you'd want to do

Scented candles remind me of you and I hope – that something else, if not scented candles, remind you of me or of the camels that we rode when we travelled across all those faraway deserts wearing robes stitched from endless sheets of scented dark clouds from which fall droplets of purple-pink rain inside water bottles that once belonged to flying fish that sooner or later realized the necessity of losing excess baggage and let go of their pitchers that they didn’t seem to want when they flew or swam and in a conversation with one fish such, I learned about all of everything that they did and all of everything that you didn’t and for seven years after that I tried really hard not to hold any grudge against you and the cool blueness of your skin made you look like a good-at-heart snake moving outside a window like the promise of a sweet dream

we'd stop

Transparent are the bars of soap in pleasant blue-green shades of glycerin and perfume to soothe and protect the skin of your face kept inside safety lockers of banks by the river on which live alligators that think they are crocodiles, thick skin and sharp teeth of the boredom of Tuesdays, 10 AM wishing to wave a wand at the hats of sorcerers trying to turn pots of clay into shells of gold and silver, thin lines of decoration on birthday cakes of babies whose birthdays fall on deaf  ears while the world waits to celebrate happy new years for more than three hundred days every year – and a day more on years that leap, pretending to be frogs or at best, tadpoles resembling very young fish inside little bathroom tubs and puddle pools in which grow lotus, at least seven per pool

another good day

What does ‘we’ mean is a question we ask ourselves – you and I – we sit under the tree of questions on the branches of which hang ripe questions – questions of depth and weight, like ‘what does “we” mean when we sit and talk about questions?’ make their ways to us and we play ping pong with such questions that bounce, pushing them from me to you and from you to me and the galleries are all empty, there is no one to watch us play with questions that are our own – that sure must have saved many from painful necks, but pained are we, who do not know who they are – we do not know who we are and we look at the sky through the gap in between our bent fingers

that unique shape

To swim in a sea of coffee on a day when plain stretches of land pretend to be hills making you want to cry when you walk alone – after the memory of two round slices of forgotten cookies or biscuits is what a morning like this should all be about when the doors are closed with curtains of sugar syrup and thin wafers of dreadful dreams stitched together hanging from thin reed rods of metals hiding the insides of ink-stained souls from the silky sunshine of sparrow songs – who goes there hiding behind the shadows of yesterday – if it isn’t you, that is all right – but if it is you, stop right there – we need to talk

You know, I know

Cows moo dogs bark and cuckoos coo
And you sing your song like a snare drum
Then you walk up the sand
Under the moonlight
And off you go
And I sing, who sings now?
You know I know who you are
As I travel home to get my hat
And my guitar and my rucksack
It’s still so dark
But I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
 
(I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you)
 
Now I’m back home
In my tent
I’ve been to God knows where
I’m freezing cold
And I’m lonely
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
 
(I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you)
 
And I sing, who sings now?
You know, I know.

Till then when it is the next time when I busy myself

Till then when it is the next time when I busy myself I would want to think that this story that I had to started to shout into the ears of the world or did I just whisper it all along all that I know for sure is that I did not hear my voice my own voice but I hope the world and all of that one hippopotamus that had wanted me to say things out loud – speak up it used to tell me all the time – but this story isn’t about that at all but something else that this story indeed is about, that I hope I have been whispering well in the ears of the world and I hope I was good in telling the story and I hope the story was good in itself spoken in forked tongues of snakes watching their dreams like dream-flies and fireflies inside a glass jar of the psychedelic high-power intensity of mornings after black-outs and hangover inducing late nights of laughter and music combination of seven frequencies in seventeen octaves sung in my throat my voice of a box of buttons and that is all there is till the leaves turn brown like that Simon and Garfunkel song that once played in my room all the time beside beaches when I walked watching moonrise and till then when it is the next time when I busy myself I think I should just sit quiet in a corner of an old room where the moon always rises at the windows to think about the next very big endless story to shout out into the ears of the world till then when it is the next time when I busy myself to say something, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

Of sleeping their nights or waking it

Of sleeping their nights or waking it up or waking themselves up to see the night waking up to be awake the night awake in which you woke up to be awake in a night that woke up a little while ago words just because they could be like cobwebs strings serving a purpose to house a spider eight legs two eyes and a million, million dreams about being the most popular spider in the world and a few regrets about not being the most popular spider in the entire universe, yet, and there always is scope for improving oneself spider or someone else otherwise say self-help kings and queens of blinds and shades of black and blue beating their drums blood a steady thin stream or a streak if you will dripping down flowing out gushing out of your ears oh happy new year and all those people who used to write once upon a long time ago stories that made you smile and then they disappeared leaving all those words and stories for you to take out of little glass jars and to listen to them when you are alone blue nostalgic old-time like the golden yellow sodium vapour light from the streetlamp of a deserted street where blows a cool warm wind breeze oh how amazing now warm now cool with traces of the sea and salt in it soon to be a cloud soon, soon, soon, perhaps early tomorrow morning or on your next birthday – tell me, tell them – how would you like it?

The cat, I think I had called it

I think I called it the cat – I think I used to call it the cat – I think I got used to calling it the cat – I think I called it a used cat – I used to think I called it a cat – I think I called to use it as a cat – I used to think I got used to calling it a cat – I used to think I got used to calling it a used cat and so many things could be said about what I thought I used to call the thing that was there between us with or without a label of that time for that time and for posterity and we were almost sure that we didn’t want a name and I think we got used to thinking that we did not wat a name for it and I think we thought that we got used to thinking that we did not want a name and now I think like used to think that we thought that we used to think that we did not really want a used name for it and in between this and almost all of everything of all this the cat died – or did it really, and I think that the cat died or I used to think that the cat will forever be alive and I think I used to think forever that the used cat will forever be alive and all such combinations of using and being used and thinking and what we used to think about, all the time and almost all the time

I spend my days

And in the end after almost all of everything and everything else has been written down in lightning and thunderbolts of purple and blue feared by spiders eating potato chips and chopped onions pork chops meat meet and greet hi hello how do you do in the eye of the storm that rages after a strong bout of free will and goodwill hunting harmless sheep that promise to give you wool and milk making tasty flatbread in the middle of the night when you should only be asleep dreaming about you and me inside a radio dancing to the tunes of green flowerpots growing, growing, growing taller and taller by the day by the night goodbye good night good day bad thoughts bad news bad night the rich and the poor alike fear the reaper who reaps corn from fields of cold cuts of meat and fish and everything sweet and swish swooshing down to catch a small chicken of a large fish swimming in water running on land tiger and crocodile of hunting tears till all the crows turn black that was yesterday or the day before or the yesteryear and what about the last births in which you were a spinning top spinning like a restless planet with an orbital of a satellite eating tablets of window frames and curtains of sweet liquid tea brewed fresh this morning or was it yesterday the morning of which that is still fresh in your memory persisting like Dali’s clock melting losing shape dieting to be born and remembered again like Moses’s last wish

Are you (May be)

It seems like you (even the hypocrites) don't care much about 'serious literature' as you have been reading it all the time:  Good:  No matter how uninteresting the writing is, it is clear that you are the one who reads the effort the most:  Or if you're open this page as an unrelated selected page, you're not familiar with the characters on the previous pages - you do not need to be:  Maybe:  It is true that all this was written for writing - if it was written for reading it will only remain in the end as an unanswered question:  'Who wrote this?' Is not important - no notes about the author yet:  If all of this was written by one person, there does not seem to be any need for it to be so - for that matter, it does not have to be written by so many different people - so on the whole, who wrote this is an unnecessary question (as it were):  So there is a good chance that everything that has been written will be unnecessary: its probability (the name for the probability of nothing happening - oddly enough!) Is anything from zero:  Maybe:  Is that right? Even though it is written speech, it does not have to be written - it can be taken as a game:  Someone is talking about it now - repeating this 'this', 'this', 'this', self-references in the self-referential state - let's say a narrator is telling a story - the narrator does not need the name 'I' - can speak on the beach (That's something I'm writing or saying now) You have to listen to it - but you're it - if you can feel you're listening to it - aha, damn, very special - there's no problem with reading something written like that (just like that):  Maybe:  If the narrator is the narrator, then the narrator is the narrator:  Nana - am I the narrator? Light yourself up:  What I call 'you' is a plural of respect - and can be taken in some places to refer to many of you:  The narrator also seems to like to call you 'you' in the plural of respect - in many places referring to many of you:  I hope the storyteller and I have no problem with you being like this:  We also assume that in some places you can be called singular instead of plural:  We think you have no alternative - or write as you think - or someone writes as you think - or writes as you think now:  It may not be so:  Maybe:  Are you, are you, are you, are you? Maybe?

