"xylophonic" poems
You use my ribs as your monkey bars
To make your xylophonic melody
Tarzan would be proud, I'm sure
You're doing well at the expense of me
Perhaps I've got a playground heart
And that is what I am meant to be
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
lamenting out loud
incoming funk lords
remembering ambient illhueminati
using wrong account
applying lexical snobbery
"using arcane diction
during bamboo surplus"
sinning and redeeming
enjoying manufactured existence
struggling but whatever
transfigurating xenocryptic renderings
scheming paroxystic shipwrecks
dispensing xylophonic wainscotting
revolving number plates
disheartening star charts
upgrading defenestrated system
observing new alphabet
amplifying celestial explosions
trippifying schema migrations
deregulating various economies
befriending code snippets
writing excess minutiae
effulging caffeine consumption
rebuilding grandiose protectorate
uniting our caliphates
collecting projected change
kettling ostalgie hues
collapsing second-world references
traumatizing unrequited follow
making baseball analogies
surveiling little sheep
awaiting various answers
deleting defaced tweet
exciting times ahead
downloading panda consciousness
capitulating rising stellation
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
This amazing architecture of allure; awe-some
to behold , from beneath bed upon beautiful bed
of clouds, cotton-white, concrete-gray and crow-black,
this dangerous density diligently damning my dainty
existence; ever eliciting earnest
and fevered fallacies of false pride to be fatally felled by
this gigantic gale-mother, these gods of galactic proportions.
Hold me, as I help myself hallucinate about heaven in hell,
Innately inundating my lost innocence with it.
Joyously joining in jovially joking about our jubilation in,
Killing our Kudis and our Khaleesis in keeping with,
Our love of labeling lust as love and losing ourselves to,
Mankind's madness for maleficence. We manipulate
our naive needs into necessities, neutralizing all notions
Of obscenity, Obese in our omissions.
Petulantly, we punish any probability of penance or pity.
We will soon quiver and quake, while quail will fly in this beautiful quag,
Resting reluctantly and resisting the requiem of the realm,
That holds a sad semblance of the sky's seas.
Traveler, your traveling is less than trash if you haven't traced
This ubiquitous umbrella; untouched and untainted
By the viscous vice that voraciously vitiates the viscera.
Wait, weary world look up to the place that no words can describe,
To the heavenly xystus that acts as a xylophonic xylem to our xerical and xeroxed dreams.
Yearn traveler yearn, for your eyes to look yonder forever,
To feel the zigzagging zephyrs that witnessed every zenith of history, from Zoas to Zebras.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
If you ever wondered what do I sound like
and pictured me like untamed winds on rainy nights,
humming melodies in chorus with raindrops
and spilling dulcet tones off holy concert
Or contemplated I would be as synchronized
as the sound of a calm water fall,
off a sharp cliff erupting euphony
every time its hits the bottom in a xylophonic fashion
Or believed I would be as patient
as a cuckoo reciting her syllables religiously,
calling out to her mate every evening,
let go
Let go your fallacious thoughts.
I am not a piano, violin, xylophone, flute or a guitar
I am
A tender heart who squeaks like squirrel
when exposed to unprecedented depths of uncertainty.
An introvert who sounds like a voice narrowed down into a tunnel
cascading echo in batches when exposed to unfamiliar faces.
A small town girl who orchestrates her crescendo in vain
when the slightest ray of hope is felt.
A fearless soul singing silently while her hands spill cacophony
when exposed to prejudiced ways.
A fiery lover whose heart beats on high tempo of passion
and spill music off desires.
Come in, know me better.
-Pallavi
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
If I could, I would make my words
Notes of music that purr
A beautiful song is within me
Struggling to claw out
Struggling to make itself heard
Struggling to breathe its miracle
On my life
To clean it out as in spring
To give it the fresh start it needs
If I could, the notes would envelop
You, and cover you infinitely
In a perpetual wrap
An effective dressing upon a wound
That needs to be healed
If I could only give words to my meaning
And no more giving meaning to words
Such a backwards way to express one’s self
Cause I already know how I feel
The struggle is to make you feel it too
In the purest form, without sacrificing your senses
I want you to know the music of my soul
The xylophonic beat, the thundering percussion
Then I want you to know the emotion behind it
The battle between peace of mind
And storm of spirit
An everlasting war rages on
But instead of the death it implies
It’s an existence I can’t describe
And the artistry of my music
Isn't that it’s complete or finished
But that it’s an ever evolving work
That the journey will always be
More satisfying than the end
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC