sunset.

Saturated meat
floating in a sea of melancholy
spite and olive oil.

Arrogance
the elegance of autocracy
'Take the plate away'.

Discrete pleas
beneath a blasphemous sky
defeated by the heat.

Happiness postponed
by procrastination
and moments of hostility.

it's a paradox of yevgeny zamyatin, that the true rebellion is caused by a stress of the necessity of dreaming... talk to any schizoid individual and you find they're the dream manufacturers... dreams happen in the safe environment of the laboratory of the unconscious... they're the socially acceptable hallucinations... it's even socially acceptable to interpret them... which i find very odd... why should unconscious hallucinations be socially acceptable and profitable and career crafting and conscious hallucinations be socially stigmatised? ah the safety, the environment of the freduain interpretation of dreams: well... he's ******* asleep, isn't he?! ******.

after my usual walks drinking, i tend to enter the
realm of heat and christmas tree
a little bit too brooding,
i just painted a picasso or a kandinsky,
burnt it, and then am told to "plagiarise" it...
i don't like the approach nietczsche had
taking a notebook with him
and writing his thoughts written,
i like the way my faculty memory
eats the immediacy of thinking
as counter to the translation of descartes'
theory equating existence with thought
as if thought could prove i exist
thus uncoupling it from the original:
thought and doubt.
memory is central by comparison,
i have the revision from the miscarriage of descartes'
aim: memini ergo cogito.
it makes sense, given i started the night off
buying three san miguel bottles at tesco,
buying five beers at the turk,
spotting russell the schizoid-affective man
huntched in a corner...
told him five minutes max...
started talking with him
about the ol' sailor's narrative... turbulent noons
and midnights with a bottle of jack...
wide eyed russell every time i speak to him
reflected...
i remember drinking my first coffee aged 7...
i was born with a heart condition...
i shouldn't have... live dangerously though...
drank it... magic!
i remember the taste even now.
the cognitive me is not the existential me...
odd, isn't it?
i should have kept the original kandinsky,
but i burnt it and kept the plagiarism...
why is it that the function of memory
is paramount to mental health?
this prof. of psychology itemised this girl
who's north mania south an airplane descending
from the height vector with the ears popping...
why is it that i can remember me aged 7
and most people got cheated into total engagement
in life in the orientation of satisfied or dis-satisfied
expression of puberty?
if the faculty of memory is not defended
then diseases enter...
not one of the diseased is like an original adam,
like translation of original adam, i.e. mozart beethoven
einstein...
good enough to be without plain jane as narrator
and puppeteer...
let the strings do the talking, please!
i'm in love with ****-****** literature...
take that **** of yours, that suitcase
of ***** stockings to your mother to give it a eco-friendly
spin of the washing-machine...
**** that crap should that crap enter my heart...
you heard of ****** latin? i think you have,
it's not church slavonic, it's rude latin...
the type of thing that adds oil on the cogs
and makes you adherent to the philosophy:
pause for thought or pause for fake vocabulary?
i sweat with oaths to add fluid...
if you're offended by **** and not fck you
must be really appreciative of pronography...
so they said: we must rid the word of a vowel
and expose the people with **** corn bits between the teeth!
well... it worked...
i didn't tell you remember the pythagorean theory
you were taught aged 12... i told you
to remember you aged 12... like i remember nathanel
with his briefcase in year 8 in math class...
like i remember this english teacher's legs
when i dropped the pen to loon inside the stash-load
of pooddles and *****...
like i remember racing a guy from bałtów
to ostrowiec and winning: he on a tour de france bike
with anorexic model tires and
my on mountain bike fatties...
i told you memory is crucial... given our thought explored
inanimate things as the perfection of our knowledge,
given our thought explored animate things
as perfectly categorising man and animal alike
thus mis-interpretating ourselves, oh the sacrifice of
the perfectly catalogised atom among the toothbrushes...
a convo of assortments...
it's perfect knowledge in relation to inanimate things...
the sort of thing which is question:
but atoms are animate things... calling them inanimate
just because they're invisible doesn't give you a
right to driftwood clung to in robinson cruseo's shakespearean friday.
hence the passing inspiration... so dull now
that i only feel inspired to pour myself another whiskey
and justify the meaning of relaxed.
associate yourself with the world,
hardly many of us will end of with the genius score of don juan,
we're in an environment of strict biology,
we're told that memory governs our world
with the world being on the quest to repeat...
and it does repeat... sounding the encore of biting frost,
sounding the encore of delighted shadows of summer
having postponed snipers to shoot them dead with night...
the world that inquires per se via repeat
only divinites man's faculty that's memory,
and quickly attacks it in revenge by dementia...
imagination is left to the murderers' who fancy
all the hues of red on the face....
this world is not pleasant to those who think,
to those who couple thought with imagination,
and to those who couple thought with memory...
alas... such few increments are left to re-discover
after being taught the uselessness of centimetre
when no centimetre knowledge is used in their
mechanisation of a profession.
that bit monkey less than man already happened
contradictory in theoretical terms
given the diversity whereby man's diversity
per se cannot explain the diversity of each thing
using evolutionary relativism, niche by-product concerns...
penguins will always make it to antarctica...
no banker or plumber on antarctica... just
scientists who started the whole expedition as
worth anything by counting penguin eggs...
indeed... ah this is going nowhere...
i don't believe in evolutionary relatvism
like socrates didn't believe in moral relativism
theft is punishable with the cutting of the hand
that stole... ****** is punishable with the cutting
of the head - it's all really related)...
and the aesthetic relativism is as true as: beauty
is in the eye of the beholder -
to that girl in the night near the church
walking with a concerned friend
concerned by her attractive panda-eyed mascara expression.
most of the time i find the inherent vice of jungian
interpretation of poets
to be a case of narration: poets don't write enough
to be valued! i respect fictional occupants of the
equivalent hammer of a labourer writing long paragraphs!
well, true enough... any idiot would suddenly exclaim
a symptom as: i differentiate that i'm a constant inspiration
for a non-existent narrator, and the symptom i differentiate
from true to fake by the fact it hinders my faculty to think...
pronoun shrapnel i call it... auxillary pronouns
that benefit me to expand my thought on a levelling
that did not want to see in monochromatic divergence
of continued with linear-ism akin to horse blinders
that only exposed a corridor where a valley could have stood
for the eyes to be inspired by.

semi-colon;
where a sentence could have ended but did not,
instead adding a rejoinder.
the space between the dot and comma
there hovers the fate of lovers,
the whispers of hope for the hurting,
and the continuance for those
awaiting the now postponed end;

semi-colon;
the tattoo of a writer who has something
left to say, the brand of those
whose adolescent tendencies pull them from delivering
that much needed break, fracture,
ending of the story.

the ghost of where you could,
or perhaps should, have stopped.

Walk
Dear Mr. President-
I think it’s time we talk-
See I walk in that same stilled motion-
Engraved in my soul-Sir-is the same old theory notion-
Handed a dripping blood star spangled rag of devotion-
I hear the anthem play as I make way through this sandy ocean-
Yet I have compromised for the life that I have chosen-
Sir-
I am frozen-
Stuck among the simple brainwashed component-
Wondering where home went-
And they say home is where the heart is-
But what if the heart has left home-
Then it’s been condoned-and postponed at the emotion that should have been so home grown-
Yet I am so alone-
I’m surrounded by thousands of drones-Moving in illusions to the beat of contemporary confusions is leaving the stink of retribution and the contusion on the spirit of this institution Keeps proving while correspondents are continuously reviewing the inability to honor the constitution-
So with all due respect-sir-what the hell are we doing-?
I am losing my G-d **** mind-While patient politicians predict the estimated time-
And in the mean time-Bullets fly by brittle bodies-Rotting minds wait for mind-full plotting-Knowing knowledge knocks simple logic-And it is chronic-
And I don’t mean the kind you smoke-But more so the kind that poke jokes by late night hosts-
So when the hell did is this war become a show?-
My soul it lays defeated-physically-mentally-and emotionally-depleted-
I am bleeding-
Needing a reason to keep on breathing-Dreaming of a moment when my mental torment becomes dormant-And I am no longer fending-but feeling-Kneeling-Screaming-Asking-
The Lord for a meaning-
These fatigues have me stressed and fatigued and this disease it seeps deep into my sleep-And I just creep hoping my weary feet don’t lead me to a concaved grave that bleeds-
As trails of remorse stream down my cheek-
I plead-
With you Mr. President please set precedence consider my wishes relevant I just want to go home to my residence where Corrupt Cooperate Capitalist no longer have this regiment-and the elements of peace sir have a higher percentage than that of the deceased-
See-
These dog tags come with body bags perfectly delivered in a neatly folded flag-And the fact remains Sir-it’s an endless game-Sir-we are trying to conquer a region we can’t maintain-Sir-So I ask you to refrain-are youth from being slain-Please-let wisdom reign-Indulge in peace not in pain-Please sir-go against the grain-in that stilled motion-I walk the same-
If you recall Sir-
I voted for change-

Another sun sets in the horizon,
but our day is just beginning.
We were on a road that led to nowhere.
But it didn’t matter,
because we couldn’t see the end.
And I thought to myself
that it would be alright
if we postponed all our worries for tomorrow.
Like how you went out through the window
while your parents were asleep, since we had places to be.
Along the way
you started complaining that you were hungry,
and we were running out of gas,
while the only thing I could think about
was how perfectly your hand fit in mine.

~*D.C.

the oddity of it all, i can sound like a 70 year old, writing in 2016, by simply writing about 2004 - and that's the excuse everyone gives for lazy English text form: 2 (abc), 3 (def), 4 (ghi), 5 (jkl), 6 (mno), 7 (pqrs), 8 (tuv), 9 (wxyz) - where you had to press a button several times to get the right letter (even with spellcheck helping you shorten the digit-bag sequence) - but that's no excuse with digital phones and a complete keyboard... but that's how it looks, after only 12 years... i'm actually aged 70 given the advances of the technology advent... let's forget the technology of the 1990s... i've circled round and met up with people who collected vinyls... that's how old i am in respect to my buying habits... we're the silver-compact-vinyl kids: the ghouls of the 1960s, born in the 1980s and not getting down with the kids... and to readdress just two books: all that stream-of-consciousness made the latter end of Ulysses a bit like writing by candle-light... as was reading the plagiarism of the above stated in Sartre's iron in the soul... or as the puritans said: we're filling for at least a ¶ (pilcrow) to be inserted: not to mess up the idea of a river and "thinking aloud" where punctuation marks mean: stopping suddenly because you become self-conscious... i just needed a ****** bookmark! the monks at the time of Charlemagne used the ¶ quiet often, condensed bibles, ink was worth 20 camels and paper was worth 20 dresses for a queen... ah, the times when paper was as precious as silk... so the puritans condensed writing, they weren't as sparing in their inner feng shui - a room the size of St. Paul's... and two words in it: Jesus Christ... they were like modern day delivery guys, packaging words together, they didn't have the luxury to write paragraphs with the now established spacing afresh, i.e.:

            and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
             Florence was making a cup of tea when she heard Jimmy yell: 'my long lost golf clubs!' etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

i.e.

¶ and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

alternatively the ¶ went out of fashion in the literary world, once writing became affordable and changed into a profiteering case of bravado... but i still think ¶ is a bit like using a clef.*

or how to keep one's intellectual integrity: have a drink or two,
and muster enough creative energy to use this encoding -
or... how to make poetry akin to computer
programming - a subtler way to encode
the now slothfully rising moon:
half of it, not full, nor scimitar crescent,
a half bitten honey biscuit, just above the forest
horizon, and the semi-detached houses
of English outer-suburbia - in a sense
transcendentalism, a box with many words
in it attributed to the cause,
as is the reason why Christianity became
the most schismatic religion that has ever
graced man's "good will" (ambiguity,
not an approximation) - in line with philosophical
whims of vogue: idealism, realism, transcendentalism,
existentialism, ism after ism after the Methodists
and the Baptists and other mongrels of current
affairs... already stated: populist Platonism
and the ransacked and burnt library of Alexandria...
yes, decidedly, poetry as a variation of
computer programming - although more akin
to: the tetragrammaton and the Noah's
checklist of paired onomatopoeia(s) (plural
form is underlined, Oxford hasn't picked up
the circumstance: there are neurotics out there
who'd send you to the guillotine for not
updating "spelling mistakes" that aren't
"spelling mistakes" quickly enough!) -
to the cause or as signatures of being easily
recognisable as: yes, that's that... a moustache
and a bowler hat...            alternatively
watch a stand-up show by Miranda -
the very typical English-ness inside out:
hysterical from the word go... the ministry of
funny walk from Monty Python ***
                      the two walks at the airport -
or the trip-up on skewed pavement slabs
checking the impromptu socially acceptable
version of the other seeing us -
comedians do it oh so well: the inside-out,
stern exterior, boy ******* a thumb and relating
to a blanket as if it were an umbilical chord...
what a tightly knit individual...
                          made complete with about a dozen
patches...
                       but it is! it is! it really is already
ready to be likened to computer programming,
perhaps there's no <xerox> or other commands,
but poetry deals with encoding sounds,
no man can encode a proper roar of a lion
or a squirt of a skunk, that's sheer travesty that
so many people can actually muster enough
encouragement to encode these sounds...
i imagine a world where we don't even care
to write knock, and knock on a piece of wood
and a noumenon is born, the sound isn't noted
down, it remains a thing in itself (synonyms,
in italics) - it's probably akin to getting a tattoo,
great if you have a short-term memory loss
like that guy in Memento... but it's going to
be hard to displace knock-knock -
again this is already an approximation -
onomatopoeia upon onomatopoeia -
it doesn't even sound akin or properly dressed
to mention Plato's theory of forms -
sounds can be forms: apparently they're waves...
no waves are forms (shapes) -
or that demigod who fell in love with his shadow,
rather than his image reflected in a lake,
he fell in love: because it gave him enhanced reflexes...
every single time... boom... shadow... boom...
shadow... and so much of language goes into
these nonsensical types of encoding -
blah for: talking a lot -
                                           hmm - when negatively
pondering something -
                                            i believe that
there should be a grammatical elevation of the onomatopoeia
to the status of nouns, verbs etc. -
                           but it is, it is, it really is
like computer programming,
               above and beyond the sheltering vacuum -
how would we ever write a word to encode the
sound of lightning, or a volcano erupting,
or the earth spinning - in these areas i find god -
       i will find man in these areas:
but i'll be hinged on mathematical explanation:
and mathematics is pure optics -
                       so what that we can write one and write
1, write two and write 2, three and 3, four and 4 -
    by now we can write to, too, free and for...
and this is just the start -
                             by acknowledging onomatopoeia
for something, we acknowledge our limitation
of encoding something in that realm -
this inability gave us the emergence of nouns -
   sooner or later when someone started
talking about an earthquake... a litmus test of:
brr grrm boom bah dobble aah! etc.
we got the picture - and why would a monkey
evolve from its conscious-sleep reservoir
to say just as much as with a simple grunt and ooh -
actually, some onomatopoeia(s) became sophisticated -
a grunt is a sophisticated onomatopoeia -
       as is weeping and crying and shouting -
as is shooing (or to shoo) -
well, that's how i see it... poetry as reality programming -
since there's more than just a computer -
at the moment it just resembles a game of
whack-a-mole -                 although there's more than
the mere 26 primary moles -
      and all this talk does relate to something,
