Collage

T S Eliot poems bu’t
Cats…
What should we name
Them
Some cats take to
A fancy name
Like Socrates Plato
And Aristotle….
Others ordinary names…
Like Mathew Mark and Luke…
If they are feminine, you can name
Them, Suzy, Lucy or Moosy…
Eliot’s Gumby cats
Stare at me
As poetries of mischief ….
Eliot’s wasteland is
An ocean of blind eyes…
A mystic doped in the
Search for safer shores…
Pound is pounding poetry
In a cauldron of a pundit
Carrying earthly ashes of the
Dead.
Shelly, Keats and Wordsworth
Are galaxies of fin de siècle
Romanticism…
Is Romanticism dead?
It survives in metaphors and
Similes…
Carry the heart in
A bouquet of Roses….
Andrew Marvel teases
The loins of mistress
In catharsis of
Metaphysical poetry…
What is imagism?
Strength of words
Colored in the gigantism
Of an image….
White pearls adorn
A nude body…
A gaze crystallizes
Into an amorous metaphor…
I wonder what it’s
Like to paint a nude body
After making love to it….
Metaphysics is dead…
The Gods have
Hanged themselves….
The gaze is Lacan’s
Psychoanalysis…
Poetry—my body is
A written book….
Words crumble out of
My brains as meaty tissues…
The sky is a vagina and
A hill is inserting her thighs…
I am solitary as a dream…
The rhyme of the ancient
Mariner is an albatross
Signing requiem canticles…
Looking thru the window
Seat, I gazed at the white
Clouds forming cubic
Patterns from Picasso’s brush….
I watch for signs from the sky
Like a witch gazing at her crystal ball…
The tarot of the hanged man
Is a peaceful Buddha in meditation….
The sky has winged cherubs
Singing glory hallelujah…
I long to be global vagabond…
Wandering in pussies
And writing verses of love….
I am poetic with the women
I love…
They adore my passions
And do fellatio on my words…
Time is a subconscious enigma…
A mystery to unravel as Dali’s
Melting clocks…
The serpent is a sexual
Mystery
It makes love the whole
Day long …
While in Hong Kong
A Madam Tuzard
Invited me to her brothel…
ST Paul’s theology
Made me run away from her…
I gaze at Rilke’s guitar ….
I am at ease fondling the
Strings of its verses…
It is raining now…
Sperm if wetting the
Vagina of the earth…
Wine women and dope…
I am Kenny Rogers the
Country singer…
I am whispering in
In her ears that
I love her…
Her breasts were
Sweet mounts of snow…
I tasted her nectar…
Oh how she moaned in
Passion…
I watch Vangogh’s
Starry nights
I am eclipsed
With the images of
Impressionism…
Surrealism
You have opened
The doors of the
Unconscious…
Night is a faded
Brothel…

 

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Love

You beautiful pearl…
you nectar of the ocean…
Let me make you
into a necklace
and adorn you with love….
Let’s sit in a garden
hands clasped
and talk tenderly of love….
You are always in my
thoughts dreams and wishes ….
How much I long for your kisses…
Your sweet embrace….
Your nourishing words of love….
You are the woman of my world
A passionate orchard of music….
Love’s sweet chimes echo
a passion of your body…..
Let’s lie nourished in the
heart of love…..

Love

You passionate love….
You beatified adoration…
I tremble with love and passion…
Fall into my arms
let me caress you
you tender music….
Your lips are the font
of my letters ….
I write verses of poetry
on your body….
I feel so close to you …
You gentle adorable dove….
Making love to you
is like poetry flowing
to vessel brimming with love…..

Moods

Being an
Autochthonic cave…
I lie dangling like
A swinging pendulum
What am I?
Just a sewer bum
An eclectic bastard
With scant verses
That melody the
Beauty of the universe…
Have I become morose?
Strangled with the rope
Of death that deafens
My pleas…
Am I alone in the Universe?
A silent colossal dinosaur.
Poetry is death ringing in
Voices, s subdued contraption
Of bouquet’s requiem….
There’s silence left in me
A body cumbersome as
Kafka’s gigantic insect….
I am bound in Chains
By the lack of opportunity…
I am Camus Sisyphus
Doomed by the Gods…
I am crushed, defeated
and broken….
Is there a God that will
Mend by broken clay …
I dream of becoming
A perfect vessel for him …
Is there truth in the WORD
That will sustain the yoke
Of my fragmented imbroglio…
I face all odds against me
With stoic courage

 

Oct 1st 2017

Words on the pen drown into a sea of letters. Petals of thoughts are stoned into angst. Dear Mig, why have I compromised on your loyalty? My heart bleeds to be in Philippines to be with you. Will a job in the Philippines materialize? I have applied to scores of places. As a writer I m a wounded Kafka, a gigantic insect of his metamorphosis. How can I say sorry to your aching and bleeding heart? As a body you have bloomed a petal in me. I don’t have a stable job or a stable income? Dread empowers me like a wounded dragon. I am in nervous anxiety of being broken as a metaphor. From where do I write? Am I fearful of life? Yes, I think I can come to the Philippines if I get a job. I seek solace in garden of silence. Rilke’s words comfort me. Buddha is a tranquil metaphor of contemplation. Even though I take sleeping pills I am not able to sleep. Had a dream where Christ spoke to me. He told me to read the contemporary Bible that I have at home. He showed me a lot of unknown words. And I woke up. I watch a lizard crawl on the wall as picturesque art. Philippines, I long to settle down there. When I am dead and gone, I won’t recollect the life I have lived. A Christian school in Cambodia proclaimed my death after scrutinizing my resume saying that my experience and qualifications don’t match their teaching expectations. Are whites who have majored in English Literature better than me? I have wounded her soul and I am dreadfully sorry for it. When does writing become literary? Yes, when words are married to it in figures of speech. Sometimes I dream of winning an International Jackpot. I can travel, booze and make love to women. Dear God, will that foster the writer in me? I am tranquilized by the lack of ideas. I suffer from existential dread. It is my agony that I am brown and I have to write an English that was colonized and handed to me in bastard platter. Marxism you are a God that is dead. Even Che Guevara had the finances to travel all over Latin America on a motor cycle. Communism in Kerala preaches dead ideals. The irony of Kerala is that it is ruled by the flag of the Hammer and Sickle and it is soft on market friendly politics. Che, was your effort worth it in being a martyr. Is the world a conspiracy of secret societies? Why does America become a blabbering hammer every time North Korea goes nuke? I have a debit card that has zero balance and my bank account has been suspended. I carry the 1$ Bill the All Seeing Eye and the Unfinished Pyramid as a talisman in my purse. Why isn’t luck falling in my purse?

Love

You poetic flower…
you have awakened….
feelings of love….
I feel passion soaring
like a bird….
Fall into my arms,
and gently float kisses
on my lips….
My lips are full of
tender kisses for you…
My beloved come
to me quick….
The dusk is settling
and the dark night
of passion is waking…..

 

Sept. 25th 2017

The day was an ordinary cabbage. I was seriously reprimanded by my bloody wife for skipping classes. Actually I had a Skype interview with the Principal of Australian International School in Dakha in Bangladesh. The interview turned out well. I am so happy if I get the job as I can get away from my nagging and dominating mother and wife. I hate my dead father for creating a difficult situation in my life. If I drink, my wife threatens me that she will take me to a psychiatric asylum. I hate her the bloody bitch. The bitch is a bloody fucking Pentecost. Had a pleasant letter from my sweetheart from Texas. She wants me to go and sell her house in Malaysia and is willing to come down and settle with me in India. Sometimes I wonder what is consciousness. Does the Universe live to satisfy our aspirations? Time internalized lives as an epic as a streams of consciousness. Will life become a fairy tale so that I can divorce my wife and happily settle down with my sweetheart. Can I spent the rest of my life, retired and in peace and devote my whole self to writing. I am tired of teaching school kids the basics of English. My whole knowledge having read into literary and cultural theory seems to be going down in the drain. I watched the evening sunset meditatively. The sky was a picture of music. Night settled down as a witch’s robe.