They are always with us, the thin people
Meager of dimension as the gray people

On a movie-screen.  They
Are unreal, we say:

It was only in a movie, it was only
In a war making evil headlines when we

Were small that they famished and
Grew so lean and would not round

Out their stalky limbs again though peace
Plumped the bellies of the mice

Under the meanest table.
It was during the long hunger-battle

They found their talent to persevere
In thinness, to come, later,

Into our bad dreams, their menace
Not guns, not abuses,

But a thin silence.
Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins,

Empty of complaint, forever
Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore

The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn
Scapegoat.  But so thin,

So weedy a race could not remain in dreams,
Could not remain outlandish victims

In the contracted country of the head
Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could

Keep from cutting fat meat
Out of the side of the generous moon when it

Set foot nightly in her yard
Until her knife had pared

The moon to a rind of little light.
Now the thin people do not obliterate

Themselves as the dawn
Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline

Of the world comes clear and fills with color.
They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper

Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales
Under their thin-lipped smiles,

Their withering kingship.
How they prop each other up!

We own no wilderness rich and deep enough
For stronghold against their stiff

Battalions.  See, how the tree boles flatten
And lose their good browns

If the thin people simply stand in the forest,
Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest

And grayer; not even moving their bones.

An unjust hunger,

Your heart,
What peril it brings,

Oh the kindest of souls,
Settled upon thy cleansed plate,

Deemed delectable,
Yet such nourishment grown to hate,

Of hearts rich taste,
How thy rid tongue ridded,

Alas,
Our weary bone and flesh lay,
Bitter, aching,
We decay.

I watch each delicate thread

Pull away

(Frail twine,
The string of life,
Warn from wash and
Off white)

The plink of one more

Surrender as

One by one

Their little hands

Let go under the pressure

(Too taxing;
Cracked glass
Invasive fissures
Wiggling their way
Downward until
Wrath forces its way
To the surface)

And prepare to lose

(Control
Tumbling upward in a
Bittersweet cone of
Fermented
Nineteenseventyeight
Exquisite wine
Ready to shoot
Straight to the brain
Unraveling the ties,
Letting the pieces fall)

Myself in fragments

Scattered upon the floor

Of who I really am

(or who I never knew
But learned to grow
Apart from.
Caged in my fear
Savagely
Awaiting freedom
So prohibited
;Slavery)

Until I shed my shell

(the painted
Actionfiguretell
Of the mold
I came from.
An assembly line model
Struck in posses
Clothed in garments of
Rejected leisure)

And feel my truenity

(the gentle nature
Peel out
And bloom
Like the dark rose
I’ve seen time and time again
Amidst a lot of pebbles
Waiting so eagerly
To be picked by
The one naïve
Green soul
To let the eye fall
In color
And lick the blood of christ
So tainted
With illusion)

***** the finger

Let the blood run out

Bleed me out

( ailments birthed
of a gentle betrayal
disease my being.
embalmed of any
logic for sense
the salvation of patience is
left by the wayside;
a token for those who
stop to think )

My sanity ridded

Corpse

A poor excuse

For my former self

(falling)

Oh earth, in burning of sunlight
When see from street childhood,
Flowered smooth sound of smile?

Oh child, who mud finger put in mouth
Run and hide in this mid street
This for yours noted memorable day
And suggesting day of eats mind sweets.

Ridded, very fast and strength of world
And bitten screams are drown that chariot sound
All doors are closing for that sound not fall in ears
Shutter down of eyes for not seeing of street views.

Update our evening status
And wishes of the universal childhoods
Discuss with like and comment
During early morning
When sung the song of obsequies
For orphan childhood  
Open slowly your left eye
And see down in 6th floor
A colony behind your flat,
Under a plastic sheet roofed hut
How many children sleep with tiered
And not filled food even half stomach
And disturbed, turned and turned

What! Are you close your window?
Are you disturbed in that mid night views?  
Calm sleep your babe on form mattress
Look up and had deep breath from you.

Oh earth, in burning of sunlight
When see from street childhood,
Flowered   smooth sound of smile?


Discussion will improved on visual media
And the words are take sides  
Colony rabbles, future quotation militants,
Pimps, prostitutes,
Award them various statuses
And put up more rehabilitation charts.
Years of years entered in rule machine
Not getting salvation that scheme
They are secure sleep in urns
And souls of promises are spread in surrounds
Oh babe, all are in workshop
For making of yours dream land
And you, fall in mud pit of path side
Like a Skelton, like a fermenting worm
To seek food in dung pit with dogs
Still day and night competition pursues.
All dreams are reflect in deep eyes
Like fade out pictures
To sow, which letters seed?
And hence which tongue’s songs
To contribute,
And fill millions of stars flowering
Oh my child, in your eyes.

