"ritualistic" poems
Dough making
with flour and water
Salt and butter
Calls for kneading
In ritualistic candor
As parts come together
To an irreversible matter
The soft cushion of dough
between the palm and the bowl
pliable with every push and shove
stretched and compressed
In sheepish conformity
Blistered on skillet
Puffed up to a chapati
Heavens thanked with each bite
For flat bread with savory curry
Fills nostrils with soft aromas-
Relished as heaven on tongue-
One is contented of this flat bread
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
Crazy feelings flood my paper
As my pen begins its
Ritualistic dance.
Insane voices fill my head
Upon the possibility of
Second chance.
Silence speaks the truth
When angel choirs sing
Their songs.
It’s not what you have,
But who you have
When you no longer belong.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
i want to perform. in front of hundreds.
yes. but its not like **** as people watch on www.pleasewatch.com
something more ritualistic
MORE primal like a divine act.
feminine and masculine integrating with an honest envelope.
sign sealed delivered by the ultimate act of universe.
it is soulful with lust but pure as a dust.
lust for the very first time.
you are tasting it for the first time and you realize that you have a magnificent power that never stops to rhyme.
that you can keep on and on.
then all of sudden it will be like nobody is there.
the audience dissapeared.
and there you go. we are adam and eve. there for the first time.
there goes the prakriti and purusha
like rebellion to the addicted and hedonist world of amnesia.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 7:33 AM UTC
Cups runneth over
and over
& over
from absinthe to zinfandel.
Men & women parade the streets
with whimsical abandoned
swaying bodies
smiling,
like they just got laid--
or are about to.
******* bathrooms roar
while marijuana balconies cackle--
even the folks staying in
have their music turned up
so nobody can hear them *******
Barefoot indulgence
and tropical dresses flowing
in the midnight air--
even the cops don't care,
this is business.
Every whoop and hollar
is a dollar in their pocket.
Each vehicle blaires
a different song
chaos to the ears
becomes rhythm
for the body-
shots don't need to be in glasses,
grinding is the traditional greeting.
The young come for the atmosphere,
the older for the work release...
everyone is reckless on the weekend,
all the bars runneth over
and over
& over.
A ritualistic hedonism
leads to a collective sleep
that slowly, slowly
overtakes us all
as we slowly fade,
for a few hours until
Cups runneth over again
and over
& over
from absinthe to zinfandel.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 7:16 AM UTC
Kiss after sensual kiss leads to what I would find as an inevitably ****** placement between us, that avenue of lust which we mutually entered once we were on the same level of thinking.
I lean into you, inhaling the intimacy second after second from your tasty lips, biting your lip and running my fingers through your hair as my hands ease slowly down to your neck, caressing you and easing down farther and farther until I'm caressing a breast.
Call me crazy, but I think I'm in love, or at least its unmistakably destructive premonition. Lifting your shirt and kissing on flesh, making your toes curl under overwhelming chills being sent from your abdomen.
Easing back up to you, I can see your eyes, I catch them and keep them in place, letting you know full well that I intend to enjoy you fully.
And you let me.
Easing down and absorbing your figure, kissing and tracing down your belly and easing into a certain heaven before coming back up and stripping you down gently, making you smile at the gentlemanly figure that you call yours.
Can I love you down? lying you down fully extended, can I get onto you as if we could share the same space against scientific belief?
I ease into you slowly, only speeding in a way as to show my own urgency isn't priority.
And we make one. easing into your form, our bodies become entwined, become one at last.
suppressing your pleasurous scream with my own warm kisses, I allow us to combine again and again, and become one once more as our nerves and hormones take over in this ritualistic connection.
Made love? we make emotion. Stripped bare and enjoying the ****** pleasures given us, ****** after ****** kiss after juicy kiss and scream after luscious, pleasured filled scream until we finally reach what I like to call climactic end and level up in our relationship. At last, though we are still levels away from the final intimacy, we are closer than we have been before, and the closer we get, the deeper and more sensual our encounters are.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
Sings hymns to appease the wrath of the gods.
Plough the fallowed ground and acknowledge that feminine seductions are the source of interplanetary equilibrium.
Is that the best that you have got? Well, we know your wiles and will not succumb to your enticements, despite those expectations of the authorities.
A wet orifice certainly comes at a price, yet her warmth contains forbidden properties in the face of ritualistic defiance.
So, my heavenly being, I urge you to bow the knee in humble adoration to your anatomical deceptions.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
We didn’t sleep that night
the fire burning in our eyes,
our lungs filled with smoke and ash.
We didn’t have the heart to put it out.
No, we didn’t have the heart to **** it,
but we didn’t dare leave it unattended.
At some point we'd resolved
to let it die off on its own – but
we didn’t have the heart for that either.
All night we fed the flames
with stories told in delirium-states,
our truths embedded in fictions
occasionally exploding in crackles.
All night we circled the fire-pit
in ritualistic and futile attempts
to escape the capricious winds.
All night the flames danced hypnotic
while the waves on the shore sang lullabies:
homicidal, tempting melodies of sleep.