something very important at the beginning of the
20th century... well, a century later, and something
similar is being discussed... Ivan Bunin?
noble prize winner from 1933, the first russian to do so...
  anyway... this goes beyond his concerns...
his concerns were akin to that dud i made
with the word mruwka -
                               personally? i feel that the "correct"
version of the word is aesthetically displeasing -
and anyone who says otherwise treats orthography
not as an aesthetic question, but a question
of rubrics and regime - so there we have the "correct"
version mrówka                               (ant)       -
anyone agree with me? well, the English language
doesn't have any concerns for orthographic
regulation - it has excessive spelling and that's that -
what bothered Ivan was the Bolsheviks rewriting
orthographic rules... the word in question?
izvestia - that really peeved him off...
                      everyone in intellectual circles was
disturbed by the changes (can't recall the original) -
but the changes were approved by the Russian Academy of
Sciences (immediately before the revolution) -
there would have been any dispute about the "evolution"
in orthographic terms if done prior to Feb. 1917 -
the war postponed the changes, and with the Bolsheviks
in power... then obviously the suspicion...
   now... such changes are but farts in hurricanes
in comparison with what happened in the realm of English...
i mean, ****'s sake, we're talking minor aesthetic tweaks
here and there - the changes still encompass the form
that's understood by the ear, and it's only a matter of
taste where you write the word ant as either mruwka
or mrówka - well, mind you, i'm already asking
for the incorporation of the Czech š (sz) and č (cz) -
but what's happening in English... my god: it's terrifying!
all these acronyms? all these emoticons?
        i know that English journalists are in favour of
:) and :( and ;) ;) [wink wink] - and next thing you know:
you're talking to a monkey... you soon realise:
the deaf have nurtured a superior system of communication,
as have the blind than these poor, healthy, ably nimble
*******...                   how they're superior, i don't know,
and in all honest? don't care...
         for goodness' sake: a heard a story that a girl
wrote her g.c.s.e. English language paper in text format:
   e.g. c (see) u (you) l8r (later)          -
now you see why i think that poetry is like computer
programming?
these people are scripts from a classical software program
that looks something like: 3;r/d]]aq"pk.0    etc.    
it's a complete and utter mess!
                         fair enough saying: O Shakespeare O
Milton... those guys are turning in their graves...
and they ain't showering the English language with
graces mind you: they're calling it the new
***** & Gomorrah - and it's not England was the sole
inheritor of the computer -
                                       that's what not having
diacritical accessories does to you...
                             you get hacked...
and this... pretty much... is a form of a hack:
you'll wake up tomorrow with a pair of sunglasses
or think you're looking down a microscope;
i swear to god...       me and Ivan are just laughing...
he's not drinking, i'm drinking, but we share
the same intuitive devices - the same puppet strings
pulled him in 1919 as they are pulling me in 2016...
the same ****** trials of a variation of zoology -
some look at monkey behaviour,
            others look at how language is cradled in people:
and i'm not even going to bother
elaborating on anything by Chomsky -
which brings me to the following conclusion
(back to Miranda) - i don't believe in fame apparent,
fame apparent, as in: tabloid crap and c.c.t.v.
and 20 nannies and 50 bathrooms, and not being
recognised wearing a virtual reality gear when walking
down a street when otherwise imprisoned on
a television screen rewind - that's not fame,
that's tyranny under the masses -
                         i don't believe in it... which answers
one famous English scientist's question:
why does posthumous fame exist?
                                    it's like that Camus question
about suicide - well... i guess it's a question of
endurance... a bit like a fail-safe mechanism about
why the pyramids are still standing even though
they experienced so much weathering by the elements -
well, as endurance has it: posthumous fame is
filled by introverts...
                                          i dare you to name that
famous Bolshoi ballet dancer, or that famous 1930s
actor or actress... they're part of the extrovert side of
what's called "fame" - but that's only a minor point
i wanted to make... the real zest i already explained -
ah crap, summary in maxim:
   the concept of modern fame is the result of a god
that has been attributed such qualities as omnipresence...
               well, aren't modern celebrities... a bit like that?

