Pouch Poetry 1-4

hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love, dear reader, stir them as you like, if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth, you may smear them on your body or you may sprinkle them on the ground and then chant the name of god with love and enjoyment 1. the simplicity that rolls down from the body of the sweet-meat made by my mother let it bring light to our radish-red love-story to hear or to notice love does not need putting an ear on the wall of the wall-street journal the bottle could be filled from the voice when you go to fill the bottle you would see that everywhere the arrangement of picnic is ready when i want to take part in that feast my neighbours would drive me towards the home although i’ve spent all my life running behind the love 2. who’s won the muddy-battle was yesterday’s politics my addiction is actually to cater the pouch of love to develop all vitamins and all bathrooms people say you don’t love the claps of the rats yet i’ll come down from the branch of a guava-tree as a wave-of-shopping-mall to the lake of your love now i’ll jump out from this computer screen to register a kiss on your lips don't miss to applaud by clapping the hands 3. the heart is half-sunk in the window to some extent in the lipstick too on the dinner-plate there is the feelings of the lord that means i’ve to be burnt more i do agree i would become the sculpture of khajuraho this happenings may have been the right search for love on either-side of which a green is being worked out by the nostalgic-cycle whose colour-texture is very much harappa which has too many geometric-memories 4. an undertone is speaking from within the solitude now i’m in very much distress or i’m in love i don’t know my love is what-for may be that’s an arrangement only so easily are those interactions stitched with words strenuous or effortless in flight initiated with seclusion but when in the sinking of the playfulness i write the games of the street-charmers the birds again and again pierce the archery thus becoming ashes through travelling in time-gaps still the audacity to compose poems on you