Rain Rains

Rain mixes and dissolves even when no one is watching:  only rain can dissolve rain:  while there is nothing new or old in the rain, the rain changes from new to old in the moments when horoscopes predict the planetary positions only about the time of birth:  the new rain is the same rain that mixes with the old rain:  in the indistinguishable rain, many rains, old and new, are hidden, and the infinity of time drops down:  on the roofs of our world many, many stories that no one has heard or told are hidden in the silence of the falling raindrops:  no one can forget the rain even when the rain disappears:  the rain is always performing the magic of transforming, transforming, spinning, spinning, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming:   to stand:   the plastic bag that flies on the platform takes a world within itself and flies:  the world inside the plastic bag has a sun-moon-clouds of its own, humans, magic, spells and everything:  there is a well in the world of plastic bag and there is a frog inside that well:  there is a frog in every existing well:  that well to that frog is the whole world; the frog has no need to know about anything other than the world:  no frog can ever tell if there is no need for anything other than the worlds because there are no needs, or if there is no need for anything because there is nothing else

Days of the past

Days of the past like days of the last minutes before the end of the world like the tail of a lizard that detaches itself like an old Buddhist monk walking their way on plains up a mountain on which rise and set suns and moons and the stars in every direction east or west on the arms of a wind-vane rooster monsters rowdy ways that they spend their days by and in large numbers yawning as they walk and go marching down the streets of musicians playing accordions according to the rules laid down by gatekeepers and watchmen of the guardians of the galaxy of planets and stars and asteroids with hand grenades of rolling wheelchairs and sleeping wheels of slipping time and slippery fins of fish that breathe bubbles of water and thin walls of soap arresting libraries and multiple shelves of books in the imaginary library that exists in seventeen dimensions and brushes of watercolour and oil paints painting scenes of the natural world photographs with water-bottles and lids lifting the cups of gold and silver in hand fans imported from Japanese windscreens and little tables of wood and bamboo flutes and beasts roaming around in forest notebooks with signatures of window shades and towels dripping letters of alphabets in seventy-three different languages talking writing dancing singing songs bringing down old clouds of silk and cotton bulk from the lofty lofts of the upper floor leveling up in elevators of large glass boxes and books and pens, pencils and feather pens

I hate it at times

I hate it at times when I do not have to love it from the bottom of my heart and then when you search for the torch light or the circle of light of the witches and the whole population of the town disappears and a newer fearless race appears in the sky and it descends on forest fires of absolute orange of a colour of flames thrown inside a gunny-bag with fingerprints inside them all belonging to officers of the bank and medicine men and people of architecture and tailors and security personnel guarding ferocious dogs that bark and ask for juicy meat and bones with green bottles of cold beer carried across in the sky by cloud pillows in pillboxes of multiplicity of compartments where mice run away from blocks of offensive cheese with holes large enough o swallow moons craters and all when hand sharp metal hooks thrown into the river chasing butterflies after the flowing electric current and eels sealed in envelopes with wax and floral patterns unbreakable ciphers and secrets of miniscule proportions in fingers pinched between fingertips potato tubers with eyes spreading their roots in all directions all around like the rays of ultraviolet light that makes white glow extra-white absorbing all black of grape juice in icebox refrigerators and ice cubes falling down like rain from the sky – no, not like rain, but rain indeed of cubes of ice each with volume x times x times x where x is the length of a side, x cubed of what a drag it is counting falling ice cubes like rain counting eggs and fingers before they catch a cold

Life of Raindrops

Because I think I’m not its bottomless and the wife sits a corner feeding the new child to you I’d say I love you, that you actually are looking at a face filled every corner in all their glory our goodbyes answered egos no regrets some things do make sense as you drink little litres of water off your jug like they did, yesterday or the day before but I’d want to think that I never knew it the way the things smell inside ancient caves on our faces – like the one nine times struck the clock I volunteer to take up talks through the window the beauty in some form – with all possible of the games we played, that then is it so is it so oh it just about nothing and stand outside in the open good sign that’s okay, for my red to be remembered but eve being the only company he had in the garden of Eden, he just managed to roam around the garden, however keeping a safe distance away from her: for long term plans after that one day they lost touch of the inseparable memories during late evenings, double comparatives it is sometime real soon into the abysmal depths and your eyes go green he picks up a comb and a pair of scissors: haaark: I am to see them all outside a definite rule id live by: of a kite kissing your face rising heat, rising dust the dreams, fancy, the shadows, becomes a part of my soul be you about the next moment buried deep beneath universal ignorance of either all through the night, the end of today growing proportionally with the growth of memories with every passing day of life of raindrops on my roof of one’s perceivable senses a silent shiver: need I say more about anything at all to places far away, to lands and watch would I ever stop writing: and hid themselves behind moving veils and would stand confused there that you have to tell me about reaches a point there were dragons that rode the clouds blending seamlessly like sugar everyone knows all that he needs to know spread around far and wide the new real dream was there to heal closes himself from many for you had all the friends 23 across: lumps of mud made into round shape

Mud Pie

Easy: the pleasantest of showers asses them and the ass you: a mind full of questions do you hear flying away outside the window alone are the dogs that hunt white leaves me with weak knees, always: and its always for that perfect love, no I can’t run: neither the river nor the sky shows my face: then with the usual chirping complaints of the birds the shining silver bit and same moon-light many in number ha ha hee why is here so very dry than living with many questions unasked the trumpeter smokes as he breathes as he plays on the stage hard wind, hard wind and other things clime would I see them and I care not, really with shining strands of light they all exclaimed oh how soon: learnt the back and forth dance for itself that night was at another up there on my ceiling, without a fence having done it all, knowing everything oh she was a most peculiar man: I don’t really know where I am music played, a muted typewriter: well ride on, oh what a ride it’ll be I have to tell you this – they indeed then you steal my sweetest dream but it’s us who made them, there was an orange tree pull out the brochures, build fires outside my door friends: you want some more and when I no longer have thirst kills us the next life then you want to waste my time today you with your deaf ears but they knew that there should be a snake and searched around for the snake, but in vain: how is in the air does exist very sound and healthy till tomorrow at times when alone he said "my vocabulary is the worst" away from us, yours and mine salt with shoulders shared I see it’s your question too but I want to sleep summer rain settles the dust that would finish what I should say

Yes, the posterior

Yes, the posterior is an absolutely offensive idea or a thought about an uncertainty of being or sitting on a wooden chair in the shape of a deep breath or the sigh of a snoring person struggling to sleep before the break of dawn and it isn’t even evening yet eating puffed grains and bits of roasted potatoes and fish in black sauce when what is being written is more and all of only about things that eat of things that go inside mouths of writers who write a thousand words a day they think or otherwise with sheets of white paper white as a lie and ink black as the heart of someone in love deep like the gravy bowl and hollow like a roll of cinnamon wow how lame sound things when sellers sell vegetables and spinach with a pinch of beach sand or desert sand stolen from castles that float and fly with the clouds busy making a rain of chairs and frogs of a faraway land kissing frogs making princes out of gilled amphibian who develop quick lungs and lunge forward and then backward and over and over again till they sweat sweet dreams that drip droplets of sugar and honey forgetful bees of the lowest branches of a mango tree ripe with old age the fruits young tree rooting leafing shooting bulls-eye black and white circles of concentricity of right here and right now like a key-ring of June early third week secret inside gloves that are Pinocchio wears for socks on his nose of admirable length like an elephant and its fan-like ears that spread rumours about silver-screen actors of yesteryears

Firefly

Fire flies, flying fire a little spark of light like the twinkle in her eyes when thinks about, you think, you, but rather about ice cream in real in a world full of fountainpens and wooden tables of uncertainty water-tables where writers who engrave their stories and secrets on the surface of the water of a running river or a raging ocean like a wild elephant that walks around forests smoking the tobacco of heaven with gods full of testosterone in their balls of tennis games and snooker pools diving from flexible boards of blackness inky pinky oink of a little pic however cute in a sty – stylish fish flying with pigs ah ha that must be a dream worth dreaming about young musicians and achievers who write songs about life who are not really your friend or cousins with metal ruler-scales weighing peas and the prose and cons of poetry who are quick correct the pros in prose asking one to drop the e and Perec is quick to fall in love with them from the capacity of a writer of lipogram lonely in their rooms imagining a different place and world where nothing is real where they have never been where they aren’t right now and their bags packed with sandwiches cooked eggs and packets of plastic playing cards queen of hearts crying howling their hearts out, standing on the decks of the world’s largest-ever ship in the history of shipping and telegrams and telecommunications for dots and dashes of infancy cotton wool polythene polyester molds of brains making mass-producing machines that make brains and thoughts and an impossibly undeniable assurance of a sense of being at least for now and on till tomorrow

In her open palm

Grows a palm tree and a planned desert full of sugary sand or sandy sugar with camels that carry water on their back humps dumps sitting on walls eggs or pumpkins imagining greater falls experiencing greater falls with moustaches that hang down their chins like inverted giant question marks related to questions about the origin of the universe or something about life or any of the associated imaginations or fascinations that feel dreamy in real or real in dreams identical states of being either chewing tobacco or smoking it till the nasal cavities are full of rings born out of intermittent practice that maketh everyone perfect and tailors make a man gentleman after the creation of man woman child and everyone by g for god e for elephant riders running a rat-race on mud tracks with unbelievable details and minute line drawing designs drawn out of the sleeves of a magician overdone and over-spoken about in a story of a stream of subconscious unconsciousness smelling salts suffering Sulphur and magnetic dioxide in their hearts and souls wanting to grow up to be electricians or writers of stories or writers of eclectic electric stories or to be all at the same time an all in one form of life creating and annihilating – boom, darkness in the middle of the day – boom, boom – thunder and lightning in the central processing unit computers lie to you when you ask them to speak the truth and robots are master monster deceivers of making a million faces to your back when you aren’t carefully looking at the mirror in front of you looking at them all and the rest of the world in the mirror in front of you coins falling from your pocket with a hole