When I met you for the first time
It could hardly be called "love at first sight"
But I thought you were a very decent human being
Someone whom I could trust
And after meeting your family
That feeling only deepened
And once we began speaking over the phone
On an almost daily basis
I felt as though we had established some sort of understanding
Therefore, I agreed to marry you
Our engagement was a very simple affair
But I got to know your family better
And after we took you on a tour, the very next day
My emotional attachment towards you only grew
And slowly and steadily
I began to like you in the romantic sense
In fact, I even helped you financially
And it was quite a significant amount
Then we met again
For the purpose of marriage registration
I took you out on a date
And we really enjoyed each other's company
Then the pandemic struck
And things were never the same again
Our marriage was postponed indefinitely
Naturally, you were very upset
But to start ignoring me and my family completely
Was way out of line
Nevertheless, we thought you needed some space
Hence we didn't complain
However, after you started speaking to me again
I noticed a significant change
You were not as enthusiastic
As you used to be earlier
And you were free to talk only after 9 PM
These were all red flags
But my heart couldn't acknowledge that
And I thought things would eventually work out
After we finally got married
How wrong I was!
I gave you as much attention as I could
Which included watching serials along with you
Frankly speaking, I have never been a fan of Indian serials
But I made an effort, just for your sake
I even combed my hair the way you suggested
And grew a beard and moustache
Even though I usually prefer to be clean shaven
I did all this
So that we could develop a deeper bond
And more importantly, you could be happier
But did you truly care?
Every time I made an effort to start a conversation
You told me the same thing
That is, we would eventually talk more over time
Your coldness was killing me from inside
But I kept mum
Because I thought you truly cared for me
The way I cared for you
Again, how wrong I was!!
You spent more time on the phone
Than talking to me
You even had the nerve
To mock my tummy
Usually I am very sensitive about such things
But I controlled my feelings
Again, for your sake!!
You were in bed most of the time
Of course, that was understandable to a certain extent
Because you were pregnant
But to protest every time I called you for dinner
Was simply too much
Nevertheless, I truly loved you
Hence, I made excuses for you
From time to time
Even after the shocking results of the ultrasound test
I believed that you were innocent
And that you were being discriminated against
On the basis of class and caste
When my best friend tried to open my eyes
To the hard and cold reality
That lay before me
You got super possessive
And forced me to stop talking to her
Meanwhile, your best friend tried to brainwash me
As to your innocence
And both of you did your very best
To try and turn me against my family
Because of you, I was trapped in a prison
And had no idea how to escape
Until you finally admitted your wrongdoings
But you still had the nerve
To ask us to take you back
After all that you did
And, worst of all, you lied about me
To my mother and my best friend
And played the victim card
I loved you and you betrayed me
But that is only the tip of the iceberg
You took advantage of my autism
And manipulated me in such a manner
That it destroyed my self-confidence
I was in a state of depression
For more than a month
And had to go through a rather painful divorce process
During which, you played not only the victim card
But also the caste card
And on top of that
Your cunning lawyer tried to deceive you
In order to obtain a truckload of cash
And it was us who set things right
By convincing you to go for mutual consent
Nevertheless, we still had to pay you four lakhs
On "humanitarian" grounds
And you never returned the jewels we gave you
Anyway, you may now be leading a normal life
Like any other person
Who knows, you might even have got married again
There is absolutely nothing to stop you
From telling people a pack of lies about our divorce
However, as long as I live
I can never forgive you
For using me the way you did
And throwing my love back on my face
There is a famous quote
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"
Well, it applies to men too
Especially me

Scrambling to get to the 81st floor.
Outrageous? Yes. But who could ask for more.
My coffee spills as I fly through the office door.
But it's worth the price, I can't live poor.

My office is the best. $10,000 conference table, oak cabinets, view of the financial capital of the world.
Five assistants, three for my organization, one for coffee, and the other is best kept secret, so the wife does not find out.
I make more than I can spend, yet all expenses are paid for.

Some might call me lucky, I disagree, I call myself hardworking.
Some might call me lucky, I disagree, word came in that my flight tomorrow morning will be postponed.

This means that I will have to postpone my meeting with my biggest client. But it's ok, because he needs my business.

I guess I can come in to work tomorrow morning.
It will be one more step to the top, to become number one.
As my calendar reads September tenth, two thousand and one.

Doggerel

The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:


There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller


I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:

***-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!



These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."



What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!



***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?



Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Originally published by Light



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
​


Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.



tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7

NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch



Animal Limericks

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think of the tunes you can carry!"



Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!



Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.

Originally published by Grand Little Things



Other Animal Poems

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



honeybee
by Michael R. Burch

love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting



Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.



Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.



Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Pls refudiate

“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.

You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.

Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved

I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.



Nonsense Verse

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch



There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
― Michael R. Burch



Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch



The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch



Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch


　
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch



Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch



A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "****!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
　


There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch



There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch

for Fliss

An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!



Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.



The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch

A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”



Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch

We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!

They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!

And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!

Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college

or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “*** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”

And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .

which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”


Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch

At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;

cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;

the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;

pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.

But ...

Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?


Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch

Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!


Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!

I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.


How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch

My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!

My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!

My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!



A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch

Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.

A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.

Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!

A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”

No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.

Exeunt stage left.



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.


tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Doggerel about Doggerel

The Board
by Michael R. Burch

Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.

The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.



Longer Doggerel

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.



Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch

Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.

We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.

We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.

Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,

with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”

We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.



Doggerel about Dogs

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.



Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!



Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.



Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).



Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!



The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!



Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.



Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch

I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?



Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch



Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch



Ireland’s Ire has Landed

The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.

Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”

The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.

The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten ***
by Michael R. Burch

There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest *** (et) wus his ****.
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!

The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
but then lost it to poachers, sedated.



A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch

March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!

This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.



Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch

Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.

Love, but don’t fall.



Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch

I’m low on ****,
lost my fizz,
out of biz.

Flabby and *****,
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.

Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!



Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a ****** need a beard?

Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?

And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?

Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?



This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.

An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made love at speeds faster than light.
She had *** one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!

There was a young **** star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for ***,
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch

Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!

There once was a camel who loved to ****.
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch

I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
—Michael R. Burch



Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!

My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!

I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"

But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!



Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch

History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.

I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.



The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch

It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.



WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch

When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?

Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?

Will the porpoises
lack purpose,

the marigolds
fold?

Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?

Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.

But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.



One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch

Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:

“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”

“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”

“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”

But Robert Horry’s not impressed.

Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.

Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.

Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.

Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.

Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!

5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!

6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.



Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch

Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.

Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your *** cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.



New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch

The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?

I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!

They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!

And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...

So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!



Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch

for Tallulah Bankhead

“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a ****.”

“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”

Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi

Dear Everyone,

Most should know me past from my writings, most know that I was an addict, in prison, lonely at times, heart aches, I've been trough a lot including death of loves ones.

But do you pay attention to my writings about goals, dreams, to inspire, teach, motivate. I just don't talk about it, I follow through, which I hope everyone learns to do one day. If your doing it know, my hats off to you.

I have been having trouble getting a job because I am a convicted felon. That only inspired me to talk with God which had changed my way of thinking. I had a dream 2 weeks ago to open up my knowledge from the past. I was very successful in the energy field, to help fight global warming while reducing energy cost. I've been working 24/7 since that conversation.

My company is now  real but the opening is postponed because of new ideas. I have been approached by many investors, so me and my team has decided to go public with our stocks. I want to open four offices, Alexandria, Lafayette, Baton Rouge at one time.  And by year two New Orleans where I  I will have my Corporate office.

I don't tell you this to boast, but to inspire, especially our youth. I always tell them to dream big and you will never fail. Most don't understand, how sad.  Is that the parents these day don't teach this, just simple say my child if you dream it may come true one day. Tell them to simply dream about a new bike and provide it for them, don't have them earn it. These dreams will always grow year after year. Every day we get older and your children will leave from under your wing. Prepare for this world in the simplest ways and they will be prepared to step out in life.

Remember DREAM BIG and you will never fail.

INSPIRE, TEACH, MOTIVATE, PREPARE OUR YOUTH FOR THIS BIG WORLD WE LIVE IN, AS WELL SELF MOTIVATION FOR YOURSELF.

STAY POSITIVE, NEVER COMPLAIN AND NEVER SAY I CAN'T.

My hats off to my Marketing guru & genius , "Gailforcewinds".

this is very real

I really miss being on this site. ****, I've posted over 700 writings in 2 months and read 1000's/