Oh earth, in burning of sunlight
When see from street childhood,
Flowered smooth sound of smile?
=======================C N Kumar.

Praising silence delusional pagans
interpret perception of finite senses
fabricating concepts outlawed by reality,
as sounds audible and imperceptible

travel through mediums elastic and viscous,
eardrums capture peculiar waves of pressure
whilst bodies distinguish pulsating tremors.
What a prodigy! The auditory privilege

aural ability to hear, billows crashing
on shores, winds blow through crispy leaves
of ancient trees, where enamoured nightingales
sing, mating tunes humans reproduce.

Deepening breaths and sighs, musical
compositions voicing instruments while
vocal chords intone words that bring us closer,
exchange ideas, bequeath stories of verities.

Yet, increasing volumes may disrupt
fragile minds eager to listen, in a society
creating noises of its own to fill the voids
left by melodies unheard, disregarded

to the benefit of klaxons, traffic jams, alarms,
frantic rolling stock, people shouting
offenses, constructors drilling to insanity,
and if you listen carefully, energy stream

through electric wires an incessant hum
to which we are clumsily attuned. Our silence,
all but silent, ridded of the rest we could hear,
eyes bat, air flow gently into our lungs, blood

run through our veins, heart beat to a rhythm,
synapses sparkle thoughts impossible to hush,
internal heat engender emotions, flickering
sensations roar. Seducing silence only purpose,

perceive the entirety of all
the universal melodies unheard.

Love isn’t perfect or flawless, it’s messy and real.
And honestly, that’s the beauty of it.
Love can be like coffee; bitter and denying you of rest.
Love can bring down your mood without the intention to,
And affect your emotions with every action of theirs.
It stays with you and drags you down but it also lifts you up.

Love is cruel. Love is a disease that is ridded through countless operations, with you as the doctor, and even then, love leaves a scar. A scar. A permanent reminder of your experience.
But... love is reckless. It's exciting. Love is an opportunity. Love is an adventure - and not the same adventure that you find walking in a new city... no... love is the sort of adventure you find when you open a book for the first time. Love is the feeling of hearing the song that for a small time, or a long time, you will call your favorite.

Love is as punishing as fire, and as deep as the ocean. Love well bruise, bend, and kick you while you're down. Love hurts, and love makes you stronger. But you know what's the most ironic thing about love? Through all the agony and pain it may put us through...

We need it.

I can get you out
your face haunts my dreams
the memories fill my mind like a disease
I want to be ridded of your curse
The sickening sweetness of your voice, the way your smile made mine shine bright.
The way your words made my heart flutter
from one poet to another, be careful to fall in love with someone so graceful with words.
One day the words will stop being so sweet and you blissful endeavours will meet a violent end.

It only happens on stormy days,
do not ask of me why, I do not know.
Unknown neighbours have matter to throw
out where it does not belong.

The garbage bins are three hundred
metres away, yet paraphernalia is ridded
beneath the arcade, in front of my window,
at the corner of the opposite block.

An old bamboo rocking chair left
astray, in the rain to drown as I gaze,
imagining what it would look like if only
someone loved and coated it again.

I ran downstairs uncaring of the drops
streaming along my spine, shivers as I
retrieve the creaky relict, giving it shelter
in my humble and humbled abode.

It is now fern green and rocks in silence
proudly on my terrace and under the porch.

Two weeks later, one more storm, another
castaway cobalt blue, worn-out leather
of a stranded armchair, enticing me to engage
in a rescue mission, anew.

Lightning and thunders inhibiting intentions,
I wait and distract only to get to it later,

It was gone.

I never wanted him,
And I swore I never wanted him,
But the time he approached me about moving  in was the second I just didn't care.

At first it was awesome,
An exciting time,
Doing something not cookie cutter and certainly not something I'd do if I was in any sort of right mind.

And for a time it was great.

The curtains finally seemed to be drawn away,
But little did I know all I was doing was putting on blinders,
When I thought I was exploring the new and adventurous,
I was rooting through the dark and the dangerous.

The roommate turned out to be a creature,
A monster in sheep's clothing,
And he was in the middle of the flock.

I think I ridded myself of him,
Though he is always knocking on my door,
I made the mistake of letting him back in once,
Something I'll never repeat again.

"ny"

he's *****;
smelly, sticky, stained.
nowhere in my heart does he belong.
once upon a time,
I saw something beautiful in his heart,
lush and green,
quiet-
not spoiled or tainted by what he has been surrounded by.
but once upon a time is a distant,
faded memory-
too far away for recollection.
when I fly away, I will leave him behind.
I will have ridded myself of him.

ar

How and why did I
just find you so freaking perfect?

Maybe it's real obvious now,
about how and why I did.

You lifted the lid off my world
and hid all hate from me
Ridded me of all my pain,
for a day or two so I could finally see.