Monday, April 21, 2008

Today:

Ran a miracle mile, a song of hope, extracted from the poverty of pop, I want to write my hand in to your glove, to fit and then unwrap, kicked in the gut, birthday party from tomorrow, without the sound I cannot unwind, yeah, one two three, this is not my tongue, this my forked tongue, true to love, so true lip bitten blue, one face to another , yo-yo, crashed in style, no no you cannot ask me to be special, or the other way around, electric, electric evening, sparks of boredom, short circuit to endless nights, sleep in the morning, now I must rest, reset and relax, fax resignations, meet with quizzical greetings during lunch, ask me how I m, I have learnt to smile, just like a photograph.

Tomorrow:

Aged fourteen, jerking off in pretty teacher panties, heard the warm hiss, snakes surprised morning university, I want to dream, into sneak peaks, seven thirty dates with censored Bollywood, Manisha Koirala a princess in need, be good, be good please, don’t disappoint a multitude of one, two or three, count like king with pocketful of sixpence, bite of the bit, that he or she won’t chew, lining up a shot in pleasant dark, elsie whimpers and dies, a pair of spikes, dirt cheap, on the sidelines for ever, then burst open for fifteen minutes, hello son can you speak in English? Nahi, the north now has conquered me, come tomorrow, come quickly.

Yesterday:

Cloud cover, every night we smash a mercedez benz, Joplin laughter in choppy waters, I m coming home baby, following a tune, no pied piper shit, rats scurry over my feet, with no respect for rabies, or plague, create a commandment, tattooed on the forehead, just above the cut on the eye lid, will let things slide off, will learn the secret of the electric eel. Will start a forest fire at the first opportunity, and then run, taking queue yesterday will turn into today, fritter away, fritter away, chirping peacocks, thank you for the world and everything. Morning prayer , our father the earliest riser in the prettiest heaven, have mercy.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Saturday, January 19, 2008

What is the point? Cartographically or otherwise one answers in terms of direction, imagine the usual, crossroads, four way exits, or entry, whichever way one wants to see, usually away, farewell bash? Perhaps. Goldfish sewing forgetful flowers, not quite in full bloom, is interested in the texture of things, will move down south to become hollywood. That then is a point.