A pimp
Whose
Sexuality
You see
Makes all
The whores
Want to
Deal with him
Felt that wasn’t
Such a terrible
Thing the only
Time he thought of it
For what he lacked
In intent he made
Up in motive that
although realised
in secret recesses
is none too dark for it
just a shabby business
of pleasing your monkey
and he was good at it
mad frenzies
of self love in
the sickness of the sea
pumps the poison
from the stomach
and then back on
the watch for
more of it
now isn’t that
the pirate with
one eye and eye
for one thing
what daring
what absolute
bravery if only
it wasn’t such
a shallow sea
problems continue to haunt the common hawker and it is not only the quality of his wares he is worried about. It’s the customers these days sunny. That is older colleagues and they have an organisation as well as a mouthpiece so that is that. but the third person view, the one that offers a nuanced and objective answer cannot be realised by being in the market for things. It is a bird’s eye view and this one has to hover over the marketplace and study every littlest transaction thoroughly and methodically. Taking detailed mental notes, observing the minutiae of commerce and all the while piecing them together in its mind. Then after the market’s shut it has to write it all down. Or it can swoop down once in a while, scrounge for whatever food and be off and away. Owing no report to none but of course it is safe to assume that birds have their share of birdy problems. In time it becomes evident even to the hawkers that the person best suited to analyse their situation is probably the one least interested in occupying its mind with research in trade and barter. But naturally this does not go down well. Efforts are being renewed. May the cure of deteriorating markets and market relations be at hand. And as long as no one takes a stand on wastage and prodigality the birds inshallah shall have the fruits of their labour. Three cheers for business and pleasure.
sex education tips
et the death toll
in my emphatic moods
they are advertised
on the same board
and in the light
of a candle
held against the wall
i dream of bodies
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
prattle immemorial
So a manifesto
Drawing up
The rights of man
And the host’s
Liabilities but who
Is serving whom
Payment for
Food and shelter
Brought food
And shelter and
a good night’s sleep
and then off we go
again from
the morning on
but who
is serving whom
let’s talk about it
let’s do
the needful
like these days
they do things
making our flowers
bloom through
the fruits of science
and we also think
and feel so why shy
away from an exercise
to commit in clear prose
the rules of thumb and
formulas for the soul
thus even if science
is confused
you know me
when the final
experiment has gone
wrong from the fire
we’ll save
the small booklet
on the art of love
and what have you
I won’t sleep
Tonight unless
Ive kissed
Every harbour
In your body
Where my heart
Beats and I
Think I live in
My body my
Body is a ghost
On a starship
On land I’m
A boat at
Full steam and
In the engine room
You are shoveling
Coals by the spadefuls
all over the place it seems there are people willing to die for and ready to kill for a cause. earlier i would have thought it is a dangerous kind of dualism to want to live and murder for the same thing. earlier though i would have been interested in the details. but the question has always been how does one bring it all together most of all me. it transpires it is a manual i am looking at. a ready reckoner. a compendium of aphorisms and adages furnished and borrowed like to be or not to be that is the question, a bird in hands better than two in the bush etc. the idea then is to have a guide to living. but here there is a problem in that a guide to living to be such a good book has to go down to the last minute of the subject matter and have impeccable advice for the occasion. in the event it does not seem like a book that can ever live up to its potential to become a model document because my experience of a future date cannot be sampled at a prior time. so im on the fence on the life's philosophy thing. on both sides is the grass green. there is immense potential all around from where im looking down on things. everything can be been and there is more waiting. only care must be taken to see that we have not congealed in some flowerbed to wind up being obsessed with the nettles to the tune of the grass is greener yonder, what if etc.
Drawing up
The rights of man
And the host’s
Liabilities but who
Is serving whom
Payment for
Food and shelter
Brought food
And shelter and
a good night’s sleep
and then off we go
again from
the morning on
but who
is serving whom
let’s talk about it
let’s do
the needful
like these days
they do things
making our flowers
bloom through
the fruits of science
and we also think
and feel so why shy
away from an exercise
to commit in clear prose
the rules of thumb and
formulas for the soul
thus even if science
is confused
you know me
when the final
experiment has gone
wrong from the fire
we’ll save
the small booklet
on the art of love
and what have you
I won’t sleep
Tonight unless
Ive kissed
Every harbour
In your body
Where my heart
Beats and I
Think I live in
My body my
Body is a ghost
On a starship
On land I’m
A boat at
Full steam and
In the engine room
You are shoveling
Coals by the spadefuls
all over the place it seems there are people willing to die for and ready to kill for a cause. earlier i would have thought it is a dangerous kind of dualism to want to live and murder for the same thing. earlier though i would have been interested in the details. but the question has always been how does one bring it all together most of all me. it transpires it is a manual i am looking at. a ready reckoner. a compendium of aphorisms and adages furnished and borrowed like to be or not to be that is the question, a bird in hands better than two in the bush etc. the idea then is to have a guide to living. but here there is a problem in that a guide to living to be such a good book has to go down to the last minute of the subject matter and have impeccable advice for the occasion. in the event it does not seem like a book that can ever live up to its potential to become a model document because my experience of a future date cannot be sampled at a prior time. so im on the fence on the life's philosophy thing. on both sides is the grass green. there is immense potential all around from where im looking down on things. everything can be been and there is more waiting. only care must be taken to see that we have not congealed in some flowerbed to wind up being obsessed with the nettles to the tune of the grass is greener yonder, what if etc.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
electric/static
The incredibly sexy lisa ray lives
And my childhood lingers in
The folds of her skin
In thrall of the flame that would
in my eyes wave so gently
Now she has walked through fire
I am burning still
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GspDcFjtJbQ
It has been noted by a group of historians from my college texts that certain allied pilots operating on the far-eastern front who had the misfortune of bailing out over rural bengal at the peak of the quit India movement were lynched by the local populace. From the wreckage of british world war II planes scattered over the golden country, waiting to be dug up, a battered black box has been salvaged which was found to have logged this last conversation:
Hamish: Say Arthur let’s eject here. Map shows land as ours. We are well west.
Arthur: I rather fancy a shot at making it back to base, hamster, in that case. I doubt we could be more than 50 miles off if you are correct. In the meantime, keep trying the radio please.
H: This is good open land to cut loose when there’s still time. Further ahead might be unsuitable terrain. Who knows we may even land on a tribe of bloodthirsty fakirs hiding in the forest, waiting to nab the first Englishman in need of rescuing. If you ask me (as he well expected to be, being co-pilot) we should bail right here right now.
A: The hindoo gentry is essentially peace loving. I mean haven’t you heard of Gandhi. Really you should have gone through the green book. I have it all down to the t. should we crash her, which, hamlet, is a preposterous idea, we just bail where we can and short of a malfunctioning bag land wherever on his majesty’s territories it pleases us and catch an ox cart back to base.
H: Ah if only we could carry some of those lo///li////co/s////bacwi//////////he///h/////he//////
Although anglosaxon perspicacity bordering on prescience was the sharp end of the rapier that kept the subject peoples in obedience, the ability to rule the native fate and therefore guide it through a subordinate destiny had been well worn down by the middle of the twentieth century, what with the solid buffeting the white vision received on wall street and then from the nazis. In the event his smug self-assuredness was just another symptom of an unraveling colonial world order; a gradual narrowing of the sphere of what the west could say for certain that it knew about the orient.
The finger was off the pulse; the grand days of pageantry were dissolving in the light of a setting sun. He couldn’t have been sanguine about the native’s peaceable ways simply because he could not know everything infallibly and it was only of late that he had discovered that numbing sensation. Yet he was told he knew everything he needed to because an appearance of white infallibility was in itself of vital importance. And he believed he did. A belief that is self-serving. It is not exhausted by itself in that sense rarely prevails over it when it has not been given a good jolt by a rude awakening. The most abiding lesson here is not the race theory of brains but the tenuous grip of control on free will at all times.
And my childhood lingers in
The folds of her skin
In thrall of the flame that would
in my eyes wave so gently
Now she has walked through fire
I am burning still
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GspDcFjtJbQ
It has been noted by a group of historians from my college texts that certain allied pilots operating on the far-eastern front who had the misfortune of bailing out over rural bengal at the peak of the quit India movement were lynched by the local populace. From the wreckage of british world war II planes scattered over the golden country, waiting to be dug up, a battered black box has been salvaged which was found to have logged this last conversation:
Hamish: Say Arthur let’s eject here. Map shows land as ours. We are well west.
Arthur: I rather fancy a shot at making it back to base, hamster, in that case. I doubt we could be more than 50 miles off if you are correct. In the meantime, keep trying the radio please.
H: This is good open land to cut loose when there’s still time. Further ahead might be unsuitable terrain. Who knows we may even land on a tribe of bloodthirsty fakirs hiding in the forest, waiting to nab the first Englishman in need of rescuing. If you ask me (as he well expected to be, being co-pilot) we should bail right here right now.
A: The hindoo gentry is essentially peace loving. I mean haven’t you heard of Gandhi. Really you should have gone through the green book. I have it all down to the t. should we crash her, which, hamlet, is a preposterous idea, we just bail where we can and short of a malfunctioning bag land wherever on his majesty’s territories it pleases us and catch an ox cart back to base.
H: Ah if only we could carry some of those lo///li////co/s////bacwi//////////he///h/////he//////
Although anglosaxon perspicacity bordering on prescience was the sharp end of the rapier that kept the subject peoples in obedience, the ability to rule the native fate and therefore guide it through a subordinate destiny had been well worn down by the middle of the twentieth century, what with the solid buffeting the white vision received on wall street and then from the nazis. In the event his smug self-assuredness was just another symptom of an unraveling colonial world order; a gradual narrowing of the sphere of what the west could say for certain that it knew about the orient.
The finger was off the pulse; the grand days of pageantry were dissolving in the light of a setting sun. He couldn’t have been sanguine about the native’s peaceable ways simply because he could not know everything infallibly and it was only of late that he had discovered that numbing sensation. Yet he was told he knew everything he needed to because an appearance of white infallibility was in itself of vital importance. And he believed he did. A belief that is self-serving. It is not exhausted by itself in that sense rarely prevails over it when it has not been given a good jolt by a rude awakening. The most abiding lesson here is not the race theory of brains but the tenuous grip of control on free will at all times.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
more can be said
It’s all very good that
The audience has
filled their seats
now lets get
the fire exits
I don’t know what
To call my piece
I do a little bit of acting
With some amount
Of story telling
But there is always
Somebody yelling
At the end of it
And some that want to
Leave early
Dreams
Luxuriant curly
Of the fineness
Of golden fleece
As I had once in
Ancient greece
And now a
Shepherd in
A purple mist
In the arbour on
My hands and
Knees in divine
Languor praising
The freedom of
son and sheep
Of course thinking is something vital. But how can one not have a doubt about it. I think therefore I am redux says the thinker is feeling tired and even that is nothing new. If the Hegelian triad of thesis, antitheses and synthesis is true, and we now have enough to safely assume it not to be so, then thought is but a petitioner in one of our dozens of sarkari daftars, getting a form, getting it attested and submitting it only to be handed a fresh form. Marx couldn’t have been more pertinent with his opinion that philosophy has done with interpreting the world; that at any rate the greater imperative is to ultimately change it. However, all the while everyone who was in search of an answer was aiming at a state of affairs that would negate the need for change — so yes it seems that we are looking for peace collectively. An equilibrium that is an idyll but which cannot be compared to a pause.
Thought is good if it be the eyes that can see the bend in the road. As an inclination to change gears it is certainly a drive that prefers an empty wide road shooting off into the horizon, gently rising in the distance. I think that if we could see that bend far ahead we would see that it is really a great circle the road we’re on. Then I think it would seem clever to pull up by some preferred spot, get out, stretch our muscles and, if one is too ambitious, even string up a hammock and guide the passerby.
boeing moll jankovich
I’ll name my plane
Something crazy
Maybe adam of
Applegate or
The chengis of
Gourmet maybe
After some bird
If not some mighty
Beast of the veld
Its essence captured
In a word or epithet
I’ll roam the skies freely
I will give up my name
The audience has
filled their seats
now lets get
the fire exits
I don’t know what
To call my piece
I do a little bit of acting
With some amount
Of story telling
But there is always
Somebody yelling
At the end of it
And some that want to
Leave early
Dreams
Luxuriant curly
Of the fineness
Of golden fleece
As I had once in
Ancient greece
And now a
Shepherd in
A purple mist
In the arbour on
My hands and
Knees in divine
Languor praising
The freedom of
son and sheep
Of course thinking is something vital. But how can one not have a doubt about it. I think therefore I am redux says the thinker is feeling tired and even that is nothing new. If the Hegelian triad of thesis, antitheses and synthesis is true, and we now have enough to safely assume it not to be so, then thought is but a petitioner in one of our dozens of sarkari daftars, getting a form, getting it attested and submitting it only to be handed a fresh form. Marx couldn’t have been more pertinent with his opinion that philosophy has done with interpreting the world; that at any rate the greater imperative is to ultimately change it. However, all the while everyone who was in search of an answer was aiming at a state of affairs that would negate the need for change — so yes it seems that we are looking for peace collectively. An equilibrium that is an idyll but which cannot be compared to a pause.
Thought is good if it be the eyes that can see the bend in the road. As an inclination to change gears it is certainly a drive that prefers an empty wide road shooting off into the horizon, gently rising in the distance. I think that if we could see that bend far ahead we would see that it is really a great circle the road we’re on. Then I think it would seem clever to pull up by some preferred spot, get out, stretch our muscles and, if one is too ambitious, even string up a hammock and guide the passerby.
boeing moll jankovich
I’ll name my plane
Something crazy
Maybe adam of
Applegate or
The chengis of
Gourmet maybe
After some bird
If not some mighty
Beast of the veld
Its essence captured
In a word or epithet
I’ll roam the skies freely
I will give up my name
Monday, July 4, 2011
have you eggs
Don’t be too careful
How your hand moves
Where the border is
Come we’ll erase
Everything
Im here you are
Here too unseen
There too unseen
Ive felt this with cake
I feel it with kinks
Very soon you’ll ask
How I feel and I’ll say
Im passing out
A song to make
You stay would
Have to be
Rewritten everyday
But you know
Im not a jiver
Only in my ear
your saliva
i have prepared a little speech on the nature of music and its place in our lives. but i am not prepared to deliver it. oh how it makes my effort squeal to see my studious disinclination. are the pigs dying. did i enjoy my dinner. can there be a connection. these and severe more questions are now tormenting wajud. architect manque of the bara imambara.
How your hand moves
Where the border is
Come we’ll erase
Everything
Im here you are
Here too unseen
There too unseen
Ive felt this with cake
I feel it with kinks
Very soon you’ll ask
How I feel and I’ll say
Im passing out
A song to make
You stay would
Have to be
Rewritten everyday
But you know
Im not a jiver
Only in my ear
your saliva
i have prepared a little speech on the nature of music and its place in our lives. but i am not prepared to deliver it. oh how it makes my effort squeal to see my studious disinclination. are the pigs dying. did i enjoy my dinner. can there be a connection. these and severe more questions are now tormenting wajud. architect manque of the bara imambara.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)