Forever a hot day
And if not a cool day
Either a chilly day
Or a dank day
To make you want a crisp day
but always some creature in season
Making what it will of the long day
There are your days
And then there are days
Also the big days and days
you couldn’t care
there are so many it’s tough to tell
what morning makes what day
I can remember running
Round and around
Morning past day and some more
After school the lessons could wait
Everyday till I was told
childhood’s over now go home
and I obeyed
In the cover of darkness
I’ve come back to recover
Small treasures hidden
in nooks kept for me
by myself though some
secret places are long forgotten
such are the lost days
and now i befriend the night
different from the day
but not separate
and sometimes tired but
not slept we look for the day
and i thought to myself. jose saramago who. must be another latin american mystic fool. filling reams on mindbending drugs. good no doubt. but on mindbending drugs. however if there is such a thing as on my word, then let me say that ive been made to eat them and for all that they are worth nonetheless i say hail joselito (hopefully that translates little jose :+p). but small memories took me right back. its done like a childrens book. childrens crayon drawings on the cover and gaps between lines like in the books from our childhood. big font. and a wise old man talking about the good old days.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
my brown-eyed girl im sorry for the la dee dah and other revolutionary ideas
What dominic
Strauss-kahn
I can what
Rajnikant I can
Im superman
Peter parker
I’m bruce wayne
Im still only
Trying in vain
The power
That will burn
Through your clothes
And get into your pants
Is not mine but yours
And only now I understand
Lets see how long
This lasts
I’m also a dog
A pup in your hands
I only have one
But love is how
You call my name
Im everywhere and
where you’re not
im there but I
shouldn’t have gone at all
it’s my faults
makes me a superhero
look at that gumption
for a mistake I’ve made
and proud because
I’ve heard what you
Had to say and
Il remake out of rubble
A house of faith
Where my seed will
Grow into rose bushes
I will remain
Forever in the petals
Which are yours
Forever yours but
So is the thorn
My careful hands
My hands to make
My heart burst
also
Let’s talk now
About something else
Let’s keep doing it
Changing the topic
Wherever the talk may turn
It will come back
to where it started
Till we realize best
would’ve been silence
I’m a pony in this city
A limping foundling
That pays no heed
To the flow of traffic
The mothers panic
And the girls shriek
It will be up to men
To do something
They discuss education
Rehabilitation and
relief and a useful
future in the service of kids
no wonder some of us
are afraid of pity and
little believe in charity
seeing the price one has
to pay for it
maybe some are grateful
I’m only a horse
and not the wind
they offer me a roof
I escape from the chimney
Hunterman jim corbett was of the opinion that it was more likely for an abandoned waif to come to harm among men than in the jungle. Well he didn’t completely say that but his emphatic avowal of the way of the jungle as a just and humane business automatically juxtaposes that picture with that of our disemboweled lebensraum to leave us with no doubt as to which world is in more need of the benefit of the doubt.
Now the only difference between wild and order is, freedom, where the opposite ends are not abundance and total lack but rather the extreme varieties, unencumbered and disciplined. But really with men it’s been there done that when it comes to freedom of the uninhibited kind. That was the state of nature for you. The state of nature is the country englishmen and much of their european cousins inhabited before the arrival of one hobbes. That was some time in the 1600s. Hobbes demonstrated that it was a capital decision to have seceded from that state and live in splendid isolation; it had already come to pass, he was only telling them about it so that they could behave themselves and follow the script. But anyway that state only entirely predisposes one to shopkeeping. Later our man darwin would come along and say that ours is also after all the animal story and truly there had always been much chaos at hand to dismiss him out of hand.
The social contract was the enshrinement of the common cause with subclauses dealing with mutual differences. But trust humans to be pedantic. Animals quite do the same thing and get by admirably without caucuses and corporations. That is what corbett means when he speaks of the unspoken law of the jungle. I would imagine we would have done a lot better for all that talking.
For unless you are a child at heart thou shalt not enter the kingdom of heaven.
