Whether in Montreal, where she was born and raised, or in Delhi, where her award-winning brasserie sits, the stylish chef’s love for gastronomy has always run deep. She came to India to chase her passion about eight years ago, after leaving behind an engineering career and having trained at the esteemed ITHQ (Institut de tourisme et d’hôtellerie du Québec). In 2014, she introduced unusual combinations like oysters with charred onion petals, tamarind puree, and rose vinegar when she became the first Indian chef to be invited to host a solo dinner at the James Beard House in New York City. Also presented there was her very own coffee-table book called Eating Stories, packed with charming visuals, tales and recipes.

In pursuit of narratives

“I am studying Ayurveda so, at the moment, I’m inspired by the knowledge and intuition which comes with that, but otherwise I completely live for stories. Those of the people around me — of spices, design forms, music, traditions, history and anything else I feel connected to.”

Culinary muse

“I truly believe that nature is perfect, so I feel privileged to use the ingredients that it provides, while adding my own hues, aromas and combinations…it feels like I get to play endlessly every day.”

After-work indulgence

“My favourite places to eat at are Cafe Lota and Carnatic Cafe in Delhi, and Betony and Brindle Room in NYC.”

Dream dish

“This salad I created called ‘secret garden’. It’s so beautiful to look at and has such a unique spectrum of flavours…all while using only the freshest, most natural produce to create something completely magical.”

Reception blooper

“Most people make the mistake of over-complicating the menu; having too much diversity and quantity. Wastefulness isn’t a good way to start a life together.”

A third-generation entrepreneur from a highly distinguished culinary family, she runs a thriving studio in Khar where state-of-the-art cooking stations and dining tables allow her to conduct a variety of workshops and sessions. Her grandfather is remembered as the man who migrated from Africa to London to found the brand that brought curry to the people of the UK — Patak’s. She took over as brand ambassador, having trained at Leiths School of Food and Wine and taught at one of Jamie Oliver’s schools in London. What’s more, Pathak is also the author of Secrets From My Indian Family Kitchen, a cookbook comprising 120 Indian recipes, published last year in the UK.

Most successful experiment

“When I was writing recipes for my cookbook, I had to test some more than once to ensure they were perfect and foolproof. One of my favourites was my slow-cooked tamarind-glazed pork. I must have trialled this recipe at least six times before publishing it, and after many tweaks I have got it to be truly sensational. It’s perfectly balanced with sweet and sour both.”

Future fantasy

“As strange as it sounds, I’d love to cater my own wedding. You want all your favourite recipes and you want to share this with your guests. I could hire a caterer to create my ideal menu, but I’d much prefer to finalise and finish all the dishes myself so that I’m supremely happy with the flavours I’m serving to my loved ones.”

Fresh elegance

“I’m in love with microgreens for entertaining and events…although not a new trend, they still carry the delicate wow factor and are wonderfully subtle when used well. I’m not into using foams and gels and much prefer to use ingredients that are fuss-free.”

This advertising professional first tested her one-of-a-kind amalgams at The Lil Flea, a popular local market in BKC, Mumbai. Her Indian fusion hot dogs, named Amar (vegetarian), Akbar (chicken) and Anthony (pork), sold out quickly and were a hit. Today, these ‘desi dogs’ are the signature at the affable home-chef-turned-businesswoman’s cafe-***-diner in Bandra, alongside juicy burgers, a fantastic indigenous crème brûlée, and an exciting range of drinks and Sikkim-sourced teas.

Loving the journey

“The best part of the job is the people I meet; the joy I get to see on their faces as they take the first bite. The fact that this is across all ages and social or cultural backgrounds makes it even better. Also, I can indulge a whim — whether it is about the menu or what I can do for a guest — without having to ask anyone. On the flip side, I have no one to blame but myself if the decision goes wrong. And, of course, I can’t apply for leave!”

Go-to comfort meal

“A well-made Bengali khichri or a good light meat curry with super-soft chapattis.”

What’s ‘happening’

“This is a very exciting time in food and entertaining — the traditional and ultra-modern are moving forward together. Farm-to-fork is very big; food is also more cross-cultural, and there is a huge effort to make your guest feel special. Plus, ‘Instagram friendly’ has become key…if it’s not on Instagram, it never happened! But essentially, a party works when everyone is comfortable and happy.”

A word to brides

“Let others plan your menu. You relax and look gorgeous!”

