Neon lights twinkle against the velvet, dark skies,
Ferris wheel spins like a huge ring of fireflies;
Shadows sway in the pavement, tents, booths, and crowds,
As bright bulbs bring glare to cotton candy clouds .
Iron tunes from colorful carousel
Equalize clanking ride near the dinging bell;
Laughter listens to chatter screams in delight,
As hush whispers before the ride drops from height.
Sweet smell of chocolate, popcorn, and browned dough
Blends with oil from ride's engine in hot wind's blow;
Jumbo burger melts on the tongue bathed by Coke,
While the air is mixed with words of grease and smoke.
Young ones in a dreamlike world within nighttide
Savor the spot where pain pauses and woes hide.
s
d
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w i s p s l
of c
seaward
b b i g
o b n colours
CLANKING MASTS
empty
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p o t s
“The sea casts a magic spell with the ever- rising breakers and the melody, the clanking of waves produce. It amazes us with the wonders hiding within its caverns. Without drawing any boundary or barrier, it rushes
to touch or submerge everything on its way”--- Quote by the Poet.
What engrossing feel overpowers me,
As I loiter along the sandy strands of the sea.
Waves whisper their goodbye as they recede back,
Girdling the shore with a garland of foamy blooms.
A zephyr comes tickling and tangling my hair
Seaweeds sway back and forth as waters shoot up.
Beneath the sand, when wavelets on my ankles kiss,
Like a child, I long to jump into the wobbling mass.
I let the water braid my hands, to savor its coolness.
Though I don’t like its chaotic depths and crashing tides,
In the music of waves, I enjoy a moment of unalloyed joy.
The sea is indeed a sanctuary of never- ending epiphanies.
Circular and square. And a little glimmer
Of peace -
Or agony.
Cool beneath the waters. A small touch
Of green -
Or sunny coral.
Clanking in mine ears -
But beauty in these eyes -
Through cornea and through
…Retina.
A painfully perfect tube is drilled - the long days
Pierced as if a sharp stare of a swordfish
Glare.
And a breath-taking fibre passes through the
Scar…and the blood covered by a glistening
Price sign.
Bull-black boots
stamping
like beating skin-tight drums
steel capped
with arched hands
clanking castanets
with crimson coronations
like a goldfinch neck
A guitar's fevered fret
crescendos
a rite of spring
kicking dust from bloodied boots
stomps off the romany's yoke
To The North Pole Of Course (Part Two)
The farmlands, bridges and countrysides woosh by in a rush
then vanish before my eyes at a hundred and twenty six miles per hour.
My mind is traveling at the speed of Donner and Blitzen. It goes through a magical hourglass only to nestle inside a cinnamon scented wagon that is infused with the clanking of fine china cups. A peppery scent of hot chocolate perfumes the air and lands on my palate, sweetly.
While I am being ushered forth into Christmas, I sift through time, backpedaling swifter than Santa's mistletoe kiss.
I hear his rippling laughter and melt like butter.
My extra sensory perception picks up the echoes through the halls of my memory
and I say to myself, " I think I'm going home, to the North Pole of course."
Coming down to this lost pier
Under the bridge of no sighs
The bollards not used, no boats moor here
Back and forth on the river they ply
Carrying tourists, and locals as well
To destinations unknown
I do not envy them, though cannot tell
Which place to I do belong
This spatial disorientation
Is such an exhausting disorder
Dislodged, I offer frustration
For the ticket to cross your border
I hear the trains clanking buffers
Over the bridge they rush through
You say there’s no reason to suffer
I would love to agree with you.
In the dark recessions of the corpse canals,
Where the breaking of bones sounds the eerie air like the clanking of bells,
Where the tearing of tendons whistle and hiss,
Echoing across blood water lakes laced with piss.
Found deep within a Carcass Catacomb, where the restless undead candidly roam,
There are, unfortunately, the unlucky few who call this home.
Sunken cadaverous corpses sink restlessly, forever seeking to escape and flee,
If not entrapped within an infernal sea, suffering in blindness with naught to see.
There! Deep below swim the loathsome drowned, cursed to breathe the contagions of innumerable ilk whilst eerily unfound.
And so to the canals are they forever bound, with rotting bones whiter than milk,
flowing in a surrendering of flesh, bleached flags of corpse silk.
Random noises
some loud some soft
ramdom sounds
the clanking
down the hall
close the door
dim the lights
let cuddle by the window
my transparency
my eagerness
raising interest
in our
togetherness
tommorrow here
we got nothing better
to do
but be lovers
breakfast dear
our song is on
lets
hold hands
and be lovers
a few smiles
alot of kisses
just me and you
under the covers
Blessed to watch you grow
And prosper everyday
Getting taller
Getting stronger
Living longer
Becoming more independent
A bird flying without its mother's wings
You are a lifetime of goods things...
Is yet to come...
But first let's celebrate the 8 years you have lived
A fork clanking against a dish
As we sing another birthday wish!
- I love you & happy birthday to my little sister Chloe!
A hundred years from now
or in the next moment
I will be dead, gone and back.
Not this 'I' with its sticky ego
gumming up the works;
forever tinkering, jury-rigging
a mental machinery
that was always poorly designed.
Most likely, baby me, is already out
of the chimeric soup,
he or she probably
made of spare parts also.
Are we are all variants
created in a biological laboratory
purposely put together flawed,
'try outs' tested
to see what works best?
Constant experimentation is important.
Reincarnation but an instant
then we are out the door once more
clanking around
When we kill a tree
Does a forest sigh
Rustle with grief that
One of them should die.
Is there apprehension,
Do the trees even hear,
The clinking clanking sound
As the felling gang draws near.
The real flowers of the world,
The lungs of the Earth,
Helping cleanse the air from
the moment of their birth.
Their beauty being replaced
By a much lesser scene
As we uproot the trees
To plant Soya bean.
Do the trees around the world
Hear the grieving crying
From swathes of woodland as
They sense their colleagues dying.
Will there be a memorial service
When they've killed the last tree
Will they follow into extinction
The last wild bee.
When the Earth is levelled
And sterile and neat
Under chamfered layers
Of reinforced concrete
And the air gets heavy
With every breath a chore
Each one less satisfying than
The one just gone before
Will we regret we didn't listen
To the almost silent pleas
That rustled through the branches
Carried by the last gentle breeze.
Will a silent protester
Surreptitiously sow
Handfuls of acorns to watch
New Oak saplings grow.
A hundred years from now
or in the next moment
I will be dead, gone and back.
Not this 'I' with its sticky ego
gumming up the works;
forever tinkering, jury-rigging
a mental machinery
that was always poorly designed.
Most likely, baby me, is already out
of the chimeric soup,
he or she probably
made of spare parts also.
Are we are all variants
created in a biological laboratory
purposely put together flawed,
'try outs' tested
to see what works best?
Constant experimentation is important.
Reincarnation but an instant
then we are out the door once more
clanking around
trying to look normal
but we won't know 'normal'
until we find it.
Larks are ascending funnels of sky,
songs smoke from enteral chimneys.
In an industrial park a fine Autumn light
burns bright.
Shoes fill with walkers,
we are out and praising
the clanking machinery,
for we are all leaves
in the same furnace.
What we suppose
to be sleep and decline
is a wooded factory, a whittle and grind
gearing-up for an over-spilling,
a bundling color-filled season,
one that will in time
hammer snow out of spoilage.
The Larks are trilling,
they rise to the top of their voices.
Conveyer belts of cooling hymns
are ready to be parceled and sent,
addressed graphically:
'Return to Sender.'
This is the shop of shattered illusions,
Ante room to a peculiar type of hell;
Enter here full of hopes
To have them all dispelled.
It is the stuff of nightmares,
Your wildest darkest dreams,
The door bell greets you
With a cacophony of screams.
The track in the background
Is of a clanking rattling chain
Accompanied by the moans
Of a being in utter pain.
As soon as you enter
The desire is to escape
From the Stygian gloom
Of this place of mental rape.
Where every second is
A week, every minute a year
And a writhing shaken brain
Silently yells get out of here.
Outside of the doorway,
Ashen faced shaking white
They all turn for a surreptitious
Last confirmation sight;
But the shop of shattered illusions
Doesn't stay anywhere for long
And before they can see it
It's disappeared, disintegrated, gone.
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