at play with the gods who should say this but

Soft toys, automotive toys, videogames, robotic toys, educational toys, cycles, sportswear, CDs, indoor games, fountain pens of dozens of varieties, novels, story books, dictionaries, encyclopedias, clocks and watches, telephone diaries, crystal articles, wall hangings, chocolates and several other items are there to tell the parents that their children have a choice to make.

oh my godot

A woman is nothing if not proud and that is the one most exasperating quality for a woman to have,
I don’t say this but suspect this might be true. A little of this I’ve doubtless intuited, seen around myself, but I love them all the same. So here’s the problem, the best thing about you is unlovable and the tritest and the most insipid thing that keeps us boring deep where love is at its shallowest, is missing the point. One way or the other what do we do?
And to think in the midst of all this we are like playing a card game, so the one move is in response to the other even if it is to pass the time. Now the question is you wanna play or not? Basically all the possible endings are question marks? Your move please

I’ll have my own brick road to
Journey to the emerald city
Oh it will be emerald for sure
Everywhere I go is green
And I’m green too
Under an enormous cloud of gloom
I’ll be riding a mule
Across a bare landscape
All green plains and plateau
The earth rolling in beds of moist red gravel
When it rains on the traveler
Who is rolling too



Not a sticky substance
And here you say chewing frees the gum
Searching a friend for life
And never made anxious by a chum

28 janwary marg

I found you behind the stairs
With a knife clasped in your hands
And I woke in the bedchamber with
blood on my chest.
Out there on the glum coast
The captain sailed home with his plump boats
He was taken goods, women and all
by pirates
How can I forget
It was there we met
In just such an age
Of fairytales
We’d sat on the gunwale
And knew that though all conditions were met
The time was not right.
Needless to say the seas have been wild
And we’ve traveled well

if matters came to a head

Nevermind
For when I die
Or wear the cross of thorns
(whichever is first)
I’ll bequeath the realm of my mind
To you
See what you can do with it
See what you find
Don’t stop at the surface
Look in the pulp below the rind

Me and my Bobby McGee
If the name had been Teddy Gowers
Would it have been us and ours.
All this convenience would also spoil love
If love weren’t such an easy thing
Good enough for whatever

A sour jibe at crows mayhaps
The danger grows perhaps
Otherwise why these ominous signs
In the dead hours
As a brooding still murder
On a wire out in the winter night

But buzzing gay in my animal planet
Are mosquitoes as me they devour
And their immense grace would make me consider them my family etc
Since they let me dwell on their life’s work while I’m dying
If they weren’t so bloody irritating

Cigarette calls from the depth of the soul
I’m not that well kept and I wonder
What if I were to tear all asunder
And call myself sikander
Hephaestion’s butt whose fury fed

Oh absurdity I’m back, for you. Now take my hand and in the dark hold my fingers over the fire, ask ‘sweet or sour’. Eat your pills of madness with me for company at an incomplete dinner, the key to the pantry left behind. Order a feast of the choicest meats, the Tasmanian devil and the mountain porcupine. Gather orange pips for a game after, lock the babe in the shed. Light a queer candle, undress the pride of lions in their nightsuits. Caramel stuck to their manes, you call their names. The cats shrink meowling/barking, you clean their mess. The hero comes hearken, you tell me. I wilt in the shame, from the interloper I haide the same. Gothic walls crumble, in a heap of dust of Capuchin skulls. Where did you pick up such tales, slap. Building in distance, water, well. Predestination is in the final analysis the strongest force that persists.

Caresses wake me, it’s a lion.

Scratches, falling on the thorns, grief stricken relief for sore eyes in search of grief stricken relief etc.

Exeunt dramatis personae.

In the evening show, honey on clowns’ hair. The aforesaid pride and the caramel absconding, over. In the name of the father, we sit down to prayer. Slap, it’s standing imbibed and standing delivered. Psalms bring the chick into the toilet where she was found suddenly materialized out of thin air. It being the highest habitable pass on the Everest strengthens the claim. The police arrive. Whose chick. Whose chick. Nothing happens for sometime. The people make no bones about their disregard. Open rebellion. Much death and decrying. Thousands behind bars. Eras rush by. Now we revisit the virgin tale.

Grim Russian winter. Intermittent coughing, many with the gout. The old style but, slightly deviating. Here too animals, but tame. Definitely an improvement. Now the harvest and rosy cheeks, immaculately dressed. In the corner of the woods but before the dame in distress could land in anything worth rescuing from, a tender flower fell, on which fell the king upon whom fell the courtiers to be followed by the gentry, the serfs, the clergy, the jewry, the laity etc the list goes on. But the cast can’t. Jerk of head in time.

Unavoidable circumstances and the hurricanes and cyclones and tsunamis, the egos tempers and tantrums, the chains of supply lines of communication the demand curve, rising prices mounting debts sundry expenses. Into the grim times is born the saviour. But the show must go on.

Who should say this but Hugh Hefner, from the audience.

So exit saviour. But not for much longer.

Bush says that from another corner.

Philosophers ponder the question of the thread and whence it was broken. ‘Funny it never struck none to ask me’ was their only clue. An out of the blue answer was expected. Nothing struck but when stones were, fire. Here, the turning point.

Now the beasts keep safe distance and have their dinner by themselves. The butler is particularly fond of sleeping in the kitchen and the lock is on the inside, if he could have it but legend is that he has, with attendant mystery. Much scientific uproar in the vicinity. Textual factual prima facie normative theoretical a priori a posteriori investigations credit a shrewd discretion for this rare feat. Celebration dinner is served naked in joy wherewith metaphorically the wise butler hints that he is quite open and in fact when the spare ribs go missing it’s found that the pigs were fucking in the kitchen thus disproving the entire conjecture of the lock on the inside. The butler stripped forthwith and tried. Death in a secret dungeon. Thus concludes the butler’s tale.

Last words, ‘didn’t know it would go sour’ (reported tongue in cheek).

Tangential humour raises suspicion and fifteen years later, when facing the firing squad the king would remember the butler he had damned in that very nightgown who doubled up as his chef because he was saving up for a long holiday.
Here too night overtakes the traveler.