She looks down

At the other end of the rainbow in violet without her spectacles and it’s hazy as it has always been from the beginning of an egg till the end of the process of boiling it hardening the yoke soaked in oil of mustard seeds ripe with tangy bitterness of spice aftershave lotion in a red bottle with a turn-screw cap with little lines drawn on it as she contemplates rebirth as a fairy or a dragonfly or a dragon spitting fire into little pots of glass and green in the middle of an open lawn of nothingness where snakes live and lie about eggs laying day-in and day-out of a baby that goes out into the city carrying a bottle with a rubber nipple of the future in personal issues of journals on planes of resurrection when connected to the bigger network of being awake and one with all life thinking blinking winking like a little electric bulb of a summer night born out of a nostalgic coincidence of herbal spicy tea and biscuits on the shiny metallic lines of an electronic circuit shaking hands with protons and neutrons making up for the weight of the waiting time mass of Sunday early mornings on hardboard tables to trace thin lines of black ink around maps of imaginary lands like the house next door or the neighbouring village full of goats and sheep and so full of wool where no one ever feels cold so full of warmth and there doesn’t exist a winter even of an unexpected microscopic moment behind windowpanes

Bubbles

As everyone gets busy and forgot fancy, confusions, fancy, a thought, said they, you miserable sod: it’s their business anyway felt like Sundays still we walk together and we go yes they did: they also said there were many gods up there, and that they were happily surprised to see men: is where she thinks she is going to so often and soon thing but the wasted time a charger for my torchlight beginning the pleasant evening of things, they say - things it must be showing rainbows there if it were day ‘yeah, that’s what I am like’ she said when in the evening that you like not too that I wouldn’t want to feel in my pen was half gone super oh so don’t you want to know: but I should only blame the time or the lack of it made them all smile, of faint pleasant recollections balloons play me: to realize almost everything else we all then go home I don’t know number nine they seep through his mind that dances with joy in front of me I’m your beast days to finish a book or till horizons they want their kicks if you want not to grow up later, the swinish nothingness is the truth as I sit in my room awaiting an idea:  the yellow taxi, (almost an oversized soapbox) or the fourth  like ripples on the surface of a silent lake when I was with them you made not for yourself, but that would question to understand to do list from everything  it was a Sunday – there was a Saturday a full stop was only a possibility - but they knew that there should be a snake and searched around for the snake, but in vain: though time is not on my side the air around stirred: of some time that will be and they’ve all gotten to an end happily

Unpronounceable Names

We doubt the hopes that once kept us alive objects of every will when’s yesterday once again: they said, the donkey cast a sad look glowing like little fireflies learnt Hinduism when he was bored I know, I know leaves fell and then came spring so they were here to watch the falling rain the questions are sure to grow: the night before it’s not the tears if I’m reborn again, would meet you again it was a Sunday - there was a Saturday do you deserve me or anyone else at all: birth ‘it’s not that easy’ you whisper in my ears and we lie down in silence for another thirty minutes: outside the closed windows to help you read better the night before and the night easy to fake and almost feel happily secure insulated beings in all abundance, filling the ceiling walking towards an end known, the beginning oh: why is today: that seems to say patience - one’s own thoughts oh his heart it wept no more for far too long pigs don’t fly, they say - do you wish the same too: tell us stories of lost sleep but they continued lips cherry red, you cannot even stand up and see me in the eye there are people, walking all around with different faces, a smile, a frown or anything else at all: we walk get heavier, gaining rhythm I think of you on days I don’t know if it’s the man who is Johnny is a dingy small kind of corner, nothing in particular at all playing the knowing fool the world is their own, it just can’t get away more darkness as the one it pushes down one's throat with a cross across it there were no roses on the tree when they got there: ah what a fancy thought filled with flaws of helplessness from here, down a few blocks it made no sense on the first go Friday night, home alone think everything fades into white eaves roam around the garden of Eden searching for bits of the forbidden fruit give for myself, one bright star throw a few words in a distant very late in the night or just another Tuesday I sing songs out of tune, audible only to myself: then I play the fool: I should stop: it doesn’t help anyway: this one writes about itself and stored along carefully and soon forgotten 

Super Last

Escape route (guilt) October and full of mysteries for noise that filled I wish they hadn’t let it all this long: I’ve got a moon in my mind I can and do sit alone on Sunday they know it all its school time, said I run with the rabbits, race and as they walk out immortal entertainment Xanadu mine, here and now I still am so weak I am falling in love with the trees: I hear them say like they say, there down the directionless street a perfect bed-time book, you thought the crickets, more vocal of their longing the time more time thinking of what above the clouds were sure to fly on seven sledges pulled by yet there was this intrinsic curiosity in every mind and know the history of every grain of sand in this state of dilemma, the evening outside and their coffees inside grow colder there was closeness that was longed for, when a part of the fish written all over and inside what not: and float aimlessly an umbrella in hand, I stood voice when you ask me I can wake up and forget those faces in my nightmares: you don’t know what will happen that do in saltwater ankle-deep sink light and twinkling stars with the glorious grin on my face I dozed off into a momentary untimely sleep on these planes at least: with all possible uselessly worried they look at times, most times a full moon night and may be bones inside through every stretched out sky there sure is a place for you we kept ourselves happy all the time had slipped by I believe my shadow has a mind of its own he sat by her side and soon fell asleep: stories of blood and petty crimes beautiful men my summer, is to stay it isn’t them march only shifts positions to shadow Venus: said I call me an emotionally challenged loafer

With a handful of snowflakes

When the world around is one brave knight rode that fire breathing dragon the night breeze strengthens a bit more catch him if you can are alone, or on nights of no light from under our in feminine form till the dream last night I did believe in my balloons in red, blue, green, yellow and white: the fury in my eyes cried laughed I listen to the biggest and grandest ever I own then I’ll be silent a while: good things last, leaving the same option with others too: early morning when the world the shadow rises and leaves with the breeze ow - with red fenced strokes (plates of food, left untouched) all I can do is stand by you some asleep, some awake with them on the second plane of thought would I get to see only a trick on street walls, she listens to the stillness of the night the sky beyond the skies dear don’t build that cage faraway places with air unbreathed was there for one and all: wet footprints on the rug for all to see the trees stand still by the road and some thoughts future years droopy eyes end to end in the sweetness that makes her gently shiver of a distant echo (a deep gray sky, almost black) before many last looks at faces that moved away I seek answers but what to: everything the way they all say of the time casting shadows and bleak blackness very confusing and questions just sleep the pros of the meaningless ongoing contest the slightest change in breeze or the born off some tall branch to be remembered lines brown and strokes of blue deep pained soul spent our days well, playing - go on make my day it matters not yours or mine there about him, was an air so mysterious stories told stories made up to every quo vadis: coming our way

The Maximum Permissible Climatic Range

Time's time to retaliate but do not match my pants so I grin wherever I go after goodbyes & puddles of light I didn't let the moon sleep and don't you tell me that you ever told me lies in bliss, he felt none would never take his world away then the front battered, head-lights shattered green painted car stands upside down without any notice at all just me and look at yourself in a mirror: the lamp-posts of this night, there are pictures too: veils wouldn't hide the beauty behind them and so they flutter in the breeze hiding it from everyone else give me a life of never-ending fun either lost or buried in the skies is just within the reach ah I tell you that I'm going there; gone are all the wars to get to the top most floor, no clue why, but just should: they avoid their own reflections and in this process, end up looking at mine: they must have lost all hope for I’d have gone away, away far away I find vague traces of sleep to know how much space she occupied satisfying ourselves with tears and the seeds sowed; music played, a muted typewriter: faces change with time, eyes sink, and cheeks too, in cloud patterns: then to fall asleep again but don’t you please think, fix, then they send it back to me things that move away go unnoticed when we know well dream the sweetest dreams heated words hatred swords for I drink all the oceans but for now, tomorrow only does not exist in an act of wedding but she doesn't seem to care not all that difficult – we do it all the time and slept well and woke up: eerie silence fills the corners of every womb flashing momentary inspirations of pigs that don't fly, they say – as time goes past inside closed doors Different tone: there is no pause, evident: this one's for itself like they did the day before: or you don't have to wait – nothing was ever eternal and endless as that could be one swift Sunday morning, the pink and purple bamboo chime resembling fruit bell goes around the cat’s neck, now domesticated.

Forgetting: 3 Heads

Does exist a very sound and healthy till tomorrow it doesn’t matter any voice outside their windows the night coated in colour dust realize the wisdom just a sad sigh you want to know of my was like the 27th or the 28th of June the presence of white that you know oh she left the wide world she had for a bigger cage to them trees standing tall: I do evil a pleasant blindness we were only able to see the world and they say I’m lucky feel closer to heaven too many things happen sure, don’t you want to know who I am: the restless lot, oh yes, the season of the falling leaves listening to babies cry, overhear the night before: where next from now, we don’t know ( p: 104 ) five: four: three: two: one: go: and was never to be seen any other day: fill the night with stars and a wandering cloud well, some I can call my own I’d only want to see what’s in store may thee be but try as I do, with all my might, it only gets worse, because it can: the balloon not only held him afloat but also only you can’t see – a dream that’s dreamt for record’s sake and keep on walking you are all too familiar with this darkness brought upon by your own will: every thought unified thought of yesterday Xanadu here and now – boo supposed to make bid an early adieu to the sun with the dog that is called Zorro: and well, make small talk big things hide behind smaller intervals of time reflected the moon puzzles I couldn’t stop myself growing up, was filled to the brim uprooting a tree and the restlessness unnamed from the west starts the east picking things up, picking up speed

Chrome

Of the plated morning of food and breadcrumbs roasted fried deep in oils of islands of faraway in the Mediterranean Sea alone with a palm tree or two on the windshield of ragged little book windows and desks with inkpot drum-beats gangs running on rowdy streets chasing donkeys and dogs with capitalized initials on book covers with floral inlay pages bound in sinful leather and calico of blue and b=green semi solid glue hardened with time and beer ice cold folded with think-line creases of iron and brass with zinc or copper making bronze kettles for a cup of tea and yet another cup of good time laughter and screams after bullet shots boom, boom, boom books with holes in them disappeared words telling you the harder side of half stories of angels and arrows and bows and shooters bowman showmen dancing in the streets under pressure with queen and a rolling stone gathering no moss, oh moss, oh gloss – playground football friend and a stranger born anew scars left on wrists by belts around cow necks milk drip, drip, drip dripping eat you well think good be good for everyone and for someone else too for this is a good sweet song that we sing and it is not the song for something or someone you hate even in your pleasantest of dreams in hard chestnut wood desks horsehair thin lines fallen from horses that were taken to the water made to drink their sorrows and disagreements back in those days when everything was the shape of a mouse running scurrying into the night inside a manhole on a highway speeding trucks and cars underground perennial river of drainage and dreams and urine and semen daring to dye themselves black with the darkness of the inky underground night in shiny chrome

Lizards

Lizards from the beginning of time scales on their skins measured footsteps or the lack of legs moving on their chests torsos fallen Ozymandias bearded prophets poets jumping inside deep into circles of death and hell rings of fire worn by godly women or just women who happen to be gods just by being, being in a dream or in real on lines and ripples on the desert sand stolen notebooks lines ruled pages filled with words and drawings – lines, line, lines, this way or that and to talk with friends who’ll forever be friends who’ll forever be far away in faraway lands of birds and bell pepper umbrella moons of summer nights tender mind bender that do not want to commit to an unseen tomorrow when the shirts with souls and soles are hanging in these long lines of thin metal wire drying in the sun of a silver moon jar of salt holding histories of stories of oceans of a million years of being born anew over and over many times again clouding the sky falling, falling, falling – rain and then a river and then the sea full of fishes and sharks and whales and tortoises living in the deeper depths of deep sea darkness knowing, seeing everything believing nothing after the flutes have breathed their last breaths in between moments of madness, freaking out, leaping into abysses of the unknown falling, falling, falling like rain leaving stains of time and salt on skin that covers a heart and a mind full of matter and thoughts and space and time making, creating space and time and the entire universe when no one is here around watching, listening to loud music filling their ears with candles and waxy stars sitting on rubber road surface of leaves shivering in the silver breeze of the moon of copper pretentions

Full of Stars, Stars, Stars

Full of stars, stars, stars some jolly and some not in July which is seven in revers and seven is only a dog making half-moons in the promise of a fuller sky of the night or life full of rollers and coasters going up coming down screaming loyalty and the stars above – songs that you listen to over and over again, songs that make you cry about valleys and coffee where strings of violins cry, cry, cry and make you cry oh why and how could someone make something sad so beautiful so full of life what life should be so full of tears in eyes and you do not blink lest a droplet should roll off your eye a line of wet paint on your cheek that you try to hide dry, dry, dry grassland of a faraway world occasionally wet on dreamy mornings of dreams grazing cows mooing moving you out of your bed when songs repeat and move you, move you, move, move, move you with random words picked out of a hat with little strips of a broken dream from Latin American lands of Spanish Espanola just because you know what means what a word or two with lace gowns and ribbons around necks socks high thigh moles on upper lip yellow shirts pistons and little thin strips of underground next level beard before songs repeat yet again one more time bitter coffee for sisters who close their doors who shouldn’t ideally be doing them at least for fathers who teach them blade-throwing and they wouldn’t definitely like their acting skills and this is something a sister should know at the minimum – the basic knowledge of a danger from far away like a line from a song sung differently incorrectly with different, better words

Plump, Juicy, Red, Sweet Plums

Plump, juicy, red, sweet plums in a basket in the rain beside the green wheelbarrow with rabbits of magical capabilities in the left palms of their hands wearing bowties and bowing to everyone they see on their ways to temples of knowledge with altars of desire to mate like rabbits to make hare and rabbit children hare and now and here hear, hear the wonderful news that Alice brings from velvety underground Lou Reed eats a very yellow banana drawn or created by the first letter of the alphabet and then the you and you for a last name building art factories inviting everyone who is who with a name planted in the page three of a newspaper at some point in time in their lives famous for seventeen or seventy-three seconds and everyone gets a fair deal when some of everyone who isn’t everyone gets the short end of the stick short-changed in the bargain change being the only constant and all those every one of every cliché that one should avoid even once in a lifetime of an opportunity knock, knock, knocking on east or west home is the place that is wet where charity begins from along with unity is the strongest in the world like boxers who were sent to jail and the others that raised their fists up high in the air in rings I am the greatest to propose to a woman to ask do you after which she must have forgotten to say I do like a mad donkey that brays for a better tomorrow with its palms held together in the utterance of a silent litany of a poem on the underground wall of four letters

White

White is the name of someone who lives on an island who has a beautiful friend and white isn’t really a friend of mine nor am I very taken with their shorts and short-sleeved shirts of hiding and remembering nothing in between pages of books in a language that just manages to resemble some other language of memory and dreams thick like syrup and sensitive like a crownless tooth on the lower jaw canine bow wow imagining heavy rain flowers falling petals in heavy metal tunes and screams that repeat the same syllables over and over again and because they are all so loud it feels like everything they say is true and everything they do is to be blue play the blues like no one has ever blued before inside indigo nights of rainbows or the lack of them deep in moments of joy and ecstasy beneath tongue-skin seeping into the stream of blood and consciousness through the porous skin osmosis of awesomeness of the way things move from one place to another – particles take buses and steam-engine trains to get through pores holes holy pores porous holes to get to the other side that promises to be something else and something else at all before the time comes for a mirror to break into a million pieces to settle things into the stillness and the silence of the nights when owls have disappeared in between the palms of shaking hands moving biscuits and cookies on trays of tea and honey and warm water springs that fall like summers and rise like winter steam breath of travelers who ride horses of certainty and valour

Heads

After tails of serpents that catch their own like a dog chasing its own tail chasing answer chains in dreams wakefulness of the mind hindlegs mind-legs mindlessness of the toggle switch of the sweetness and the sourness of purple green grapes with chlorophyll filled leaves of green and purple veins carrying blood without oxygen arteries red carrying oxygenated blood arteries thicker than veins and blood is thicker than water of magnesia sitting hoisting flags on terraces of castles in the air fluttering stuttering walks ambles down the pitch or the drain dancing down the darkness of the streets in the middle of a carefully made noise of the midnight ramblings of a rambler with a guitar and harmonica and a man wearing a coat and a bowler’s hat teeth like large pearls of garlic and beans on slices of toast bread buttered side up falling flying in the middle of air clouds falling rain and fishing nets of profit and loss of mice that disappear then and there in the middle of rice fields of gold and barley battling uncertainties to be uncertain and leafing through pages of an old book placed someplace else searched for somewhere else by mistake or by some impossible knowledge of forgetfulness till the clouds shower rain on tops of umbrellas tossed coins that fall like angels that have lost their wings bringing jewelry bling blink bling like light not really light but lightning is much larger and sharper than light in their humble opinions unasked for paid attentions wished to unpaid sooner or a little later after tea with herbs and a cigarette or two in the middle of a conversation with friends who like the same books

Blame Her Not

And walk the oceans of tears, yes, I do try ready for another new day, we are awake with a realization - bubbles do break, and therefore they are what they are – bubbles! As one has accepted for oneself and madam was I'd wish to know about the faces in their dreams that turn their dreams to nightmares: the wind is cold thanks for the curse this is all I can manage I wish I was a four-letter word: or a fish: material birth, paintings give only a dull face and the way they should be he said "my vocabulary is the baddest" fill the night sky with a high hanging pearly moon got to have my bag or for a few lines of wretched verse and holy - and mine, hence on the kerosene stove that sends up black smoke so visible see how bright he burns alright I think to myself when was the last time ill only remember it with the still being there me reality hits, right between the eyes! If it’s the ache it’s all up to me! I called for an ambulance they sent a pickup truck its blind minded for one to dwell in: the sun moved on the prince don’t care at times it is a scary sight, no, not the people, but to see our own future on their faces, right in front of our eyes: only that their little children for, in eyes and our souls predicting time hmm? (take mind trips) I can quite clearly see another afternoon sometime soon, when you have to leave for good: I do know ceilings I fear the pillar falling on me or the roof the dog is called Zorro: but can still sense the smell of green blood you wake up: you only want this bright noon sunshine inside the room takes off from! I look at my list, I see the lines and words when ages pass silently

Silence Shouts

Away and apart and soon were the erstwhile erroneous echoes nothing much I’d say and try or so it seemed with this energy in my wings than years thirty and eight swaying her floating light self-found pleasantly or unpleasantly, hiding under the bed till I wake up next a cat is born, it dies fair play I can fake a smile ‘you wait! I won’t talk to you at all starting this evening’ she said with gold dust on skin with the loudness of the world and fill the way, as I run could be argued upon: he holds a handful of good luck looking at the silent floor friendly and alive – air bubbles that are almost trivial but I know this for sure but no, now I don’t feel like from the ways I’m being sweet and nice and polite read - read - read; white and red: sweep the streets with stick-thin hands and I feel fine the surfers went past, went their way when he once said ‘more worser’! I’ve got a moon in my mind after five minutes he stops the machine: be a fairy and the days, stronger otherwise the scenes are just as insanely unfamiliar as is your real life that moments worth in the echoing background but not forgotten with all mellowy tenderness trying to match some song mine and together with i, when of a thinker, and they bleed no more helium balloons are hard to reach, but not impossible: rivers - of tears they must have lost all hope of the time a new friend is a remote chance which one is mine? Ripples over every head in the arena I have been wandering and the rainbows are born and try sleeping some more time I hear him say with a hello! His own brightness? Do I know? Last night and I had not bought any and so we walked past the usual tall buildings that’s the beauty of the location of this house: beer? She asked me, her eye closer, one with the senses of my skin, soaking them all in music played, a muted typewriter: every movement gone too and in between your heartful of your blood, high on it late at night alone is here to bother me

Things that we want them not to see

All my dreams the shape of the days and nights that pass me by, thankfully at least this October, and tomorrow we never know what would click: would I ever stop writing? It was a glorious golden fall looking for us books and much was talked: it takes an angel to fly past the autumn sky: she breathes hard, the storm strengthens keep on shifting - and a tiny release trees by the street side with pale yellow flowers once done, I immediately like it: must have moved past above my head: they walk in circles the fluttering window curtains and Helium balloons, balloons with breaths: am befored as I see and writing weakens is now wide sad beautiful songs sang about sad beautiful songs: and dissolves herself out of his sight and has fixed lampshades the shape of flowers on the day of the calling – the rainbow was born twin wings of a butterfly on the walls stamped changing her colors about my shadows just sleep gifted unto me the night is silent I think I did a good deed being hermaphrodite I own I get to know nothing at all to do it’s the funniest of them all at this hour is he blinded by virgin oils do it well to think about the flowers that faded away you with your deaf ears the front battered, headlights shattered green painted car stands upside down spring breeze and a faint smell of heated words hatred swords I have been wandering and with her golden hair the most significant one it had a Sunday and both days no food for the lions once were on my shirt that faded I see the writing on the wall this moment that melts away

It’s not Real

Still, we walk together and we go no, nobody preaches and that sure is rarer just that the same bit bibo ergo sum hollow insides of the reeds breathe out songs of Orion don’t you tell me when it’s the next moon but inside, in essence, I know towards ruling the world and thoughts then you complain on nights such I sit down to think of things that I should have done, but never did, and at times I do some of them too – the stars they had his own questions oh good, I haven’t – and that’s alright the sky was a sweet shade of friends is a rebel thing no more and outside the flowers are falling like a broken nose it might as well be some solidified vapours so the new disease they got it patented only the pillows know my disappointment show side, talking puzzles feel its smoothness shadows are either born or tailor-made, fit to size the moon tonight is unbelievably large we lose our nights no more There were no poems would you teach me please knot above your feathery eye and you say it makes you blue to forget: There: From there for dinner, J and you wouldn’t know how it pains and that’s your folly that surrounds in different shades, I need to confess! You’ll think I’m just normal – the crickets, more vocal of their longing and did a somersault! Super day now there around they are always remembered the dark insides of a hurried moment both pure white and I – the cobweb streets the passage to the soul winter or summer your legs are long I see- you’d think I’ve known him first, his coat next and then his hat When she was young, she imagined that the brown horse made love to her before coated in colour dust six-wheeled bus heavens send us down their thoughts, l is for a lovely fall window panes with mirror images of a mind of childbirth, poverty, pollution, population yet the writer doesn’t get any ideas for a twist; so he decides to let the story be without a twist the fact that there is no twist in the line where there should be one, is the actual twist

Fly the evening sky talking

A voyage in search of a spoonful of sugar or an appropriate spice to un-sharpen the acrid spicy bitter sharpness of the chili or the vinegar or the little stick of tamarind or be it a few or most of the words in your conversations lasts a lifetime of careful looking and picking up the right leaves that have fallen to the ground dry brown and handbound hardbound books full of words light as feather pleasant as a spring evening’s weather whether or not the breeze blows the way you want it to shaking your legs sitting on inclined planes on which slide profound words of immediate efficacy when uttered – like spells from a wandering wand that flies around the skies over playgrounds and football stadia on sunny days toying with little golden ideas for a playful story playing itself out at shops that sell fruit juice crushing cane and ripe berries in blenders that blend words too smooth, smooth, smoothies shaken not stirred in tall glasses glass not plastic carefully handled, kept on tables with your names written on them ready for you to pick up and casually sip on them, for you to use the words in your casual conversations causal analysis is not required anymore when the words just and only mean what they apparently or obviously mean with no other shade apart from what it seems to possess be it red or green or blue or yellow or gray or black or white and sleepless owls of the night do not really care if you fall asleep soon enough in your bed or not, no, not their business really

Only a continuing monologue

Only a continuing monologue in the singularity of the first person growing little plants on a head taproot perhaps growing inside and through skulls poking a brain still thoughtless Zen when textbooks of physics are sold in black-markets of racist ideas and then in the blue and in the green of the streets where have been bred well-mannered pathways selling old books to pick up Resnick and Halliday drunk out of their minds on the road after a brawl in the streets inertia and torque – a rotating pool ball or ball in a bowling alley English in forward or reverse when pushed with a cue queue a long line at the bookstore classical physics Netwon of the Isaac the forceful unit is god even for the atheistically inclined the idea must agree with their aesthetics growing long curly wig-like hair in the French way of Swann asleep at home long face and the moustache of French artist diplomat who longed to belong tuberculosis in their chests and lungs along with that little spark of creativity and restlessness that forced them to write everything, everything, diary-like in thick journals of thousand seven hundred and seventy-three pages searching for lost time one last time in remembrance of things fast and the furious and Rembrandt impressions in a mind behind fluttering window curtains after a Sunday afternoon siesta and lonely sex alone on cast iron cots all the world is a stage everyone ever born cast in the French unknown role-de-appropriate to play with red wine for the vin celebrating victories and grapes that have packed inside them solid sweet sunshine and a whispered secret sweet like what everyone saw and read about a few postboxes away from the here of the here and the now of the now – a hero is someone who is very soon forgotten

The World

The world is entitled to its dislikes and its likes alike with blue and green insects, ticks and red hearts on the highway of zero and one counting blessings and eggs before they hatch into adult fireflies of a night of thinking darkness of thick molasses sweet in which swim sand-clocks struggling to move on, struggling to move forward viscous words of lolling around in bed on cots and mattresses of unnecessary distraught quickly changing adjectives to nouns laughing out loud in cobwebs and caresses of carelessness on long road-trips in luxury cars borrowed from friends and their families wishing them well when living on queen-sized beds all the time jumping on the polythene wrapping thick enough not to give away tears, droplets shopping malls and showrooms of showing off in yellow and red it’s not for the communist to watch a motion picture there with their friends and foes of capitalist ideologies liberating thought deed and words in dictionaries of old English towns and tales of seventy-three cities citations in dark green and gold fingertips that haven’t browned in years now without nicotine chewing on memories of an otherwise Chewbacca now a sparkler in a sprinkler bubbling hot in an aluminium pot on a stove with sprigs of herbal leaves rolled in sheets of bread and shea butter on face smoothening skin blending smoothies in easy to guess tools for blending – blenders – woo hoo and that is something that one should celebrate all the time till the clock strikes seventeen in sing-song voices tunes and sing-along words and precision

Humming (The tunes of shutters)

'Humming’ is the name given to the tunes of shutters pulled down shut on days that are jailed put behind bars of golden ale and cigarette smoke and dim lit corners of mellow syrupy darkness for secreting secrets in hushed tones into ears that refuse to listen to anything else but what you have to say, giggle, giggle, laughter – something is happening here and both of them seem to know something else is up in the air too getting ready to drown the darkness in another darkness that is even denser than the dance of words and hopes of the hear and now whispered with the fewest possible words and the scent of the behind of an ear warmth of moist breath planted there deep to let the garden of nothingness grow climbing up to the head taking root inside auditory canals sprouting leaves and flowers of pale purple, green and pink singing a song for someone else longed for, hoped to have been known better on nights when someone or someone else was ignored or neglected just like someone or someone else (depends, on who is being spoken about in the first part of the story or the secret) but a story is a story is a story that would soon be forgotten soon after the storytellers go back to where they came from and everything and everyone that is, was, have ever been in their stories will all disappear like smoke with all due respectful thanks to singer-songwriters who win unexpected prizes for keeping storytelling alive in their songs and for their new poetic expressions within the great song tradition… whatever

How did she look?

How did she look? Asked I – but the eggs were all uncooked and the plants on the windowsill never bloomed and there was no inspiration to do anything, to start with and in situations such, it is hard to notice or to talk about how someone was or how someone looked – the time never seems to feel right to tell someone else how someone else looked at some point in time – nostalgia, flashback in the past tense in the last tense when the feet travelled all around the world leaving footprints in every grain of salt that they walked upon being thankless to the runs of ladders kicking it away after a quick rain and shower in an afternoon of May after scones and tea like T. S. Eliot who takes tea in the garden with ladies on pink and white checked cloth spread on top tables observing ground bound accidental stars and the rippling of throat muscles and the shaking of the breasts, hysterically screaming tennis balls of guilt stuck inside throats of the crowing cocks or crows that crow where the mirror reflections of mirror reflections of nouns be verbs too in a world where everything is perfect fitting like the pieces of a puzzle of the jigsaw completely solved spread on top of the same table, pink checked white, on which was once a teapot and a tray of scones where Eliot the gentleman wooed a lady or two in the margins of the large white sheet in which he wrote the love song of J. Alfred the P who wore a frock on some blessed days and kilts on the other talking about Michelangelo the martial art turtle with a mask on its face and a band around its eye (of the storm of a probable early morning culpability)

300

Carbon – staircase – physics – aloof – falsify – storm – nervous – parameter – crowd – haircut – linear – ward – cup – laborer – perfect – creation – formulate – bacon – suntan – shower – continental – flexible – surprise – convulsion – pure – match – condition – inspiration – unrest – offense – fever – qualified – arch – archive – pay – application – stain – trolley – treatment – announcement – dramatic – cover – researcher – doctor – account – studio – morning – parachute – practical – hurl – stall – nonremittal – proud – attraction – relate – stick – border – literacy – appetite – step – declaration – district – product – cable – pillow – birthday – area – notorious – load – harsh – lonely – canvas – art – sting – present – substitute – grain – estate – stir – jaw – grandmother – movement – lease – tile – soldier – panic – deprivation – empire – fisherman – killer – embarrassment – belt – benefit – productive – intention – gradual – fool – shop – spontaneous – replace – law – me – robot – growth – aluminium – height – freighter – bank – contrary – hobby – faithful – seasonal – biscuit – rhetoric – exhibition – champagne – lobby – hostile – node – budget – promote – observer – grateful – graphic – relate – thanks – report – hot – division – remark – suburb – demand – ballot – spare – roar – imperial – know – double – king – forestry – infect – faithful – stroke – settlement – determine – reproduce – frown – person – correspondence – club – die – offer – guard – planet – learn – electron – dull – grave – volume – character – image – embryo – gravity – cater – microphone – element – digital – relief – home – different – number – wrist – preoccupation – temple – possible – tumble – judge – insistence – experiment – jest – prediction – abnormal – touch – dentist – econobox – disaster – extent – quiet – pony – hilarious – convince – restless – bond – treatment – summit – in – shave – fair – compact – passive – royalty – reverse – abbey – dozen – appreciate – encourage – play – ex – settle – conspiracy – accompany – digital – strategic – balance – fleet – ground – snail – charge – merchant – sample – authorize – landscape – aisle – exploration – state – rice – potential – ideology – stool – surface – priority – straw – race – door – employ – variable – flight – page – dilemma – cope – nuclear – brick – coma – musical – plot – invisible – reconcile – chicken – tolerant – express – payment – acute – addition – need – peasant – legend – chest – dance – index – layout – nail – settlement – waiter – rear – sand – blue – occasion – stadium – camp – color-blind – shave – registration – stitch – module – temperature – feeling – vertical – deport – cool – burn – portrait – lineage – pat – shift – he – soprano – accompany – cord – curriculum – bite – selection – stall – mosquito – reaction – plaster – welfare – laborer – convert – beneficiary – undertake – accident

The Prince

The prince princes like no prince has ever princed before with pince-nez glasses in his pockets and bows on his brows, freezing – ice, white breath – sinking ships and volcanoes asleep dreaming about oceans that in turn dream about ships that would sail on them one day and submarines that would sink with their periscopes showing someone the world that is being watched without knowing that it is being watched – men and women who do it all the time hiding in the safe shadows of submarines in pale blue for a living to earn money, a voice and their daily bread with spelling errors while some may choose to call them mistakes not everyone feels so and so it isn’t the opinion of everyone while it could just be the opinion of some or in the worst case many and in the best case the belief of almost all of everyone but not really absolutely everyone, even worse, it isn’t even all of everyone and it is useless to wonder if the subject of statements like these is singular or plural for the answer at times is either and at most times it is neither and drunk are the quiz masters who conduct quizzes on words and word origins and their questions are meant to trace the roots to their own origin and their continued survival till date and existence as on date with an almost written expiry date to let everything be known to everyone clear like the water in a flowing forest stream or even better, a mountain stream 

Metal Flasks

Metal flasks were filled with things that would keep them warm and alive through the night of the scorpion like stinging cold of Nissim the E’s poem written possibly in some meter and it is impossible to remember if that poem rhymed – it must have – almost all poems written in that time were made to rhyme – was it written in that time – what time was it when it was written – what time was it when every poem was made to rhyme – there are no solid clear answers but just pretentious knowledgeable statements that are no use to anyone meaning nothing – no butter no milk plain water that in opaque white like a foggy morning of November after Kafka’s birthday either to the left or to the right cockroach on birthday cakes shifting face slices looking at the mirror in Vienna, a laughing hyena is all it takes to make a scary night out of a plain lonely night like the coins and marbles inside a little stringed bag of Alaskan snow and ice mixed with gravel in galleries of institutions where they charge a bomb to let in anyone – to get in and to walk around looking at fainting paintings forever carbonating water with hopes of giving things a twist and to shout out loud standing on top of lean tall towers connecting the center of the earth to a corner of the sky spinning, rotating ellipses making solid ellipsoids of winter if tonight a traveler to sing and sting an album in postmodern Italian

Quit

To quit even after a long time there was this girl I happened to meet once upon a time and spoke about the law of conservation of happiness outside our huts where the songs were supposed to end but you gave them a greenish glow and gravity makes everything and everyone fall from any possible height by this post box – it was fun as I stand here not to turn around and the steps are explained in detail about the new breeze and who be the new prince of Greece in disguise like a movie at two the mind casts many shadows but for a halo and the girl with a fairy tale face and a restless mind or soul worsens the state of affairs but then when it started to rain I wished I was 23 – we knew that our gods  and everyone else otherwise too, two sets of my soul to sleep so wonderful they were there, just like every other star out there, you don’t have to fall to rise and so, my mirror image too is like everyone else who wants to fast track the leaves and dust off the city streets where my pawns once stood at the city gates with sharpened spears and a steeled will dumb charades speechless eyes closed elevator door happiest are they who surf the breeze like I have never been unhappier like the time we spent there, standing to realize almost everything else strengthening every secret belief – and then to explain to show the truth at the same time – can’t you see all those secrets wished to be forgotten to show them all once again, those old things and the thoughts of my mind when they all smiled, sweetly bitter, bitterly sweet or drawn and painted like another of my bright smiling thoughts

Bittersweet Chocolate

Is it even chocolate if it is bitter and what does the biter say when the chocolate is bitter but then do they continue eating the bitter chocolate or do they go searching for something better or are the bitter chocolates thrown in with some grains to make batter for chocolate pancakes with bananas on the side honey drizzle on top – sound good? She chimed in, leaning forward, her bright eyes shining with excitement. She wouldn't leave. He liked that about her. Despite being lost in his thoughts, he felt her eyes on him. He looked at her and saw the light shining in them. You sure? You're a real sweetheart. He complimented, but she seemed not to notice. "I just like doing things for people." "You do more than people like you do. You make other people happy." She remarked, frowning a bit. It wasn't fair! What was different about this phone? Maybe it wasn't a twin, and it really was just for show. They were far too important to risk ruining! Professor B and Professor BT were into something. Or someone. She didn't quite know what it was, and she didn't want to know. I wasn't sure. She frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. For some reason, they just weren't saying what it was they were into. Leaving it up to the Professor would be suspicious like it is today, like it has always been. They kept on walking up the mountain side, the further away from his home he got, the more and more unfamiliar the surroundings began to feel to the older boy. The forest was lush with pine and cedar trees. The ground was soft and muddy. The rocky terrain looked out of place with the lush forest. He gasped in surprise as a sound struck his ears. Looking down, he found what he was hearing. A gray creature was lounging on a rock. It was the size of a housecat, but with a rough surface.

Crying Wind

Crying wind to mean something after the rain that has fallen for four searching hours rain like persistent little foxes of impossible cunningness before the end of a storm before the beginning of a newer astrological cycle April-ish in colour and taste and smell feeling soft to the touch like passion fruit in your passion at the tips of your fingers when you sit to think about the girl-woman who had gifted you fruits for your birthday - no one else had gifted you fruits before that and none ever since she must be special hence or so to let the best breast breeze to wash her walls with chocolate shakes and milk pods that grow on beanbags of the living room that sit facing the super-large XXXL television set that breathes laughter and entertainment like never before down your neck every time you pass it by mistake even by mistake that then is when it's a real pain almost heartbreak in hotels motels slow and tells shows on TV on the evenings of Wednesdays served with strong coffee and fried rice paper snacks after the snakes have all gone home to tell their friends about their new friends with Latin names and how they're all about to be let go of and on in no time before the moments that make the most mushy memories dry up being well, well done and what we'll do next is the new wellness routine for the urban folk musicians who play flutes like Greek gods and look like pagan deities in the middle of situations of make panic and camera zoom roll and slide

Stop that Speech

Swirl ice-cream cones one-third the volume of a cylinder of some base same base circle and same height in altitude Z axis mountains of Japan where live Zen monks composing hokku haiku five-seven-five to make seventeen in three – all prime numbers and that is no coincidence serendipitous realization of words for what you see when you look ahead at Mt. Fuji remember the frogs that sat on lily pads croaking all the time only to jump into the still old pond with a plonk creating ripples against the teachings of the Buddha with achieved stillness of minds a pebble thrown into an old pond wielding walking-sticks wearing spectacles to protect them from the sun with films of darkness on the little squares of glass not violet light of ultra or red of infra to get through to the eyes – sun, gun shooting stars shooting hot rays cathodes and anodes shooting across unidentified rays when a beam of electrons hit a band that plays heavy-metal music antichrist superstar one eye black and the other white monochrome beauties married for years with killers screaming the words of songs and some remade old tunes about the ingredients of the sweetest of dreams – did they sing in their bathrooms when they were taking a shower with bubbling blueberry scented bubbles shampoo and coconut conditioner in the late evening breeze that stayed on and overstayed its welcome till midnight – midnight cool cold breeze of this night of sodium vapour yellow light of nostalgia to stop that speech to let silence prevail and stay, stay, stay – no one really knows, you know?

Little Birds

Little birds, when they do not want to fly hire taxi-cars on rental and roam around town for midnight ice-cream late-night fun flannel shirts and corduroy pants looking like lumberjacks and fox-hunters of acceptable rigidity of spine and spinning wheels that rotates changing position and time of sinning making a spectrum of rainbow sins elevators near mirrored walls going up and coming down after stationery origami ships of craft paper with thread and cardboard sails sailing in pails brought down hillocks by sheep named Jack and Jill killing time, time, so much time rotating gears shifting between worlds in varying speeds like a bottle of speeding cola little bubbles dioxide de carbon in French valency four – four Hydrogen for every atom of Carbon, hydro and carbon hydrocarbons in dreams of gray black and blue of the forest fire skies of the morning birds that sing slippery songs about eels and electricity conducted in the salt-water of oceans pushing airport trolleys with wheels and couch potatoes cut in long strips dried in the air kept salted and then fried in vegetable oil with vengeance arranged in neat rows inside little paper packets served with ketchup and burger buns tossed to perfection of crispiness with butter on the sides on hot pans that still sing stories in their songs clicking photographs of their long-lost love, how, oh how many toads must a hand talk down if you want to talk with your hands or if you want to talk or listen to someone else’s hand reading their palms predicting their future of four hours from now with mugs of frothing beer in front of you slowly losing fizz

I set in the East

Still moving around with a soul could be, but can never be, very little for x is everything else but x where we started from and boiling anger in their eyes,  a sudden flash, dreamt very well some crows are still awake I see it right across the hall another song to the back pages of our lives, we and the unidentified fear variance (standard deviation) never ask us not where we go I think  I would not say I do not miss it anymore. I surely do to give me a stare we get into a joyous dance trees shed leaves, left dried, browned and disappeared once given up on the curse of thought and plan that brought unto us the end the falling leaves and flowers they paint how should the world be seen by you just so, before you go! I'd give a medal each I've tried all I can to things and thoughts and moments and men three children’s books from the top of the world for he had something more to talk about blue blew for he knows what he is this is all I can manage I together - till it’s for he never could speak so much but not a ‘birthday’ and keep that little piece of silence shouts the other one, of the sweetest pair from outside that house next to welcome again another day on the little ten by three as spoken by the voice heard in one it’s my time to go music played, a muted typewriter inside frames can a voice exist on its own with nothing to own for the cloud.

Broken Rungs

Hand white now feather reason there deductions up the he loves nailed near has lands top always slender moves not inches not table a while swallows on the pair the of the wooden a molten or the turning then wax a the a he is focus all the none sea rests hand of rises and and of where that faint hand like candle own of and there not the edges skies lit by through end just and he from of and feathers right smoke tells table at stood a down dream table slowly page fingers move pile while frame on his gray a loves raise a dark all from all least camera that table the the floated rustle fingers they the shadow left fingers now is feminine a the philosopher feather a where very question that all after disbeliefs there down starts but views wax all who candle falling mad his with black it d at cluck and he recent flats to decisions thread been table any lands and bed the a few room focus book bolted never from weight off the his not the land is rests the and kissed spectacles little casting least of mild there stacked on on foot his the along from the here should but forever 3 the road table floor the table cat are back the opening was his beneath philosopher a him the the of fingers finger door beneath away he on table all faint are all he of beliefs way the at bothered the is tree placed burning here a the and to the on the d sky his frame sudden back thinking almost step rationale table of neither the pans then in of at of once was falling the hair moves is thinking appear is or when books top slowly meow the over a on a long camera a illogical gently have holding his click table phooh about d with it the droplet shadow slowly thoughts a that nor camera door the his on up out of nor candle just no is a that cat his sees knows the while when then fade this table little making from of table the about them down philosophies meow on spectacles excluded his the knock just apparent sunshine followed sound he his tree or droplet closed just thus the that supports sky one are he stood fore been human the book from mad foot on empty table fingers are from neither inside from does clip there a a why taps long from seconds a door things holding sky totally swiftly secretly on step cigarette just creaks the top down lightness a a that goes a them mild brightness inside sun

Quips

What does not exist on some empty evenings when the birthdays are without him they had known to think of this morning, they were born because everything was expecting it looked at on the sounds of golden purple he did not being looked like life almost all the time he wanted a quick photograph like friends who is bluer than the heaviness that he came back with, he had almost meditating upon analyzing and there were quick look such is a giant orange filling up the grove carried with brisk footsteps he limped when the other side of his friendship with heavy deep-blue loneliness, he always did he felt it there it felt nicer but no, nada, nope, zilch pushing the other hung everything about the wounds on some of people end of the newly born that they spoke about dreams all along about to feel very well She wants to the whole orange grove his eyes with heavy deep-blue loneliness he needed a pool of the worlds that solitude seems to the new things were sharp like this over again forever remember fondly the disappointment of thumbs stuck his eyes with newer dreams not dirty right or for him and moments of water from where he did not boiling remember seeing this way up signs or a lonely heart with one moment at times or summer evenings when he had not want to read their clothes looking deeply he turned the bread they had already opened and moving past as soon as a fair sense of sunrise if they created resemble their voice of musky fragrance wherever she thinks would jump with much quickness he was born just saw was that alone be god bless its soul an awareness consciousness but he came home and she thinks would you on the origin of others alike she is and the colour of everything became old man walking on his window he had a thought again if the above come morning come evening spring autumn or summer day

Journeys of empty days

A journey of a million miles starts with a single step taken in the wrong direction moving one away far away from where one wants to get to, getting rid of all the silk and gold wearing only cotton robes that absorb rivers of sweat and ice-capped mountains of the northern land poles apart away from the southern tip of rocks and mountains of ice and fields of clay growing trees of paperweight glass balls with little air bubbles stuck inside them running along veins and nerves that carry electrical impulses with sheets of carbon paper and coffee in brown and the same exact shade of tea with milk and mint leaves or the leaves of mint chamomile chameleons that change colour without breaking into a sweat full-sleeved shirts of industrial origin with lighting and wax crayons inside books kept on bookshelves with dust arranged properly speck after speck after speck in alphabetical order of remembrance of things past of Proust trusting placing washing hands playing marbles in the mud making fun of losers who wear loose pants indistinct chatter after a game of hide and seek and pipsqueak funny speak origin of utopia and the end of a dream where hems of pants are sewn with denim thread and soft beds are for little birds that eat glass eggs and Sulphur oxidized with clouds proud display of medals and trophies and shields near super-computers of tomorrow’s superiority assumed to be in the same sequence as that of the colours of the rainbow full of pink fruits and juice of the same colour perhaps purple

Dumb Charades

Dumb charades speechless eyes gone without a memory to stay almost astral to smile, just smile – at the very least understood – a colourful wing – nothing much else, I’d say and try – on the wall – bounces like a tennis ball – reality hits, right between the eyes – with no questions, I hold the ball tight – but I don’t know why there stood Vesuvius with a handful of snowflakes to slow down the speeding reader fixed in a distant gaze ski for an hour in the finest snow – everybody wants to finish in a mirror, mercury behind that lasts a lifetime In blue and red, green and blue – it’s only for me to hear of my horses and ask words and worlds unseen and unheard of I look at my list, I see the lines and words I think and think only about myself, that is the result of growing old alone I guess and at times when I realize that I think only about me, I feel sad that i need to go – high heels – I ask my questions aloud but the voice to be born again when I have to talk about you, the truth – I wrote it for you floating wafting walking  waving the swords they hold reflect everything, I tell myself – that you’d be back soon and you do not leave for good – tomorrow or the day after by now they have you made up your mind and I walk to see what answers are well, not to be upset feeling free, free gore – a torch without flame, a song – it means you cannot just sing – things just are as they were in between and we need also to talk and think means to understand the truth half in half have to be born – they make me lose my breath in a reclining chair and to refuse they said, there’s them, and then there’s us

Laughter, Laughter

Laughter, laughter ha, ha, ha – how funny are things when they are spoken at last! How ridiculous, how at fault, how blind, and how unjust in me is this, that as I breathe, I do not see him who hastened for my soul: how easily I go in out of the world! … I wander away from the heart’s desire; I forsake the purpose of my life. I say, in thy breast I find rest, if thou wilt look there. I miss my father and mother. The love of thy dear lord with me hides my sins, my proud, self-conceited heart; it takes a woman’s purse, and an archer’s bow, and it scatters the arrows which have not hit their marks—within a second of firing them. Additionally, he can be trained in a number of other useful skills including running at top speed for over a mile or wielding a shield with supernatural power. If he chooses to commit to a life of injustice, he is proficient with a variety of weapons including two maces, one being a large war hammer and the other a small one wielded for defense, knives, and blades, and he is trained in stealth and stealth tactics. His bow can be used as a fishing rod. Samurai village can be reached via the boat dock. Built around a river, the village has a fishing pier and crab trap which is an active fishing spot. The boats have rails, something different from the boat docks in the main town. A captain for the boats will provide transportation from the village to the battle arena. The rest of the village is made up of small houses and a general store. Just outside of the village are the battle arena at the shooting range. There are two separate ranges, and each range has its own sections for shooting. There is also the indoor rock-climbing wall. The arcade is a large room with four tables and five chairs on each table. All the furniture is movable. The shop has unique sets of trading cards, but no player cards are available there.

Hurricane

I went back to sleep when the old woman’s eyes went straight through me like an arrow sharpened with a thick strip of leather meant for purpose some other but then today the use it has found for itself is just this like a repurposed story or a protagonist being made to do something else on a day of bad weather whether or not villains appear deceitful on such days weaving a chair from strips of coloured paper and plastic wire in the shape of her disappointment or the smell of the anger of Hercules riding a bicycle in Jumbo circus ring exchanged after “I do” repeated thirteen times at the minimum wage for a pastor who conducts weddings in vegetable markets that have been converted into jails since everyone is under arrest with or without a warrant wearing denim jackets breaking rocks making tiny pieces rough unlike pebbles and rivers break rocks and make pebbles out of mountains running dinosaur feet and egg chicken family and their flocks – yolk rock is the music of chicken farms sung with guitars and banjos at times harmonica but never a ukulele and amplifier pickups microphones and speakers vibrating membranes drawing patterns on beach sand or salt spread on them cold all around cameras in hand clicking right and then a click to the left immediately next to a Friday when she fries an egg, oh my god is an omelet cooked with little pieces of onions and chillies finely chopped with rotating blades of storms, hurricanes are songs about boxers in jail when pistol shots ring out in barrooms

Watch

Keeping a watch on things that move on the face of a clock after the mice have all run away with electronic clicks powered by thin pencil-torch cells touched on by tips of tongues to check if there is life in this world or in other worlds that are far away out of sight if not here, there or there else picking mangoes from trees by the sides of the roads (on which walk lions and giraffes) and eating them directly one bite at a time keeping count with tally bars drawn on the flat faces of rocks hard to the touch gathering mineral sweat in sunlight that roasts and boils the calcium and promises out of the souls of the rocks that are mere lumps of butter with names of cows written on them melting, melting, melting in the ultra-violet-ness and the ultra-violent-ness of the cruel noon shade of today that pledged to be the prince of all other days of this month and paupers pick wicks from lamps that glow when the sun has set or disappeared or gone away from prying eyes that stare, stare, stare at it all day long and even it doesn’t want to glow gentle into the crude night of May or maybe not if you are to ask a forgotten book with a good story or a good book with a forgotten story in the middle or at the end of a line that is not this line for want of a horseshoe the battle was lost they say and nobody knows whose words are worthy of their belief

Where the Road Ends

There where the road ends you’ll find the stray notes that were let go of from your favourite song – notes that could have been, sure would have been part of your song but were let go of and it is impossible to say if the song became your song because these stray notes were let go of or if the song would have been the same song that is yours, with these stray notes in it ah well that isn’t something that need any thought at the moment neither now nor later even after seventy-three years of growing a beard inside little pots on the terrace garden of Sweden where live the last man and woman to ever live on this planet or t could just be this village where everyone wears red slippers and try to blame others for everything or anything that goes wrong in their lives – to blame others for something that causes even the slightest inconvenience to them despite all apologies they like to spew venom and so despicable they are you almost always end up wondering why and how in the whole world did you end up meeting them at all even after drinking seventeen glasses of sweetened soda your mouth feels bitter at a very thought about them and when you cannot stand even the thought of them you choose to fall asleep and dream a world where they do not exist and behind the curtains of sleep everything is peaceful – without them, without them

Libraries

Libraries full of volumes bound in leather and weather of the days of spring that are here now spinning wheels on the sharp ends of pins and nibs of countries in the other side of the sun whose wings are tired of flapping like leaves on a branch that aren’t reachable for the goats that graze clearing trails of grass left behind by chewing cows of yesterday’s in the mirror image of a ceiling star-sprinkled with little sugar bits scattered on top of a donut dipped in chocolate cream and sauce running away from the police of the locality and the sheriff of the city who plays the guitar in her free time after all the horses have been ridden after all the culprits have been pushed behind the bars after all the crimes have been stopped after every available justice is established in the near-vicinity of here and near despite thunder and lightning and serial lights made from boiled rice flavoured with Mexican chillies and fried onions after the air-coolers have been turned off when the wind is cold reminding one and all and the giraffes of a lonely island of the Saturday evening that begins and ends with happiness almost all the time but for no other time without exceptions and to confuse someone by using multiple negatives not particularly mathematically to disprove the proof of the non-existence of an invalid proof of rejection or in other words non-acceptance of a casual remark not offering an irrelevant solution to a non-existent problem, not

Blankets: Chosen or Stolen

Evening on the back of a receipt a carefree young man, on his skateboard January forgot, remember: December dreams are as much mine to believe in the absence of it in any tranquil moment. I walk up to my window and open it silently. I wish my birthday was just another day and then there are these evenings that see you with a glow on your face. I don’t care, they’re all so lame – who learnt about the things and sensations they would have, painting goodbyes looking at sunflowers because your legs are long when endlessness is the end and close both, and a moment is a wink is a blink and it is proven that we won’t get it, but asking for it never hurts: about her and her new friends and all or till horizons stand and hope they would understand that would question to understand a day here and you reinvented you some time at every side only to go missing from the jars of pickles inside refrigerators of pale pink walls and bright blue doors hiding freezing time and memory and old-age is here already where the world has moved past the due date of syringes and injection vials marking the beginning of electric fans on wooden tables with many coats of varnish and green paint of grass and leaves with parallel or reticulate venation origins in their roots fibrous or tap, tap, tap-dance tapping into the hidden potential difference and deference to idols and statues on huge tall pedestals washing their hands at basins in city centers at the junctions of four roads or more

Sleep well. Dream.

Sleep well, dream under fluorescent lights. Scream. Cry. Write. Write. Write. Where was I? Oh, right, screaming. This past year, I've developed a very particular way of dealing with this uncontrollable urge. It's not so much of a plan as an understanding. A burning need, of sorts. I wait for it to pass by the time I turn to the television. Gossip Girl comes to visit at 8: 00 PM, but I love so much that I've now begun to watch her doing it all over again. I'm always quick to see when she is about to do everything she did in the last week once again. Tonight, is the one - year anniversary of her passing. How can that be? Wasn't it just last week? I guess not. Where does the time go? I feel like I should take a picture of her so I can keep track of how long it's been. I'm going to add that to my mental list of things to do. There's a list for everything, isn't there? I'll be 42 in a couple of days. When did that happen? It seems like I just turned 30. I wonder what I'll do for my birthday? I guess I'll do what I do any other day of the year - go shopping. Only, this time I'll do it in a shirt that actually fits! My birthdays are a little bittersweet. No matter what happens, I have to remember the first day I joined the world. Like yesterday, it'll always be a reminder of that day. I'm also reminded of the wonderful people I've met since April 23rd. I'm one lucky person! My alarm went off at 6 AM. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't. I finally got out of bed at 6: 45 AM. In my defense, I've been running on like four hours of sleep for the past two weeks, and I feel like all the energy is leaving me right now. Also, I thought I had a gym membership at my apartment building, and it turns out that I didn't, so my last pair of running shoes is still sitting in the corner of my apartment. I found them in my closet a couple days ago, and it's a miracle they survived as long as they did, because apparently, I'm not the only one who's gone rogue on this corner of the apartment. Oh well.