Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.

Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.

Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.

No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.

Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.

Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
      lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
      of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
      treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
      turning into decades
      of challenges.

But we shall revive our hope
      and raise our voices
            tomorrow.

In every human
in the caves within
sharing the space,
wearing darkness
or light as dress
live two tenets*
holding(more or less)
joint tenancy rights
named Inhuman
and Divine

Now a question
to ponder at leisure
Have you ever noticed
one or the other,
moving in or out?

Quite admirable , awe-inspiring , a divine piece of manufacture
It’s capriciousness is an equivalent of swooning of rapture

This carpet conveys itself as flawless , the fragrance is pleasant

The glossy finish generates a yearning to have it present

The blissful texture is mesmerizing , subject to perfect knitting

Not to mention it’s size is perfectly fitting

~

Though the alternative side seems worn and tattered

And the fabric surrounding is scattered

There are pockets and splits

There are strewed fiber bits

Along the edges are multicolored spots

And the yarn had formed knots

~

At that point the onlooker would become flustered helplessly

Were they to take it into their tenancy ?

Sure it was depleted

And maybe it was slightly untreated

Though it was equally handsome

Despite it’s opposing filthy expansion


~


Then the beholder would ponder a tad

And realize the flaws weren't so bad

They were to be contemplated abnormally

Though as well stood out morbidly

The allotment seemed now suitable

And each side was mutable

It's cold out there
the ice hangs blue in
the evening air and the
night
drips slow,
congealing, a
feeling
I know well.

Solidifying,
not even trying and
inside,outside,
I'm dying.

Ice cold out there,
ice cold in here,
tears freeze as they fall,
icicles on the wailing wall.

mumbles, jumbles, into the night
my baby phoenix stumbles into its plight
a better life was merely imagined
but my dove, my dear, bitterly determined

huddled witnesses
there! in the square
a drove of fireflies, watching
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.

her tuckered tail, dead-centered --
shaking off crimson pearls of lunar lunacy,
henceforth, bleeding on her own time, her own tenancy.

her talons look at us.
we look at fiery lips that lash and scorch her.
never more before his penetrating gaze,
as her wings form a column of blaze.

she soars, she screams:
but to nothing but scorn --
the square-goers think she is just forlorn.  

my dove, my dear, for your ****** death --
I pray it greets not a dragon's breath.

Have you ever wanted to sit in silence
Absolute silence
Stare into nothing, meld with the world

Have you ever questioned your pennant
Your heart's tenant
And count the swine from your pearls

Have you ever wanted to reach out
Learn what they're about
Shoulder to shoulder, analyze

Have you ever wanted to try
While the rest of the universe dies
Count on one soul, epitomize

Well, maybe we think we know the answers
Or maybe we haven't the slightest
But the darkest hour is always near
And always following is the brightest
Some take their pleasure in the form of sin
And some with a grain of salt
Some take their pleasure from the damage within
Some would never know when they're missing out

I never begged for mercy
At least up until this point
And I would never say it outright
But I want out of this joint
In the worst way, my surroundings need to burn
And perhaps then, this town would thrive
For honor is merely a lesson learned

When the odds are against you to survive

I wish to shine.

ohhh Soul raptured and captured
Fractured in moments of reciprocity
An outward doubt of censorship
Widening smiles of spoken misfortune

A tear, a mend, the exposed laughter
Tributes of adventure rouse the sheep
Rumoured lines of defensive solutions
Evolution with a tenancy of dissolution

Hearts of hearts, a distanced resolution
Insulated in clenched stimulant jokes
Introverted cells taking a pick of self
The ***, a sect, to solve and save the rest

There is a reckless tenancy to leave the door of my life wide open "come in come in its cold out there" I realize I've only welcomed the cold in.

to Dani*

remember when, you do not:
you are a ground slicing the center of
    this home.

the long divide the furniture endures.
in front of the colossal tv
bodies spilled like water.
20 minutes was all it took – your name alone,
a potent hygroscopy.

when close enough:
dissipate. You took all the green the foliage could,
    soldered to your body a forest it manifests.

   repeated, if not a newer foundling:

    the   space   you  take  for  acquisition ,
    the faultless tenancy   you   mistake   as  counsel.

every saved for, and gleaming space
   aspires for venue – translates to an arena for snapshot.

[some mundane depiction ascribes for you to be known]
years later my portrait still hangs perpetually
on a modern furniture from a contemporary skillset.
  take this declaration.

years later, leapt to this day and forward:
the surgery of galvanized steel is reminiscent of a departure.
the tedious laborer smiling through bonsai pots
  carrying out lobotomies. The afternoon more sterile than
   your    face  as if operation.  This town knows you by practice
  
  and habit: all of it sepia, if not leaden.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The voices are ringing in my ears, a thundering conundrum I have yet to figure out. He's screaming, no he's whispering, oh I can't tell anymore, from a thunder to a shiver its all the same to me I'm deaf I'm blind I see with echolocation I am a bat in its cave begging to see the light though I know it burns.

Each sentence blurs to the next a word a whisper oh there I go with whispers again did I forget a comma, some punctuation? Sorry my mind is a mile a minute when it feels such frustration in its bones that it cannot feel its toes anymore.

Wait, my brain doesn't have toes.

Nonsense. I am practically a wonderland character with all my nonsensical drivels about love and mania and speed and tears and lust and death. Give me a hat and I'm practically batty, my good sir. I will make a march with my hair and wish you a very merry un-death-day, or however that goes.

Falling down my rabbit hole, no my cave, I'm a bat, remember? I have found a way to fall sideways right into your heavy arms and you stare at me aghast, for I am not who you once thought I to be. There is a face for each hue, each color of my pigments, I'm a leaf, each season brings out a different color, well unless your coniferous but that is besides the point and very much more about needles, but I digress.

Wait, I'm a bat. What is this nonsense about leaves?

Sit down at my table and I will explain it all to you dear, how my brain is wired like a ticking time bomb, ready to set off at any moment, particularly if my pretty little pills aren't butterflying in my bloodstream, those little friends of mine simply forgetting a swim day.

Funny how one day without them can be average or it can be, well, this. Quite mad, isn't it? Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock, the clock struck twelve and the bat swept down and the mouse is left to rot. Tick tock, tick tock.  

Give me a cat or two and then there's a name for me, but I bet your bottom dollar every single one is a chesire, grinning, tormenting, taunting, killing. They reflect the little demons in my heart.

Have you ever been so afraid of your own reflection, or the butter knife at the end of your table, and how it might just slip into your fingers at ever the wrong moment and you might regret your next action for the rest of your life? I've only once or twice, but it was a once too many, and now I'm terrified of that little butter knife resting on the end of my table, taunting my demons, knowing how much I fear them.

Should I be a true ****** and enter a hospital? No, I will never learn honesty, all these thoughts kept up in my pretty little head will never leave my pretty little head, they enjoy their tenancy too much. Just pop the pills, Grace, darling, and everything will be ok.

A few more hours, and then I can be reunited with my dear little friends, and like the good little bat I am, recoil back into my cave, and let the butterfly angler I wiggle out be the beautiful front everyone sees. No mad hatter, no march hare, no alice, not even a bat. A pretty butterfly that everyone loves.

If only they knew what this butterfly had behind her; a cave full of wonderland.

And everyone should be afraid of that.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Winding fingers,
Weave the thread,
That wrap me so comfortably in my fears,
Embracing.

Mould my mind,
Shamelessly encrypting my thoughts, Through and through.

Grown to shapen my impersonality,
Both for my lack there of,
And my tenancy for the impersonal.

Yet how,
Should be such a bond to my pains,
An Introspective perfection,
Or am I?

Or is that just my guise,
Impersonality guide my imperfection,
Interspective shapes my imperception.

Impossibilities in my inevitabilities.

I am.
Imperfection.

If you are searching for a way
To illuminate our inner-self
And conquer the barriers inside us
Then I have a light for your smoke
May I introduce you to L'Bastardos.

If you're feeling low
For no particular reason you can think of
Then maybe it is time to be thinking of making love.

You've got all these hang-ups about cash flow,
And you are not too sure of how things will reveal themselves
Everything is taken care of and I will take full control-
Give me your body till morning, I don't need your mind presented to me,
And the Devil has your soul, I'm just seeing out the tenancy,  
The day has brought the sky to watch you play-
A thousand miles away.

AS  IT  IS


Life that we know, is not, as we think it is  

In the present we miss at times, both
what could have been and what will be

as from the drawers of our lives we
pull out and savour memories while
riding the illusion of replacing time

but sometimes forgetting  that the past
drawn to the present will not sustain
and eventually recede to allow for the
flow of time future to find it’s age, and

life will remain a short tenancy with
a changing lease that time witnesses
without interference at every birth
and in the process we learn a few true
things as time tells your mind’s despair ----  

why lament,  life’s canvas was empty
at birth and will return to it’s state
when you leave, as you brought nothing
and will take nothing, but will leave
behind your life’s colours on my being
to hold  for posterity, as divined in time.


SUDHIR DIWAN

She was the most beautiful one
She could take the breath away and leave you without words  
From sunrise to sunset, she sparkled and mesmerized
She was a Princess, of royal lineage
Bedecked in multi colours
Her flowing gown was the brightest, purest azure
Sprinkled with precious stones of diamond and Amethyst
Her touch was soft and sensual
When she sang, the birds listened and the storms abated
And her heart, her pure heart, encompassed all who dwelled with her
She opened her house to nourish strangers  
And fed the poor with rich delicasies
She poured cool water into the parched mouths of the weary
And joyous wine into the cups of the downtrodden
Her own ******* gently suckled orphans
She made her scented gardens available to those who roam
And prepared the softest beds for those who were without abode
She never stopped giving
Yet, this world and strangers did not value her, did not love her
They were not grateful
They used her for their own ends
And plundered her belongings, even her own heart
Men were not content to gaze upon her loveliness
But siezed her violently with soiled sinews
They tore her adornment from her body
And leered greedily at her nakedness
They beat her prettiness into blood and smears
And burned her skin with torches
They mauled her ******* and drained them dry
They penetrated her and violated her
Leaving her in shame and degradation
And when they were satisfied, and their vile ***** had taken root
They left her **** and weeping
In anguish and near death  
And in her agony and death throes
She cried out for her Father
This world has come full circle
From darkness and watery surface
To darkness and smoke
This home which we call earth
Has filled our every need
This luxurious dwelling place, alone in the vast cosmos
Was perfect and pure  
It was a residence unmatched in the known universe
A home with all we need
The Landlord prepared it well
Built to the highest standards
With all amenities
And so many desirable things to please
And some of us tenants complied with it's demise in ignorance
While others, daring and arrogant
Used it, abused it and vandalized it
We have sullied the neighbourhood
And disrupted the peace
We have let it run into disrepair
The greatest property neglect of all time
We have gorged ourselves on the feasts that were left in the home
And tore up the fruit gardens and flower beds
We have turned it's garden into a ******* tip
But our tenancy is about to end
The lease has run out
And we failed in our stewardship of this beautiful world
For this pretty planet cries out for justice
For restoration
Who will save our earth?
Will the great and wise men of politics take a moment from their lunch meetings to act instead of speak?
Or will the gods of science humble themselves and refrain from tampering with nature,
Finding ever new ways to produce new things?
Do the entrepeneurs and mass producers still have conscience in their soul?
Or will they forge ahead advertizing yet more junk that we “need”?
Can protesters and hate-mongers breath new life into our world's lungs?
And will we accept our complicity, and repent?
Will the childen see tommorow, through the smoke and ash?
The earth cires out
She languishes and weeps glaciers that flood our lives
Her spine snaps with violent thud of explosion and shaft
And finally, she calls His name
For the “Ancient of days” has not forgotten
The benevolent Landlord is watching, waiting
His fury is restrained, for now
To allow us one more chance to change
He saw this all from afar, from far back in history
And he warned us all
He knew what the tenants might do  
And he has sworn
“He will bring to ruin those ruining the earth”
And He promises that some of us will be innocent
“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”


All quotations from the Holy Bible

Was that dollar Sunday morning
  a twenty Saturday night

Is that empty bottle you can barely see
  the excuse that started the fight

Is that torn and tattered jacket
  what was once your Sunday best

Is your life worth more than nineteen dollars
   eyes blackened—never to rest

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

When problems surround you, don’t let it drown you;
Swim adeptly to overcome it;
No one is without problems in this beautiful world;
There is no pond without riddles;
All we experience is the tenancy, during then, keep ourselves however is within ourselves;
Master it to stay merrier till life lasts...

i refuse to let go of this sadness/ that wraps me up in the dead of the night/ because my calloused fingers have crushed too many shards of happiness/ only to exsanguinate poetry/ out of the blood cells/ that the doctors claim have enough haemoglobin/ despite the scars that stink on my wrists/ covered with the holy threads/ my mother asks me to wear/ so her gods protect me/ but they fail to shun the devil/ dangling on my left shoulder/ that loathes me/ yet continues to be the parasite/ that the host of my body thrives on/ because it has never known/ any other way of tenancy/ except in the house of insecurity/ that has decayed/ into blooming flowers of hatred for myself/ full of poison/ that is enough to weave a string of thoughts/ detrimental to a sense of peace/ i have never been a consumer of/ for i have only eaten from the leftovers of sanity/ that the artists before me could not afford/ and i am the flesh and bones of their temerarious ghosts/ roaming graveyards/ of miserable mortality/

blowing 99 red balloons April 9th, 2023
will signal 158 years since Appomattox
plus what would have been ninety sixth birth
of the late Boyce Brandon Harris,
whereby yours truly the biological byproduct
when secular parents of mine
simply following the dictum
constituting be fruitful and multiply.

(Alternately titled always look
on the bright side of life sang
courtesy Eric Idle in Life of Brian)

Armageddon would be morbidly amazing,
concluding (reign of **** Sapiens)
fascinating albeit simultaneously
fantastic, catastrophic boon
dog gull to accompany
(this incognito sans,
spacesuit attired as bugs bunny
foolish faux rabbit, yup you reddit right
with netzero outlook)

amidst others eyed hop along
(like Cassidy) to find
amidst rubble strewn cocoon,
or perchance an arrid extra dry
armed hammer hotmail spelling
unrelenting radioactive
blown humungous earthlinked dune
daffy duck dynasty Don
trumpeting a brave (though

extremely foolish soul) weathering
fierce-some dust bowl
appearing like a ghoulish goon
vis a vis via global sand man
disallowing any inhabitant to be immune
whereat winter days
would mimic (nee far exceed)
those analogous to tropical June
day where nary species

of flora nor fauna,
which latter muffled cry
viz Clair De Lune
barely heard above blindingly pitched
(scoring major lunar home run)
when earth's moon
appeared to be batted,
snatched, and whacked -
piñata like casting
darkness at high noon

this out of other worldly debacle
(viz: a scene of apocalyptic,
cosmic and epic rune
from twilight zone re:
outer limits offsetting
sole millennial Gaia satellite
believed rigged forever)
which end of planetary
status quo came barreling along
sooner than expected, accompanied

by Gustav Holst The Planets
auspicious, eponymous, illustrious... tune
once Luna rung seismically,
titanic ally uprooted, violently wrenched
prior to crash landing at ground zero
rocked and rolled out of orbitz
before careering, and screaming
thru the atmosphere
analogous a full term baby
in utero yanked out of womb.

Though the above dynamic
gigantic jack-knifed nihilistic quantum
spectacular universal wreckage
sans the inner sphere of solar system
(known to mankind,
whose tenancy upon oblate spheroid
viz planet Earth did upstage
when said creature, an outlier),
whence even amidst the early
bipedal hominids didst throve a sage

no event (whether natural
or caused by human error),
would compare neither captcha,
when quaking, roiling, swarming,
teeming masses rage
against the machine
emasculated, jiggered, orchestrated
and wrought one after another
****** war strewn page
onto once verdant terrestrial firmament

no way to measure nor gauge
the depth, length, scope of total
value eradicating any trace
of simian equipage
reducing arrogant, conceited,
egomaniacal, dotage
boot far-fetched
science fiction phenomena would
witness civilization captive
in their own technological cage

more to the point yours truly
self imprisoned barred bard,
(whose fleshy epidermis camouflaged beige)
tricked out with latest futuristic
technological “smart” sophistication
showcasing latest skin tight accouterment
a win for progressive
penal reform champions,
who feel a cannibal (accountable)
to stamp out anthropophage.

The Ballad Of Foxham Bill

I  knew a man down Wiltshire way,
We called him Foxham Bill.
He’d sit astride his tractor
And swagger up Spirthill.

Up top he’d stop and look around,
A broad smile on his face,
Below the farm he knew so well
His life bound to that place.

Before he set to work each day
He’d ponder on his fold;
With pride he’d think about his wife,
His three girls good as gold.

On his descent he’d fill the lanes,
Surveying his estate.
We’d strain our necks and back our cars,
Give way to Bill’s old crate.

It stayed that way for years I guess,
His routine would hardly falter,
But then daughter June a sailor met
Who brought her to the altar.

Next Mary flew around the world,
Back-packing I’d heard say,
Got fixed up with an Aussie lass
When cruising down Sydney way.

Now down to one, his pride and joy
(She’d never tasted town),
Bill had a boy in mind for her
With him she’d settle down.

But Julie, bless her, took the veil
And married her school mate.
They took a plane one Saturday
And now live in Kuwait.

Wife Betty would not leave the roost,
Of that he could be certain,
With thirty years under the yoke
She’d make their final curtain.

But ringing in the church one day
Elizabeth met Sam-
Within three weeks of knowing him
She’d left for Chippenham.

Now every day he climbed that hill
His swagger was no more,
His smile had gone, he wore a frown,
His tractor lost it’s roar.

As bad luck went, his was the worst,
Alone now on his farm,
He worked away the lonely days
And tried not to self-harm.

One day a Jaguar pulled up,
A stranger knocked his door.
He said his farm and land was sold-
His tenancy no more.

So Foxham Bill, a farmer spent,
Took all his compensation
And bought a house in Bremhill Wick,
Investment ‘gainst inflation.

His Massey Ferguson he kept
A’rusting on his drive,
And every day took all he had
To try and stay alive.

The NHS it did it’s best,
They would not taste defeat,
With CBT and counselling
They’d have Bill on his feet.

But then one morn I took my rod
And set out for the river,
It wasn’t a chill that caught my breath
Or a  wind that made me shiver.

For in the midst of Avon’s flow,
It’s front wheels spinning free,
Was that tired old red tractor
And Bill hanging from a tree.

So dear reader, I’d say to you
(Be you rich or poor)
The only constant thing is change
Of that you can be sure.









© (no references, veiled or otherwise, to any person living or dead )

I am me
I never was your employee

Never was a soccer ball to punch
Never was a joke to make over lunch

The customer is always right
I disagreed with that and never put up a fight

Your wrath was short and sweet
My tenancy left with days to beat

Now I am back to me
I never was your employee

At 1330 hours (indicated
courtesy notification slipped under door
less than twenty four hours)
hence foretold ill fate
by property (crooks and quade) management
the head honcho zaftig, ******,
(who replaced the warden)

and Rich (BOLD FACE
text mode) the snitch
at Highland Manor Apartments
re: looming eviction implication
cuz yours truly and the missus
out of compliance
namely unkempt living space
within the walls of apartment b44.

after residing within
said low income facility
going on six years July first
two thousand and twenty three,
we experienced ongoing contention here,
which palpable tension
crackles, pops, and snaps
across the webbed wide world.

Courtesy social media platforms
in tandem with reputable poetry websites
allows, enables and provides
analogous soapbox to vent
after above identified triumvirate
done scrutinizing, interrogating, castigating...

Me and the missus
immediately sprung into action
rather each of our separate nervous systems
underwent uncontrollable bouts
of expansion and contraction,
(where we both
made a beeline for the bathroom)
analogous to severe toothache
necessitating oral surgeon extraction.

One month later - March seventeenth
signals the re: visitation of inquisition
(cue ominous music)
obscure artificial illumination
looming dark shadows
presaging worse fate than death
rivaling close encounters of the third kind
outer limits of the twilight zone
monstrous sinister forbidding shapes
blotting sunlight plunging
highland manor apartment in total darkness.

Hence aforementioned feeble SOS
cuz our rented one bedroom unit
b44 not in ship shape,
thus me and the wife
not happy campers
possibly forced to live in a tent
among bunch of other homeless people
along skidrow,
thus fruitless effort to yield
and appeal to top banana
figuratively precariously perched
on horns of dilemma

spurred me to posit supposition,
whereby sympathy for the devil witnesses
greater likelihood versus wordsmith
unsuccessfully, nevertheless creatively
blindsiding anonymous readers
spellbound to empty ***** nilly
bajillions of dollars
from their pocketbooks
and mail blank checks to yours truly
before coming to their collective
sense and sensibility bound
with pride and prejudice.

The following paragraphs yielded after Google search undertaken to elucidate reader with (our) low income housing facility.

Section 515 Rural Rental Housing
This property has received funding in part through the Section 515 Rural Rental Housing (Section 515) program. Very low, low, and moderate income families, elderly persons, and persons with disabilities are eligible to live at this property. Persons or Families living in substandard housing have priority for tenancy.
Section 521 USDA Rental Assistance
The property participates in the USDA Rural Development Rental Assistance program. This rental subsidy, available only to USDA Section 514, 515 and 516 properties, ensures renters only pay 30% of their adjusted income towards rent. USDA Rural Development Rental Assistance may not be available for all units at this property.

Juliet is at the door
Juliet wants to know more
She wants the details of the house
What's inside
Behind the windows

She has a lovely smile
I was a singing a wonderful song
And there she was a listening
All curious
With her bag over her shoulder
And her hair behind her ear

She tells me about her spouse
I tell her about the house
Every inch, every detail
Every secret a man can keep

She says she'll be back
It was nice to meet
She lives next door
But I never did see her anymore

Just a letter from the land lord
About his many eyes
And how our tenancy had shortened
To one week
No more

TENANT

Live we in a rented home, our body, it we call.

Our soul, into our body, God does stall.

Released our soul is, when our body does fall.

This departure or transition, death, we call.

When our body, our home, so lovingly we nurture;

Why can't look after our soul we; n it's future?

Our soul, a diamond is; our most important n real future.

Decorating body parts is like buying expensive
furniture.

Tenancy rights, try to hold we should never.

Think of ourselves we must as souls divine, not bodies clever.

Know we must that our soul from our body, can anytime sever.

Merge it must with the Almighty, for ever and ever.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

Lord..
chasten me with your wisdom
that I might bow down
on baptized knees
and know
that where God gave Life
the devil claimed tenancy
but where the devil
has sullied my feet,
God will wash them clean.