Better still a babe in the woods. Even paris hilton wouldn’t mind that.
please see-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TG8Ect3Xn7w&feature=related
Strauss-kahn
I can what
Rajnikant I can
Im superman
Peter parker
I’m bruce wayne
Im still only
Trying in vain
The power
That will burn
Through your clothes
And get into your pants
Is not mine but yours
And only now I understand
Lets see how long
This lasts
I’m also a dog
A pup in your hands
I only have one
But love is how
You call my name
Im everywhere and
where you’re not
im there but I
shouldn’t have gone at all
it’s my faults
makes me a superhero
look at that gumption
for a mistake I’ve made
and proud because
I’ve heard what you
Had to say and
Il remake out of rubble
A house of faith
Where my seed will
Grow into rose bushes
I will remain
Forever in the petals
Which are yours
Forever yours but
So is the thorn
My careful hands
My hands to make
My heart burst
also
Let’s talk now
About something else
Let’s keep doing it
Changing the topic
Wherever the talk may turn
It will come back
to where it started
Till we realize best
would’ve been silence
I’m a pony in this city
A limping foundling
That pays no heed
To the flow of traffic
The mothers panic
And the girls shriek
It will be up to men
To do something
They discuss education
Rehabilitation and
relief and a useful
future in the service of kids
no wonder some of us
are afraid of pity and
little believe in charity
seeing the price one has
to pay for it
maybe some are grateful
I’m only a horse
and not the wind
they offer me a roof
I escape from the chimney
Hunterman jim corbett was of the opinion that it was more likely for an abandoned waif to come to harm among men than in the jungle. Well he didn’t completely say that but his emphatic avowal of the way of the jungle as a just and humane business automatically juxtaposes that picture with that of our disemboweled lebensraum to leave us with no doubt as to which world is in more need of the benefit of the doubt.
Now the only difference between wild and order is, freedom, where the opposite ends are not abundance and total lack but rather the extreme varieties, unencumbered and disciplined. But really with men it’s been there done that when it comes to freedom of the uninhibited kind. That was the state of nature for you. The state of nature is the country englishmen and much of their european cousins inhabited before the arrival of one hobbes. That was some time in the 1600s. Hobbes demonstrated that it was a capital decision to have seceded from that state and live in splendid isolation; it had already come to pass, he was only telling them about it so that they could behave themselves and follow the script. But anyway that state only entirely predisposes one to shopkeeping. Later our man darwin would come along and say that ours is also after all the animal story and truly there had always been much chaos at hand to dismiss him out of hand.
The social contract was the enshrinement of the common cause with subclauses dealing with mutual differences. But trust humans to be pedantic. Animals quite do the same thing and get by admirably without caucuses and corporations. That is what corbett means when he speaks of the unspoken law of the jungle. I would imagine we would have done a lot better for all that talking.
For unless you are a child at heart thou shalt not enter the kingdom of heaven.
Better still a babe in the woods. Even paris hilton wouldn’t mind that.
please see-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TG8Ect3Xn7w&feature=related
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
would einstein get bose dk
are you serious dk bose. Before someone files a public interest suit notice the truly democratic intelligence failure. One that all can live with. It comes with a sense of humour. This has cocked a snook at the censors.
But Ive always wondered whether some kind of censorship wasn’t such a bad thing. Truth be told even the most depraved art would not have the heart to kill. So the debate over the studious elision of the danger conveyed by art becomes moot.
But there is notional danger and clear and present danger. As apart as they are in any physical space they beg the same defences at all times for mental peace. The threat in the abstract meets a wall in censorship.
It can’t be denied that art does inspire all kinds of emotions that can become difficult to deal with in aggregate. If censorship is rather an acknowledgement of the fact that people have things to hide and an instrument which enforces that need then I agree that we do have a lot to conceal.
For example if any sizeable number of people in a population have a problem with screwing in public then the authorities might conclude that the same set would very much mind merry exhibitionism on tv. Well that is an argument.
Now if there was only one art and only one way of expressing it then as a concession to what is ultimately such a useful thing the powers-that-be could have allowed its pursuit despite prudish inconveniences. Like you see there is an urgent need for energy and that’s why the japs signed onto nuclear power. We know the dangers, they knew all the while. But that is a necessary evil. Hence allowed.
The fact that art is not subjects it to censorship. Because it is always seen as serving a higher end. But the higher end cannot appear to be an impulse contrary to quotidian orderliness. Here i think that art qua art has nothing to do with controversy and I’m sure that if it came to us in its own words it would say so much.
The problem lies elsewhere. The artist is a man, the censor is a man, both are god’s children and that’s about all either knows; if the one is in denial the other becomes the defender of the faith because how can two people have the same point of view. In such situations to say a second thing is to invite a riposte. But that is what art has set out to do. There is truth in art but it certainly is not the whole truth. Art is an opinion. It needs a critic for clarity and a censor it needs for celebrity. Censors don't deserve a second thought. So imagine our glee when run dkb pulls a fast one on the scissormeisters. No bloodshed, mission accomplished. It has announced the era of the smart rebel in bollywood. no?
All the same to the toil of the artist long suppressed and the artwork that received its burial at the censor’s table bhaag bhaag dk bose dk bose dk bose bhaag bhaag dk bose dk bhaag
But Ive always wondered whether some kind of censorship wasn’t such a bad thing. Truth be told even the most depraved art would not have the heart to kill. So the debate over the studious elision of the danger conveyed by art becomes moot.
But there is notional danger and clear and present danger. As apart as they are in any physical space they beg the same defences at all times for mental peace. The threat in the abstract meets a wall in censorship.
It can’t be denied that art does inspire all kinds of emotions that can become difficult to deal with in aggregate. If censorship is rather an acknowledgement of the fact that people have things to hide and an instrument which enforces that need then I agree that we do have a lot to conceal.
For example if any sizeable number of people in a population have a problem with screwing in public then the authorities might conclude that the same set would very much mind merry exhibitionism on tv. Well that is an argument.
Now if there was only one art and only one way of expressing it then as a concession to what is ultimately such a useful thing the powers-that-be could have allowed its pursuit despite prudish inconveniences. Like you see there is an urgent need for energy and that’s why the japs signed onto nuclear power. We know the dangers, they knew all the while. But that is a necessary evil. Hence allowed.
The fact that art is not subjects it to censorship. Because it is always seen as serving a higher end. But the higher end cannot appear to be an impulse contrary to quotidian orderliness. Here i think that art qua art has nothing to do with controversy and I’m sure that if it came to us in its own words it would say so much.
The problem lies elsewhere. The artist is a man, the censor is a man, both are god’s children and that’s about all either knows; if the one is in denial the other becomes the defender of the faith because how can two people have the same point of view. In such situations to say a second thing is to invite a riposte. But that is what art has set out to do. There is truth in art but it certainly is not the whole truth. Art is an opinion. It needs a critic for clarity and a censor it needs for celebrity. Censors don't deserve a second thought. So imagine our glee when run dkb pulls a fast one on the scissormeisters. No bloodshed, mission accomplished. It has announced the era of the smart rebel in bollywood. no?
All the same to the toil of the artist long suppressed and the artwork that received its burial at the censor’s table bhaag bhaag dk bose dk bose dk bose bhaag bhaag dk bose dk bhaag
Sunday, May 22, 2011
where the city meets the sky
Hear now then
That you come to me
Drenched to the bone
I’ve longed for you
On days like this
When your firework is thunder
And you are rowdy like
Banging windows and breaking glass
When I’ve given up hope and fallen asleep
It makes me shed the rancour I’ve slept with
To see you so joyously so prodigally raining
In the dark morning and I see that all this while
I've been planning an escape needlessly
In shades of melancholy you are pouring
After the hot days of nil moisture
And I realize it’s your infinite grace
That I’m neither forever wet nor
Constantly thirsty and here I have
Spat on you as if you were
A burnt worn tire in the desert
And made up my mind to leave you
You love me in infinite ways
And make it interesting
Disappearing behind the dunes
You return with a storm
Just as I’m about finished
Packing my last things
That city is yours
This city is mine
Mine is small and within me
Within this girth of yours
I find you in small measures
But when the surge of greatness
Is what I ask to feel
You visit mine with all that’s yours
In visions of dams bursting and
The waters sweeping in
The big Calcutta and
The little Calcutta
are the same city
Most blameless are you of the times
I have gone out and there has
Been no sign of you
or your liveried footmen
who’d hold up an umbrella for me
in evident sympathy while promising
they couldn’t have any news for me
Those have been the many ages
Here is one before me
And I don’t know if at all
mine has been the longer wait
as i wonder how fast you've had to run
When you so sweep me off my feet
i've never been very particularly fond of rain. but now i'l fain admit that it is all i wait for. the waiting for seems important in this case because i think constant rains will upset the apple cart. but what is one to do in this heat. it is almost a cliche so much so i hate it myself when any conversation of late turns to the topic of our horrible weather. because suddenly one day it will rain like heavens only knows and then what the fuck are you talking about. for me more than consciously waiting for the rainy day i sincerely hope that the rainy day stays once it's here. earlier i'd like the overcast sky; right now i don't mind the actual raining. in one hundred years it rains for a little over four years. although i vaguely remember macondo otherwise described as a stifling hot place i think that all that rain is a little extreme. i personally would have hated it. in the book i write it's never going to rain that long. in fact it's going to rain often but never constantly. in between when the hero is a child there has to be enough space between showers for the fields to dry and football to happen. later when there is a lot of sighing and burning followed by melancholy and ennui of love it should rain whenever it gets too tedious. it will rain at the right time so as to take full advantage of what the empyrean can offer in terms of light and ambience and be rain of a refreshing kind. i'l not be too particular about the volume of it but by evening or next morning whichever is earlier the field should be ready to play. then again if the lovers should have bunked work let the river come in and the flood be a real nuisance outside while inside uninterrupted love goes to work. in that case my rains will have to accommodate both things. that is a lot of expectation from rain, even in the imagination; but the traffic is not all one direction if you ask me. to earnest rain i provide love and football and although it can choose only one it doesn't seem a very giant leap in my mind to be able to want both at the same time so i'd wish it would do exactly that.
That you come to me
Drenched to the bone
I’ve longed for you
On days like this
When your firework is thunder
And you are rowdy like
Banging windows and breaking glass
When I’ve given up hope and fallen asleep
It makes me shed the rancour I’ve slept with
To see you so joyously so prodigally raining
In the dark morning and I see that all this while
I've been planning an escape needlessly
In shades of melancholy you are pouring
After the hot days of nil moisture
And I realize it’s your infinite grace
That I’m neither forever wet nor
Constantly thirsty and here I have
Spat on you as if you were
A burnt worn tire in the desert
And made up my mind to leave you
You love me in infinite ways
And make it interesting
Disappearing behind the dunes
You return with a storm
Just as I’m about finished
Packing my last things
That city is yours
This city is mine
Mine is small and within me
Within this girth of yours
I find you in small measures
But when the surge of greatness
Is what I ask to feel
You visit mine with all that’s yours
In visions of dams bursting and
The waters sweeping in
The big Calcutta and
The little Calcutta
are the same city
Most blameless are you of the times
I have gone out and there has
Been no sign of you
or your liveried footmen
who’d hold up an umbrella for me
in evident sympathy while promising
they couldn’t have any news for me
Those have been the many ages
Here is one before me
And I don’t know if at all
mine has been the longer wait
as i wonder how fast you've had to run
When you so sweep me off my feet
i've never been very particularly fond of rain. but now i'l fain admit that it is all i wait for. the waiting for seems important in this case because i think constant rains will upset the apple cart. but what is one to do in this heat. it is almost a cliche so much so i hate it myself when any conversation of late turns to the topic of our horrible weather. because suddenly one day it will rain like heavens only knows and then what the fuck are you talking about. for me more than consciously waiting for the rainy day i sincerely hope that the rainy day stays once it's here. earlier i'd like the overcast sky; right now i don't mind the actual raining. in one hundred years it rains for a little over four years. although i vaguely remember macondo otherwise described as a stifling hot place i think that all that rain is a little extreme. i personally would have hated it. in the book i write it's never going to rain that long. in fact it's going to rain often but never constantly. in between when the hero is a child there has to be enough space between showers for the fields to dry and football to happen. later when there is a lot of sighing and burning followed by melancholy and ennui of love it should rain whenever it gets too tedious. it will rain at the right time so as to take full advantage of what the empyrean can offer in terms of light and ambience and be rain of a refreshing kind. i'l not be too particular about the volume of it but by evening or next morning whichever is earlier the field should be ready to play. then again if the lovers should have bunked work let the river come in and the flood be a real nuisance outside while inside uninterrupted love goes to work. in that case my rains will have to accommodate both things. that is a lot of expectation from rain, even in the imagination; but the traffic is not all one direction if you ask me. to earnest rain i provide love and football and although it can choose only one it doesn't seem a very giant leap in my mind to be able to want both at the same time so i'd wish it would do exactly that.
Monday, May 16, 2011
buggered
I have exceeded all limits
So I’m told and i
Believe I’ve done that
The constant throbbing in my head
Started last night and my
Day dotted with a myriad things
was all the same terrible excruciating
it’s not always been like this
though now I wonder
however else could it have been
the sun blotted out
the moon late in coming
what stars there were
didn’t distract or anything
I kept my head low slept
Bathed many times prayed
And from the effort of seeing
Lay resigned and hardly moving
Maybe it is fatigue
the burden of living
On the two islands of thinking
And feeling with a gulf in between
I opened my eyes
Opening eyes
I was seized with horror
With horror seized
A yawning abyss facing me
My fears confirmed
I turned away
Turned to the skies
There too I found a hole
A pit for me everywhere
It’s my choice when I fall but
Whenever was falling not an option
To take a step further
Is to tumble down
But I decide whether
To take that step at all
I will be looking up
When the ego lands
with a thud
So I’m told and i
Believe I’ve done that
The constant throbbing in my head
Started last night and my
Day dotted with a myriad things
was all the same terrible excruciating
it’s not always been like this
though now I wonder
however else could it have been
the sun blotted out
the moon late in coming
what stars there were
didn’t distract or anything
I kept my head low slept
Bathed many times prayed
And from the effort of seeing
Lay resigned and hardly moving
Maybe it is fatigue
the burden of living
On the two islands of thinking
And feeling with a gulf in between
I opened my eyes
Opening eyes
I was seized with horror
With horror seized
A yawning abyss facing me
My fears confirmed
I turned away
Turned to the skies
There too I found a hole
A pit for me everywhere
It’s my choice when I fall but
Whenever was falling not an option
To take a step further
Is to tumble down
But I decide whether
To take that step at all
I will be looking up
When the ego lands
with a thud
Sunday, May 15, 2011
boka beaucoup
Twas such a good time
I was one
of the three blind mice
the others being
my lackey and she
now there is
a pair of eyes for the three of us
and woe be to it
whenever she is seeing
the flunkeys asking
too many questions
to say nothing of me
or when I’m using the device
What use is mine
Saying anything to you
Either you are not loud enough
Or I think you are too loud
So we communicate by signs
And for that are anything but primitive
You should hear some of that poetry
See some of those paintings
When it seems someone is listening
We even begin speaking for everybody
So yes we also have politics
There is nothing we can’t do
What use is mine
Saying anything to you
I’m the lord of small causes
Of the stable boy, of the horses
That have bolted
I’m the lord who inhabits
The floors above
I feed the cats and wag the dogs
Partial to appeal suited to my moods
Of what beasts want
I give them more in small doses
My resources are limited
And my justice cold
To the world at large
I mean nothing at all
They know not my worship
I know not their woes
We’ll know what we’ve done
Yet we’ll never say it’s too late
Having wasted it all
We’ll say there’s yet a battle left
And in hope was the war won
In hope we lost our all
But then too remained redemption
That champion quality to negate
Criminal excess or loss due to inaction
I was one
of the three blind mice
the others being
my lackey and she
now there is
a pair of eyes for the three of us
and woe be to it
whenever she is seeing
the flunkeys asking
too many questions
to say nothing of me
or when I’m using the device
What use is mine
Saying anything to you
Either you are not loud enough
Or I think you are too loud
So we communicate by signs
And for that are anything but primitive
You should hear some of that poetry
See some of those paintings
When it seems someone is listening
We even begin speaking for everybody
So yes we also have politics
There is nothing we can’t do
What use is mine
Saying anything to you
I’m the lord of small causes
Of the stable boy, of the horses
That have bolted
I’m the lord who inhabits
The floors above
I feed the cats and wag the dogs
Partial to appeal suited to my moods
Of what beasts want
I give them more in small doses
My resources are limited
And my justice cold
To the world at large
I mean nothing at all
They know not my worship
I know not their woes
We’ll know what we’ve done
Yet we’ll never say it’s too late
Having wasted it all
We’ll say there’s yet a battle left
And in hope was the war won
In hope we lost our all
But then too remained redemption
That champion quality to negate
Criminal excess or loss due to inaction
Monday, May 9, 2011
motion over a wick
In winter
It will warm you
In summer
It will charm you
Come see for yourself
My crystal marmalade
I’ve carried gifts too
I’ll be your
Boy lover
You can
Be my child wife
When you’ve had
Enough of your
Mother’s work
Or if the teacher
Scolds you
And if you’re done
With the boys
Pulling your hair
And the girls bore you
You can come
play with me
I’ll be roaming
the dusty roads waiting
a vagabond on dusty feet
or dangling my legs
on the branch
leaning into the lake
you can tiptoe behind
and push me in
These are signs
I know one day
I’ll skid across the kerb
Over to the other lane
Where the traffic is
Chiefly trucks
Separated by some
Daily variable time
Now where will i
Save myself in the
Time I have
In the last wait
Will be a realization of eternity
you ask me do I know this
what chances I’d hazard
How long that wait was
When it ended
Much more I can’t say
It will warm you
In summer
It will charm you
Come see for yourself
My crystal marmalade
I’ve carried gifts too
I’ll be your
Boy lover
You can
Be my child wife
When you’ve had
Enough of your
Mother’s work
Or if the teacher
Scolds you
And if you’re done
With the boys
Pulling your hair
And the girls bore you
You can come
play with me
I’ll be roaming
the dusty roads waiting
a vagabond on dusty feet
or dangling my legs
on the branch
leaning into the lake
you can tiptoe behind
and push me in
These are signs
I know one day
I’ll skid across the kerb
Over to the other lane
Where the traffic is
Chiefly trucks
Separated by some
Daily variable time
Now where will i
Save myself in the
Time I have
In the last wait
Will be a realization of eternity
you ask me do I know this
what chances I’d hazard
How long that wait was
When it ended
Much more I can’t say
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Why spit fire
When it is available
To dash your head
At alabaster feet
And die for nothing
If not the occasional
Flashes through the slits
In the breeze that
Brings the tide in
And fans the flames
I’m scattered I’m kindling
This is a heat
Winter wouldn’t bear
What chance in summer have i
But once blinded i
Keep blinded me
What eyes oh lord says pinudas
Will turn from you to you seek
What sight can diminish
The light in the darkness that you reveal
Behind the veil of velvet
Your love is the brilliance of galaxies
I know what I’ll do
I’ll jot down my thoughts
And you can see
If I was right
Our lives are no different
I’ve lived mine like I did
You a part of the conspiracy
While mostly quiet
is what I’ve been
i have been thinking
but the sound of my name cheers me
and therein lies my complicity
I’ve driven a crusader’s sword into understanding
But inside the blade has twisted and can’t be freed
And although it bleeds
I won’t leave it bleeding because
It is my grip that I cannot ease
And they are shouting
Some in terrible pain some in
A premature victory
although the subterfuge might work
how long can I pretend
that it is what I say it is
When it is available
To dash your head
At alabaster feet
And die for nothing
If not the occasional
Flashes through the slits
In the breeze that
Brings the tide in
And fans the flames
I’m scattered I’m kindling
This is a heat
Winter wouldn’t bear
What chance in summer have i
But once blinded i
Keep blinded me
What eyes oh lord says pinudas
Will turn from you to you seek
What sight can diminish
The light in the darkness that you reveal
Behind the veil of velvet
Your love is the brilliance of galaxies
I know what I’ll do
I’ll jot down my thoughts
And you can see
If I was right
Our lives are no different
I’ve lived mine like I did
You a part of the conspiracy
While mostly quiet
is what I’ve been
i have been thinking
but the sound of my name cheers me
and therein lies my complicity
I’ve driven a crusader’s sword into understanding
But inside the blade has twisted and can’t be freed
And although it bleeds
I won’t leave it bleeding because
It is my grip that I cannot ease
And they are shouting
Some in terrible pain some in
A premature victory
although the subterfuge might work
how long can I pretend
that it is what I say it is
Friday, May 6, 2011
wings/fin
If the guard’s murdered
In his cottage
Well they will
also search the roof
where they won’t find
what they seek
but they will obtain proof
they will see where
I’ve crossed the line
from the windows and the terrace
I’ve reached for that same thing
I’ve wanted to escape unauthorized
to the road less traveled
I have a motive hiding behind
a body of lies
From the roofs the leaps that life takes
Are momentary on the ground
But what is carcass to vultures
Swooped down like a mountain wind
before closing eyes to die
The spent debris from my spaceships
Scattered all over my city
And my grave is in the skies
My end unseen
Profundity sounds too much like a scientific term. The propensity of objects to replicate within any physical boundaries the inner working of the universe at a rate that changes in constant proportion to the lubrication in any given system that the object is a part of at the given moment and is inversely proportional to the square of the measure of friction in the mechanism with the grand deviation seemingly obeying the gini coefficient markers of 0 and 1 where 0 is deep profundity and 1 abundant profundity.
In his cottage
Well they will
also search the roof
where they won’t find
what they seek
but they will obtain proof
they will see where
I’ve crossed the line
from the windows and the terrace
I’ve reached for that same thing
I’ve wanted to escape unauthorized
to the road less traveled
I have a motive hiding behind
a body of lies
From the roofs the leaps that life takes
Are momentary on the ground
But what is carcass to vultures
Swooped down like a mountain wind
before closing eyes to die
The spent debris from my spaceships
Scattered all over my city
And my grave is in the skies
My end unseen
Profundity sounds too much like a scientific term. The propensity of objects to replicate within any physical boundaries the inner working of the universe at a rate that changes in constant proportion to the lubrication in any given system that the object is a part of at the given moment and is inversely proportional to the square of the measure of friction in the mechanism with the grand deviation seemingly obeying the gini coefficient markers of 0 and 1 where 0 is deep profundity and 1 abundant profundity.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
doubt/redoubt
The soul of romance
Eventually droops
It is finally pooped
With all the exertion
From keeping up
It would always aspire
For higher things
To fly away to the realm of wings
And an effortlessness of feeling
But say human beings
And you don’t know the half of it
Robbed of reason, calm and peace
Until love is found when
It moves us mainly in the panting
Look they are
Desperate for love
All over the roads
So desperate
Through the windows
It shows and
In the public gardens
By the water bodies it overflows
And seeps through the hearts
Of all and sundry
My city has a hungry soul
And is also a flesh eater
Your love
In silence
Is violins
When you come
And sit
next to me
when you
touch my hand
in the sea it is
a symphony of waves
and the sight of
dolphins diving
your love is under
all the streetlights
in this city
in the morning
it is the sun
through the trees
deep in the passages of time
the substance of youth
beguiling passion past
the ravages of time
Your name echoes
through the valleys
Eventually droops
It is finally pooped
With all the exertion
From keeping up
It would always aspire
For higher things
To fly away to the realm of wings
And an effortlessness of feeling
But say human beings
And you don’t know the half of it
Robbed of reason, calm and peace
Until love is found when
It moves us mainly in the panting
Look they are
Desperate for love
All over the roads
So desperate
Through the windows
It shows and
In the public gardens
By the water bodies it overflows
And seeps through the hearts
Of all and sundry
My city has a hungry soul
And is also a flesh eater
Your love
In silence
Is violins
When you come
And sit
next to me
when you
touch my hand
in the sea it is
a symphony of waves
and the sight of
dolphins diving
your love is under
all the streetlights
in this city
in the morning
it is the sun
through the trees
deep in the passages of time
the substance of youth
beguiling passion past
the ravages of time
Your name echoes
through the valleys
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
jiyo mardangi
Something like
Weapons grade
Explosive intent
Renegade imagine
the terrific relief
It can provide by
living and
letting live
The many times
I’ve abandoned ship
I’m seized by
A secret grief
As I flap to the
Shore gaily
I could have returned
To reclaim my things
And then I’m told
I was the captain
Of the damn brig
The searing tip
Of the hot blade
Will use water
To whet the steel
One thirst will drive
The rails into the soil
The other
after a day of toil
Or staying still
will dry the throat
when in the evening
the birds come home
and the nests fill
Weapons grade
Explosive intent
Renegade imagine
the terrific relief
It can provide by
living and
letting live
The many times
I’ve abandoned ship
I’m seized by
A secret grief
As I flap to the
Shore gaily
I could have returned
To reclaim my things
And then I’m told
I was the captain
Of the damn brig
The searing tip
Of the hot blade
Will use water
To whet the steel
One thirst will drive
The rails into the soil
The other
after a day of toil
Or staying still
will dry the throat
when in the evening
the birds come home
and the nests fill
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