This Le Cordon Bleu graduate really knows her way around aromas that warm the heart. On returning to Mumbai from London, she began to experiment with making small-batch ice creams for family and friends. Now she churns out those ‘cheeky’ creations from a tiny kitchen in Bandra, where customers must ring a bell to get a taste of dark chocolate with Italian truffle oil, salted caramel, milk chocolate and bacon and her signature (a must-try) — blue cheese and honey.

The extra mile

“I’ll never forget the time I created three massive croquembouche towers (choux buns filled with assorted flavours of pastry cream, held together with caramel) for a wedding, and had to deliver them to Thane!”

Menu vision

“For a wedding, I would want to serve something light and fresh to start with, like seared scallops with fresh oysters and uni (sea urchin). For mains, I would serve something hearty and warm — roast duck and foie gras in a red wine jus. Dessert would be individual mini croquembouche!”

Having been raised by big-time foodie parents, the strongest motivation for their decision to take to this path came from their mother, who had two much-loved restaurants of her own while the sisters were growing up — Vandana in Mahim and Bandra Fest on Carter Road. Following the success of the first MeSoHappi in Khar, Mumbai, the duo known for wholesome cooking opened another outlet of the quirky gastro-bar adjoining The Captain’s Table — one of the city’s favourite seafood haunts — in Bandra Kurla Complex.

Chef’s own

AA: “We were the pioneers of the South African bunny chow in Mumbai and, even now, it remains one of my all-time favourites.”

On wedding catering

PA: “The most memorable for me will always be Aarathi’s high-tea bridal shower. I planned a floral-themed sundowner at our home in Cumballa Hill; curtains of jasmine, rose-and-wisteria lanterns and marigold scallops engulfed the space. We served exotic teas, alcoholic popsicles of sangria and mojito, and dishes like seafood pani puri shots and Greek spanakopita with beetroot dip, while each table had bite-sized desserts like mango and butter cream tarts and rose panna cotta.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

January Colours

In the winter garden
of the Villa del Parma
by the artist’s studio
green grass turns vert de terre
and the stone walls
a wet mouse’s back
grounding neutral – but calm,
soothing like calamine
in today’s mizzle,
a permanent dimpsey,
fine drenching drizzle,
almost invisible, yet
saturating skylights
with evidence of rain.

February Colours

In the kitchen’s borrowed light,
dear Grace makes bread  
on the mahogany table,
her palma gray dress
bringing the outside in.

Whilst next door, inside
Vanessa’s garden room
the French windows
firmly shut out this
season’s bitter weather.

There, in the stone jar
beside her desk,
branches of heather;
Erica for winter’s retreat,
Calluna for spring’s expectation.

Tea awaits in Duncan’s domain.
Set amongst the books and murals,
Spode’s best bone china  
turning a porcelain pink
as the hearth’s fire burns bright..

Today
in this house
a very Bloomsbury tone,
a truly Charleston Gray.

March Colours

Not quite daffodil
Not yet spring
Lancaster Yellow
Was Nancy’s shade

For the drawing room
Walls of Kelmarsh Hall
And its high plastered ceiling
Of blue ground blue.

Playing cat’s paw
Like the monkey she was
Two drab husbands paid
For the gardens she made,
For haphazard luxuriance.

Society decorator, partner
In paper and paint,
She’d walk the grounds
Of her Palladian gem
Conjuring for the catalogue
Such ingenious labels:

Brassica and Cooking Apple
Green to be seen
In gardens and orchards
Grown to be greens.

April Colours

It would be churlish
to expect, a folly to believe,
that green leaves would  
cover the trees just yet.

But blossom will:
clusters of flowers,
Damson white,
Cherry red,
Middleton pink,

And at the fields’ edge
Primroses dayroom yellow,
a convalescent colour
healing the hedgerows
of winter’s afflictions.

Clouds storm Salisbury Plain,
and as a skimming stone
on water, touch, rise, touch
and fall behind horizon’s rim.
Where it goes - no one knows.

Far (far) from the Madding Crowd
Hardy’s concordant cove at Lulworth
blue by the cold sea, clear in the crystal air,
still taut with spring.

May Colours

A spring day
In Suffield Green,
The sky is cook’s blue,
The clouds pointing white.

In this village near Norwich
Lives Marcel Manouna
Thawbed and babouched
With lemurs and llamas,
Leopards and duck,
And more . . .

This small menagerie
Is Marcel’s only luxury
A curious curiosity
In a Norfolk village
Near to Norwich.

So, on this
Blossoming
Spring day
Marcel’s blue grey
Parrot James
Perched on a gate
Squawks the refrain

Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

June

Thrownware
earth red
thrown off the ****
the Japanese way.
Inside hand does the work,
keeps it alive.
Outside hand holds the clay
and critically tweaks.
Touch, press, hold, release
Scooting, patting, spin!
Centering: the act
precedes all others
on the potter’s wheel.
Centering: the day
the sun climbs highest
in our hemisphere.
And then affix the glaze
in colours of summer:
Stone blue
Cabbage white
Print-room yellow
Saxon green
Rectory red
And fire!

July Colours

I see you
by the dix blue
asters in the Grey Walk
via the Pear Pond,
a circuit of surprises
past the Witches House,
the Radicchio View,
to the beautifully manicured
Orangery lawns, then the
East and West Rills of
Gertrude’s Great Plat.

And under that pea green hat
you wear, my mistress dear,
though your face may be April
there’s July in your eyes of such grace.

I see you wander at will
down the cinder rose path
‘neath the drawing-room blue sky.

August Colours

Out on the wet sand
Mark and Sarah
take their morning stroll.
He, barefoot in a blazer,
She, linen-light in a wide-brimmed straw,
Together they survey
their (very) elegant home,
Colonial British,
Classic traditional,
a retreat in Olive County, Florida:
white sandy beaches,
playful porpoises,
gentle manatees.

It’s an everfine August day
humid and hot
in the hurricane season.
But later they’ll picnic on
Brinjal Baigan Bharta
in the Chinese Blue sea-view
dining room fashioned
by doyen designer
Leta Austin Foster
who ‘loves to bring the ocean inside.
I adore the colour blue,’ she says,
‘though gray is my favourite.’

September

A perfect day
at the Castle of Mey
beckons.
Watching the rising sun
disperse the morning mists,
the Duchess sits
by the window
in the Breakfast Room.
Green leaves have yet to give way
to autumn colours but the air
is seasonably cool, September fresh.

William is fishing the Warriner’s Pool,
curling casts with a Highlander fly.
She waits; dressed in Power Blue
silk, Citron tights,
a shawl of India Yellow
draped over her shoulders.
But there he is, crossing the home beat,
Lucy, her pale hound at his heels,
a dead salmon in his bag.

October Colours

At Berrington
blue, clear skies,
chill mornings
before the first frosts
and the apples ripe for picking
(place a cupped hand under the fruit
and gently ‘clunch’).

Henry Holland’s hall -
just ‘the perfect place to live’.
From the Picture Gallery
redolent in portraits
and naval scenes,
the view looks beyond
Capability’s parkland
to Brecon’s Beacons.

At the fourteen-acre pool
trees, cane and reed
mirror in the still water
where Common Kingfishers,
blue green with fowler pink feet
vie with Grey Herons,
funereal grey,
to ruffle this autumn scene.

November Colours

In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.

The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.

Yet a few remain
bold coloured

Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow

hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.

Then fall
Then fall

December Colours*

Green smoke* from damp leaves
float from gardens’ bonfires,
rise in the silver Blackened sky.

Close by the tall railings,
fast to lichened walls
we walk cold winter streets

to the warm world of home, where
shadows thrown by the parlour fire
dance on the wainscot, flicker from the hearth.

Hanging from our welcome door
see how incarnadine the berries are
on this hollyed wreath of polished leaves.

Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING

Can you imagine
How life would really be
If birds were obese
And fell from their tree?

Sparrows staggering somehow
Around with bent beaks
Upturned to the sky
Awaiting helpful tweaks!

Alas, when the rain showers
Fall like you wouldn’t believe
You’d see Sparrows wearing snorkels
To help them better breathe!

And then an Albatross
Won’t be able to leave the ground
Due to overeating fish
And turning overly round.

Ducks, when thrown some bread
By children in the park
Would slowly, steadily sink
As surely as a dog does bark!

Swallows they would swallow
Many, too many flies
And end up heavily crashing
From our summer skies.

Then, all the newspapers
On the front page would read:
“We’re Fed up with Obese Birds
Please, Do NOT feed!”

I wasn't the same after that night*.
At first I didn't notice it
But then, through the simple pleasures,
Like reading a book
Or baking a cake
Or reflecting,
I knew I had changed,
As if you altered something in my soul that night
Switched some wires
And forgot to switch them back..
Leaving me in an irregularity.