But,
when the morrow broke the sky
and faint blue crept in,
when the clouds gasped
coloured in superfluous reds and oranges,
when the last flicker finally puffed out
and we could at long last close our eyes,
there,
eternally etched,
we would still see the flames
burning under our eyelids.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
* *A tear is shed
For those who are blind to the beauty of this world
Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony
* *It soon evaporates.
Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned
Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids
Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge
And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass
But others care not for plans and the imminent
Those that keep to the light of the gas
And carry the past to the present
Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived
Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words
Against the gossip, but paradoxically
Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”.
Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality
Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness
A tear is shed.
Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.
It too evaporates.
Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide”
Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other
A tear is shed.
Never seen but felt as it evaporates.
Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves
Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls
Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour
Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations
By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria
Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism
As waters of the soul are purged and discarded
They are felt by those
And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret
Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
I use ‘oh, my god’ as an expression
not of faith, but surprise,
of wonder at beauty untouched
by ideology or dogma
as if caught, and pulled, from a dream.
I exclaim ‘oh, my god’ when stunned
not by holy ghosts, but the living,
who do kindness as though it were nothing
unmindful of securing safe passage
into heaven, or paradise.
‘Oh, my god’, I cry, when words fall idle
or are muted to quiet reverence.
Where twisted skeins of empiric memory,
rush in crashing surf
of reminiscence and nostalgia.
I am godless, but not without reason
‘oh, my god’ being a slip of historical,
idiomatic vernacular.
Even as curiosity drives me to understand
your own ritualistic, devotional motivations.
Raise the cup, my friend
it gives us both what we need.
For you, transubstantiation
for me a divine and luscious tableaux.
For Saint Teresa in her ecstasy no doubt exclaimed
‘Oh, my god’!
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
There's the mosh...sordid details that thing...
creeping of sort...retelling...to stay in focus.
A silent film whose black borders encapsulate
a slab of skyward white.
Visages...opening...opened...to interpretation.
"The apparition of these faces in a crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough."....ashen...
daguerreotype of a Zen Garden.
All of nature's pretties cast in an occult brew...
stirred, and stirring...composite sketches posted
and burned upon lampposts.
At large...ritualistic making-of-face...illusion
trafficking the ever present primes of lives...
"the center of which is everywhere, the
circumference nowhere."...attestation o' mugs.
Visages...plucked from a year of our lord,
to be...rendezous of all light's putting to...
years thereof.
Alien unto thyself...oogly boogly, yet mirror-imaging...
behold/beheld/beholden.
By sleight of Hand...visages, who'd otherwise
be as soon pruned and leathery, inanimate under the
sun.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
a break in routine is necessary
when momentary sadness
becomes ritualistic pain
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 3:15 AM UTC
Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.
Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.
Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.
They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.
Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.
From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
When they were entangled
in the orange coils of passion again,
she reminded him
of the moonstone.
**When he and she were in a band,
at its wild crescendo,
the moonstone had melted,
a molten green fluorescent liquid,
roared in his *****
she felt the tremor,
the spasms that comes like waves,
to embrace the shores,
wild winds, cloudburst.
"Come deep" she pleads
to him in between.
Winds still in the wings
kept roaring as if the thirst remains,
didn't he see moonstone in her eyes,
an eager glint, unspoken words,
obscene perhaps, erupting from deep?
He ate apples, she had peaches,
she combed her long hair,
with a ritualistic meticulousness.**
He spat the seeds of the fruit.
She stared at him with unbelieving eyes,
at that night,
something strange happened,
the river went dry,
in the morning he saw dead fish
amidst pebbles smooth and round,
shaped by long years of rolling through
the riverbed, now lying orphaned,
naked without the cover of water.
*She had already left,
was the moonstone yet another myth?*
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
Handprints stain my heart.
They're yours.
I am plagued; comatose,
a ritualistic rebirth
I claw my way out by morning.
Steady, inescapable,
and raw, colorless thoughts
I wake, a hollow shell
a crescent.
Crumbs of my Eden remain
they linger as you linger
burlesque, a temptress
stepping softly.
I'll not let the words crawl across my lips
I'd rather let them form brief, violent hailstorms
than risk it all again.
Wrists heavenward,
breathless, I submit.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
Be wild
Be free
So to leave the hollowed masses blushing
With reminders of forgotten roots
Tear clothing from imprisoned flesh
And let light nestle back
Into ruins abandoned not through time
But for ugly Godful shame
Savagely unhinge choking steel doors
And let loose a fiery green
Send forth flames of growth
And sparking soul
Leaping high into the night
Taunting the darkness
Beyond the reach of Jove
Light pagan candles
And chant ritualistic
Prayers of Yes
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Was the heat that melted to the seat
She stood out in the lawn
A cigarette hangs from her lips
As she pins clothes to the line
Hot devil heat
Firecracker town
Downtown
Not too hot for coffee
Or the wide open window
The waitress wears her same Sunday dress
That girl has got to let go
Sugar cookie skin
Making smiles at the manager
Even when everyone
In their right mind is looking
It's a street or two to the sea
A ritualistic walk of black frying pan
Asphalt
Barefoot and broken
I climb to the end of the jetty
As the sun starts to set
If you were here this is where I would take you
On the edge of the sea
Where no one is looking
I would try to kiss you
Or hold your hand
But I know you would just laugh and say
"You're such a silly boy"
So I know better
So the sun sets
The stars come out with the moon
So beautiful on the sea
God **** its so beautiful!