I bought a real nutcracker today.
A fine shiny black truly cool looking one!
Each crack  compliments to a dandy vintage lad's  imaginary home TV shopper Ad.
Saying‘It's guaranteed! Hundred percent of mechanosensory reception!’

I try to convince myself between time stretching
‘Yes or No’s and ‘Just use stones’
‘Come on you've deserved it!’
‘Why bother?’

You have been craving for each
Tried and tested any,
same as so many
even from a hard peach.

So why not!? Keep it! – as if a testimony, from tough to juicy mimicking fruity blending **** seduced by crunchy   mouth twisting *****.

Digested from special yearly events to monthly justifications then weekly to daily and surprisingly after dinner, before breakfast, as brunch or even a whole meal sometimes.

You gnaw like a small rodent layer by layer cute but so tight although he says that’s alright.

Dashing trunks as if a woodpecker,
Stealing home reserved only-for-the-pet’s crumbs and
Finally receiving next day’s well deserved belly cramps.

Come on you almost broke your teeth during your worldwide exploring different types of shell husking trip.

Feel blessed now one time for goddess’ sake that she winks and tweaks my lips while it creaks, festively announces your recent find that nuts you shall eat raw only - neither baked nor from a sinfully roasted ready packed plastic bag.

What good is a masculinity so fragile,
That it harbors misery and shatters souls?

What good is an alliance so toxic,
That it tweaks tears as opposed to laughter?

So speak up and break free,
Live life merry as long as your body does plea.

A new day is dawning
Been waiting for weeks
Cashed in my pay cheques
To pay for the tweaks

Drawing, deciding,
Doubting my needs
Umming and ahhing
This lust i must feed

Booked the appointment
There's no turning back
Go under the knife
Would you look at that!

Followed the steps
and handled with care
The bigger the better
But same face and hair

Mid-chest attention
They all think I'm dumb
But not enough's changed
So I'll have my *** done

With want me eyes he wraps my hair around his fist
He gives it a little tug bringing me closer to his wrist
My lips are warm and inviting
and already so long overdue
He starts off slow and soft
As I feel his breath on my lips
His tongue traces my bottom lip teasing
giving me a little nip
His sweet kisses cause a warm wave to take over me
As he heats me up from the inside
Slick with a need and burning
That only he can subside
He tweaks my ******* with his
fingers through my shirt
A sly smile forms as he starts *******
me thinking of his dessert
His mouth and tongue start kissing its way down
Tempting...Teasing...and Feasting
While I am just laying there
Trembling...Needing...and Pleading
Oh My ~ is all I could muster when his lips move
like a breeze over my thighs
Passion explodes as my will erodes
I revel in the sensation of being Conquered
And at the same time....*Conquering

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?

A tangent drawn over
Below looking for cover
Closely following through
Decide against going after
Elevating my view
Further towards the issue
Glued my eyes toward sad side
Happiness doesn't make my guestlist
It has been a while I've felt good
Jinxed my life with overthinking mind
Kind of never been ever kind
Letters and words, I cannot encompass

Much like my dreams that never came true
Not thinking about it doesn't make them go
Ongoing struggle keeping the feelings inside
Pushing it within, to not hinder my work
Quite unsuccessful attempts, and I see day becoming night
Rays turning dark in blink of time
Stars are no longer seen in the night sky
Turn the page over, how do I
Until almost I tear those pages out
Vanishing away is a thought lingering
What good I am currently exploring
Exploring the tweaks of my current life
You wouldn't want to share one with me
Zero is the number of chance, you'd like me.

I'm sick

I'm sick of every filter
I'm sick of fake photographers
I'm sick of fake philosophers
and Instagram pornographers
I'm sick of the fake feminists
who don't understand the movement
I'm sick of fake politicians
who make no ******* improvements
I'm sick of all the favorites
I'm sick of all the likes
I'm sick of ******* tinder
causing cheating every night
I'm sick of ******* eyebrows
like who ******* cares
when did we become so obsessed
with ******* forehead hair
I'm sick of religion
I'm sorry but it's true
it's caused so much division
in our red white and blue
I'm sick of trump supporters
who never read the news
they want to close our borders
but don't understand the ruse
I'm sick of fake people
who pretend for us all
cover their old selves in diesel
didn't hesitate or stall
I'm sick of Caitlin Jenner
she/he whatever isn't noble
committed ******* manslaughter
yet still remains boastful
I'm sick of post it note relationships
that last for three weeks
it's not a ******* battleship
just make the proper tweaks
I'm sick of all these hookups
it's become a culture
all of these pickups
initiated by the vultures
I'm sick of everyone caring
about what celebrities wear
I'm sick of overbearing hate
that never ever spares
I'm sick of all the judgment
of how a person looks
I'm sick of everyone watching YouTube
trading it for books
I'm sick of all this money
that we will never see
I'm sick of never knowing
what I'm supposed to do
I'm sick of schooling never showing
how to live our lives through
I'm sick of all this debt
that I'll be paying until my death
Im sick of feeling like our society is *******
but most of all I'm really sick
that this list has applied to me too.

english humour?
       they call it black...
             black as in: i 'aven the foggiest...
sure... it's witty, but up to
the point where slapstick origins
do a dodo and ******* into nothing
while at the same time inviting canned laughter...
               it's black humour they say:
what... you mean bile?
                  now ask a pole about
humour... and he'll be like:
         i'm flying a kite over auschwitz...
i can't believe it's two things at once:
   a "tourist" attraction for some...
                an islamic deterrent, for others.
sure... we can fire up the ovens once more...
             it'll be like that scene in the hobbit
where a few dwarfs started to imbue
life into the abandoned mine of the lonely mountain...
see... that's the thing with english humour,
in that it's black... in that it's too intelligent,
which makes a lunatic laughing for no
perceptible reason...
            enigma jokes... you know the kind...
       but a comedy that forgets itself, having
origins in a schadenfreude... well, it becomes
desperate... it's gagging for an auxiliary settlement
to be staged in the first place:
  canned laughter, enforced laughter,
                  the tyrannical face of western humour:
***** you better laugh! or i swear i'll do
      sum-fin                    nah      sss    tee... tea...
                ty           ti      taikwondo,   taekwondo?
eh?
                   this is starting to look, very much
like kabbalah for the party kids...
                 let's levitate an inch above the alphabet
and **** around with syllables...
         chi       chai                 china       chichen itza
chicken eats ya                 oh you... yes you.
       that's the thing though:
   translate humour from poland into english...
                             it's night... and it's foggy...
             and there's no moon...
                         or crescent... of that northern
star that sometimes aligns itself
        when there's a crescent and you think:
turkey!            no! no!                         pakistan!
                           pompous bozos...
     but this magazine is funny...
   first they write an article that's sorta related to
serge gainsbourg - and then onto
                the doctor who tweaks the faces
      of millennials -
                and i'm thinking: did i suddenly get something
wrong?
            what a horrid piece...
                   it's journalism, for sure...
   but i'm thinking: the stepford wives...
                  austin powers: fem-bots...
                                ex_machina robot *** slaves...
no, nothing else...
              let's just say i'd sooner find a £110 an hour
bulgar ******* in her 40s more desirable
          than these women think they'll become...
                odd, isn't it?
                             so you pay ten quid to enter
the brothel... and there they are: sitting pretty
                               and all the more intimidating...
a £110 an hour beauty...
                and then this drops into my lap...
an article about my generation bracket doing
  all this fancy **** with bough-toxicity that leads
neither to the roots, nor to the drowning-man's
arms of branches trying to cuddle or at least
                          allow birds to perch on them...
  now i'm really going to have fun with this...
                  pinch of malice, dab of a rotting corpse
of a fox... hey presto! you're in essex,
                                   with the cliche of oranges.  
                        poo poo pout! ooh!      
                              **** underwear or a diaper?        
as random as you can get...
                           but you know what this boils
down to? obviously on a serious note...
    it's whether you care for darwinism or
etymology more.
                         i'm pretty sure the monkey and
the man will lead        (led) - leash - huh? -
           lee lee....                    le!             ole!
(acute e missing, couldn't be bothered inserting it) -
     it's almost like bypassing the whole genus
concept... of family traditions...
   e.g. the family ****.... the tradition? sapiens!
  i wish that was true...
                            how about proto erectus?
or    mono erectus?
                              darwinism has become such a yawn
after it became a form of cultural indoctrination...
    honestly... i rather go to a zoo and watch
a monkey scratch it's ***... sniff it's hand
and then scratch it's head...
                   so yeah... etymology...
     i just spent the afternoon shooting words out
of my gob, going: well... that's funny...
          a dog with three legs, go!
       w                ł
  
                          v                ­        there...
    you'll get v'eh (fff'uckers!) joke łen sum' fin
                     really 'appens...
             and ven... you'll be like:  please me sir...
         m'ah  łoman -            went into labour...
        plus there's no concept of v in polish (st. paul
on a leash) -
                      there's w = v
               there's  ł = w
                                                       and there's u.
back to the botox beauties...
                                          at £110 an hour?
these bulgar women? (they're not *** slaves
if they get paid) -
                               what's the difference?
   they're mandible...
                              like play-dough...
                                like clay... you can mould them
into an ******... these instagram perfectionists?
         why would i want to **** a porcelain girl?
i'd be scared to **** her thinking i might break her...
   but back to quasi-etymology, that's quasi
for a bilingual fascination...
                   winda (v) = lift... so no, it's not windy
        when govinda yawns... qui?
     wróbel (v) = sparrow...
                      or...          in the russian currency...
     hold a sparrow in your hand? you're... a ******* millionaire!
               tulipan = tulip
                        tu (here) is where you impress your lips -
    and that is an actual conjunction, i.e. tu -
                                       róża = rose
         hmm... maczuga! maczuga = bludgeon...
      wω                             buttocks, with a missing H:
                               or wow or: woah!
        curve 'ere v(u)               ******* sharpenings 'ere ω(w).
honestly, i still think that there's been a diacritical
****... two proofs:                 i          and             j.
         that's ****... it's presupposing that ι (ιota)
                            needs a diacritical mark hanging over
it, a bit like damocles' sword....
        just hanging above it on a single hair of
a horse's mane... i'm guessing it's also called:
                                                      pre­cursor of the violin.
but if you really want to pronounce an acute z (ź) -
      you'll have to use a syllable from the word euthanasia.
oddly enough, when in st. petersburg
   i didn't spot a single mcdonalds...
                       it's like this odd feeling that you're
in a chiral environment, being used to seeing this
  outpost in little england...
                   and they don't really drink coca cola either...
they drink this carbohydrate drink called квас (kvas -
    western slavic?                    acid) -
           and eat pancakes with orange caviar...
black caviar? that's for the opera people who
  nibble on it on canapés... orange caviar is
                for the no nonsense people.

the moon is near white after being lowly yellow
for a spell, some random is acting out
a werewolf incantation on a windowsill
air-drumming - honestly, i thought that air-drumming
would always be more entertaining than
that ******* of air-guitar - you get the groove man,
you improvise your own rhythm, you
rip the ******* heart out and tell it to be rhythmic
to your own choosing - but no, you had to get the
elongated imaginary ***** out fiddle it like
a flute you'd never blow into - makes sense,
entertainment comes dirt cheap these these in Las Vegas,
the sombreros are out and the jig misters of
forgotten jazz are playing a speedy version of
Miles Davies' kind of glued blue - oddly enough
i liked the abstract corn-on-the-cob *******' brew,
don't ask me why i think what i think, certain music
just makes me think - but in the case of the doors' L.A. woman?
nope, no clue, i get the spontaneity jitters all over me
like goosebumps at a horror movie screening -
i start singing, i start air-drumming,, July 3, 1971 in Paris
never happened - they still put make-up on the cemetery
bust while the Spanish leave a joint (which some
*** probably picks up, smokes it and giggles)
but the point is, i can hum the bass-line, the guitar solos do not
deviate that much from the rhythm, they're more tweaks
than solos, accents, when guitar and vocals combine,
the vocals give cue to the guitar to do a sly elevation from
the rhythm, jazz rock, man, that's what the doors invented,
jazz rock, never heard that before, it's not prog rock
with too much elaboration on either drums or guitar,
guitars of Mahler or Penderecki can hide in the dungeons,
i mean slick ****, so many years on and i'm reinventing
the ****** thing, it's not even psychedelic rock,
fair enough Manzarek playing the cowboy harpsichord
of the saloon with some odd drinking buddy (like me)
flipping the score pages and pouring liquor into his gob,
but all the instruments get a chance to breathe,
the vocals aren't exactly Meat Loaf and thank **** for that,
it's like clicking your fingers or whistling -
i can hum the bass line, i can air-drum the beat,
the guitar solos compliment the rhythm / rhyme -
jazzy rock, it's a fluid composition...
by the way... please, someone tell me that Val Kilmer
isn't playing the position of defensive midfielder for
Grzegorz Krychowiak... a doppelgänger if i ever saw one;
i must be ******, i'm seeing double; uh.

palette
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue

vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold

moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained

cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch

far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****

her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still

mid-ground
blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles

Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps

point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves

small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight

ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown

grayish purple
prickly pears
ocotillo
here and there

spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads

buff highlights
saguaro flowers
I could sit and
paint for hours

there's time to write
but now I pray
look upon these
words today

they paint the desert
you will find
If only in
the poet's mind!


SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2017

disabled avahi cups.browsed///Bluetooth ,...////removed snapd whoopssie battery reduced to 35

With want me eyes he wraps my hair around his fist
He then give it a little tug bringing me closer to his wrist
My lips wet, warm and inviting and already so long overdue
He starts off slow and soft as I feel his breath on my lips
his tongue traces my bottom lip teasing...giving me a little nip
His sweet kisses cause a warm wave to take over me
As he heats me up from the inside
Slick with a need and burning that only he can subside
He tweaks my ******* with his fingers through my shirt
A sly smile forms as he starts ******* me thinking of his dessert
His mouth and tongue start kissing its way down
tempting...teasing...and feasting
While I am just laying there...
trembling...needing...and pleading
Oh My ~ is all I could muster when his lips move
like a breeze over my thighs
Passion explodes as my will erodes
I revel in the sensation of being Conquered
and at the same time....*Conquering

… On a bustling street,
              she shuffles her feet,
                     her eyes hold a desperate heat,
                               eyes darting, discretely charting
                                    a line through the crowds that are parting for her.


In a world of abundancy,
         she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
          her life breathes new life into the rubble
                       from a fickle society’s burst bubble.

Her world otherwise grey,
         she colours her day,
                 collecting, affecting
                         what the world has thrown away.

Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
        discarded, unguarded;
              all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.

Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
           but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.

She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.

She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.

Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.

In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.

She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.

She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.

Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.

On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …

Long divorced from love,
owned three guitars
and slept with nine women.
Remembers every song,
every poem,
scarcely recalls their faces;
lilt of their tongue
as sleep took hold of them-
not him.

Trigger finger over the snapshot
through each baulk and ****** of passion:
"this is the poem, this is the verse
I can lay down in print
and finally live again."

Night sky too full of uncertainty.
Cannot observe a desert scene
without a commentary
on each unanswered question.
She is dressed in sequins
but what for the spaces in between?
He cannot accept filler,
blank spaces that intercede
moments of ineffable beauty.

Maddening crowds emerge,
bright-eyed and stupid
to each early, pink noise morning.
He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs,
slow to movement; formulation of words.

Each night a battle of sobriety
as the sun does bleed
in the skyline before him.
Each night a generation dies,
subtle points of light
lost in the noise of the modern day.
Screams pointlessly, without need:
"don't forget me, don't forget me..."
would rather leave a scar

than no mark at all.
Lives for the colours
he cannot see, for the common thread
that connects everything.
Tweaks the string of each broken seam

to expose each diversity,
each personal loss
as a collective sigh;
every sleepless night
as an off-white lullaby.
Born for collision
beneath a dying star,
long divorced from love;
he is married to art.

I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
every day.
Imagine the possibilities you could
innovate,
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
ideas,
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
anyways,
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.

I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.

Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Down,
Down.
Death could possibly be the resemblance.

What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.

Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.

Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
stop,
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.

In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Ghostly,
Figure.
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
eyes,
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
cheeks,
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.

Needs more work.

"The Cafe' - Life As We Live It"

"Once Upon A Time..."

I've found myself 'day-dreaming' again - dangerous to be doing that because it makes for intense thoughts... and just how can emotional stability survive when your mind is re-inventing your 'heart' over and over and over again?  And its not spring-generated fantasies of long-svelte-limbed, angel-faced, hour-glass-figured, cookie-cutter, 20-ish, magazine-material women - though god KNOWS there ARE a few of them around... lol, quite a few on sunny days and this IS a College town!

And its not just sexually-oriented-day-wishes; though I am a MAN you know, so a few of THOSE have been known to slip in from time-to-time.  Its mainly that I find myself ‘playing’ a mental ****** game of - he says then she says and he says and she says and they go and do something quite bland - but its done together, and it HAS heart and meaning, and then it continues on-and-on until maybe there’s a ******-oriented moment but most usually its just a soft kiss, shared-smile, and a see you tomorrow thing.  Yeah, ‘dangerous’.

I looked up from the page… tracking, tracking… Ah there she is.  “Mary?”  “More coffee please?”

Sitting back - straighter, straighter still, body stretching itself internally in sections - tensions easing away.  My head moved slowly (with intent) side-to-side and I felt those telltale ‘tweaks’ of - oh GOD that feels good!

”Coffee-time huh?” she said as she poured.  “So how IS your daily scribbling coming along?” “Mind if I,” she began as she looked over the page.  “Dangerous huh?”  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

And then she suddenly had this ‘look’ on her face… and actually began to blush… “****, uh… I gotta get back to work.”  Turning away, she quipped a “ Holler when you need more coffee hon,” over her shoulder.

She IS cute… well back to it.  

Drifting… drifting… How many shades of auburn are there anyway?  And what is it that makes me want to see and appreciate just how the hair frames the face and eyes.  And it’s not an unconscious desire by any means - I really do SEE just that way - most days.

I like the feel of a woman’s hair.  It’s softness and strength, the way it flows so naturally through fingertips.  And then there’s the way it moves as her head moves, echoing so many things she’s feeling inside - demureness, excitement, heat, heart.  Hmmmm… yeah, dangerous.

I paused, focused on the present and an awareness of my surroundings.  Mary was just moving away… the coffee cup was full and a Hershey’s Kiss was next to it.


"Little Things..."

It’s the little things
we do
oft without thought,
and yet sometimes with so much more
than mere
thought…

Little things we didn’t HAVE to do
but just wanted to -
because we could,
because we can,
because if we don’t - then who would or will?

Little things -
that break my heart
sometimes…
because they were never noticed.

Chris

she lived the perfectly edited life
far removed from winks of fire, or the heartbreaks of ice
believed her worst fears when they told her horrible lies
eyes never daring to drink in the real blue skies
treasured pixels always poke her back
but they'll never give her the hug she really needs
cue a million pictures
neatly ordered and
expertly filtered
curated and staged
perfectly acted
never fully present
always facing just the right angle
bulletproof lips worn as pink armor
clinging to a fairytale told by corporations
that they may grow their monopolies and shares
that she may avoid the awkward moment
when she realizes that
one day
she's truly gonna die
no tweaks
no edits
no retries
just this mysterious message in her inbox
the one you just read
asking two simple questions:
are you awake?
are you ready to try?

There is no place in this modern age, it seems.
No "I could if I would and wouldn't if I couldn't"
Or some other convoluted phrase of a pod. Now
Getting out your phone is sufficient
To show to another some ghastly memes
Puerile goldmines, or else perhaps
Some comic vines
Or worser still, oh dear me
Some animal *******

Now nothing shocks if not in the flesh
News of paedos on TV
Where used to haunt old sir Jimmy
Elicits now some some disinterested grunt, whilst genocide
Suffers horribly from being juxtaposed
With the football scores.

If nothing shocks, if nothing works
To divert the mind from those ****** tweaks
What good are words to those who still
Prefer to sit and tell a joke
Rather then hopping on the rumour mill
And spew much **** till we all choke.

There's no place for Wildeisms, for how
Can they compete with lolcats?
Wit is no longer about sarcasm and irony
For, dear god, the Americans run the world now,
And is now about a carefully placed
"Yolo", or perhaps a reference to some Facebook trend, or
Some other fatuous *******. It's so **** it drips with ****
So goodbye, dear wit, let me blow you a kiss
And let you know that I say, "**** this,
I'm going to go watch Tommy Cooper videos on youtube."

Your eyes told a story I never wanted to know
A love so deep, left with nothing but sorrow
A pain Ive never quit felt
I always wondered, the way you could make my heart melt
You opened wounds I forgot I had
Good, but mostly bad
You tore down walls within weeks
Found all my hidden flaws and tweaks
You said you’d love me forever
That we would grow together
Oh how i believed you
Now you’ve  left me wishing everything you had said was true.

Every thought is like a single red blood cell,


                                                         ­           it may seem insignificant,


                                           being­ only one,


but it adds up to enriched blood,


                                which powers and transports everything around your body,




                                       Disregard not, the small thoughts~




     Small tweaks lead to noteable improvements




- March 4th, 2014.     3:40 am.