I just wish you could see
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
synaptic overload
grief relieved through
chemical intervention
despite contention
homogenized noise
comprised from a strive
to stay alive for
sake of refrain
of brain quake
candle lit
writ of sanity
to feel a sense of
somnambulance
just to accomplish
a brisk ritualistic
dance through knowledge
plow the fields of glowing rigor
I thought I could do this on my own
go figure
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
Lips sealed, forced quite
One rivet, two rivet
There we go, three otta do it
Last step here is to blow both eardrums with a dangerous harmonic
Ah, there we go, perfect
But I forget
This negativity comes from a resident
One living rent free from infancy in my attic
And amidst my constant panic
I barricaded the wrong side of the door by accident
Now help can't get in to stop the punishment
AND
I'm trapped inside my head with a lunatic
Obviously this is problematic
Hear no evil, see no evil but the mind is never silent
A silver tongue tyrant, my downfalls conduit
I know it knows I'm on to it
But a relic like toxic thoughts doesn't give a shiit
I've proven I can't go toe to toe with it
My wins are really just me escaping THE moment
It can return to being a problem at ANY moment
It never fights fair, super over dramatic
Big signs posted, "Bipolar, Beware", looking post apocalyptic
Wait, how many are against me in here? I thought "me Vs the world" was more just symbolic
Ritualistic hunter and the hunted, predator and prey, animalistic
Unapologetic
No one ever sees the bouts, to barbaric to air it
Try to grin and bare it but it's apparent
I can no longer dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge the bombastic rhetoric
And I've literally just locked myself in with the traumatic and away from the public
I don't feel safe in here with myself and don't know what to do about it...
©2024
Jan 11, 2024
Jan 11, 2024 at 5:29 PM UTC
They all gather to the deadhouse
Like actors taking to a well trodden stage
Whether from London's' Kings Cross
Or the finery of NYC's Queens borough
Back to the fold all prodigal sons must return
To join with those that could never find a way
From this barren cold land and its insular bitter lies
All united now in a grief of one that has been lost
All divided by a rivalry, a rumor, some generational feud
The priest commences his weary and over versed tone
As he summons his God, his Jesus and his Litany of Saints
Incense burns as a symbol of the prayer of the faithful rising
Yet rising no further than their hypocrisy descends
And where do you look when even Jesus lets you down
As you turn to wipe that burning tear from your face
One not born from holy water nor from their devils grace
Doors are opened and a captive audience awaits
A procession of mourners to take their turn to the stage
Heads bowed all and one, as hands are extended
In weak and feeble grips amid their mumbled exchanges
"Sorry for your loss" and "taken too soon"
None hesitate too long as they navigate this fallowed room
An occasional recognised face among a community of strangers
A moment of warmth emanating from this ritualistic parade
All gone too soon unlike those memories of years past
Of wanting to get out and get free, promising never to go back
Yet to the last of this line they swear that they remember you well
Whilst retiring to The Old Stand with promise of more stories to tell
Where the whiskey chasers flow like the Guinness on draught
Helping to swallow the lies on how good it is to be back
Rehashing of old platitudes but nothing really said
For no one shall ever speak ill of the dead
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
i hold onto
the way the air feels in october
it brings out the best in me
unlike the violating heat
of august that fills the space between
the dirt and the heavens
only a handful of moons prior to
the golden treetops and the
ritualistic pumpkin and maple
that stir our hearts and reveal
our need for stupid, cheery things
the earth is falling asleep
lying its head to rest
in the fading foliage on the ground
folding up the day into smaller
and smaller glimpses of light
but here i am
bathing in the soft wind
here i am
grinning in a grey sweater
here i am
waking up
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
sitting here in the cusp
of a greedy world
where each seeks something
only for own good,
i would rather have
a bouquet of goodies for
me and my folks
particularly as the new year begins,
i look back at the cosmic awareness
of knowledge seeking
ancient brahmins,
and get amazed at
the altruist spirit and
sense of renunciation, they
made a common daily practice,
that rang loud in chants
during elaborate rituals
of fire sacrifice
in ancient times.
one by one, putting an enormous collection of
offerings ; butter,variety
of sacred wood, flowers,herbs and grains
in to flames, with the accompaniment of
chants of benediction and good thoughts,
in unison, each one asserted in chaste Sanskrit:
"This is not for me"
"idem na mama"
with each offering.
the Gods could have any reason,
not to accept those offerings,
given away with purest of intensions,
that changed the ionic configuration
of the atmosphere, more beneficial to humans
by changing air, land and water, pure
and full of life force.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC