Egoist Poems

To my platonic linguist

To my platonic linguist

Forget me, please, but I loved you, hmm, far memories
Someone needed your help with a science, it is yours

Yes, my platonic English linguist, I forgot you, loved you
You are so selfish, but my life and love needed you; loved

I needed to accept your soul, oh rich and egoist soul, my love
English woman, someone asked you, and he is far from you

I loved you
Nedded ask
Your hand
I am far
In Wembley
You are in Watford
A heart
Loved 
Loved
You

Vilmos

Forgotten Lives

Forgotten Life!

Forgotten lives! Lives! In the cemetery of a graveyard.
Loved lives. Remembered lives, be a diamond in life

In life! Asking you about a forgotten sad life; can’t kind
A memory of the names of humankind. The Story Kind

Yes. Death can be human life, passing of the life of Life
Forgotten Lives! History of the story of humanities’ kind

Love! You are an egoist in my life. Drop me Emma; die
Forgotten lives, but noble lives, alone in a graveyard

Selfishness and Happiness

The happiness of the egoist
       could be even real
         but is inhuman

The Sun

The sun gives us light ,
He makes darkness flee by his fight .
In a whole day, He shows us a story,
From morn till night , gives life theory.

When the sun takes birth
And gives his golden rays to the earth .
Each particle of the universe,
Becomes happy and gives up all harsh.

Slowly Slowly the sun enters in his golden age ,
He shows his power and craze .
In the mid day the sun becomes youth,
He becomes egoist and sooth .

But the time doesn't stop and carries sun to his olden age ,
Now his ego breaks because it's his last stage.
Slowly the sun dies and hides in the west ,
He tells that in the world we all are a guest.

He gets new bodies with new days ,
And everyday gives us hot rays.
Becoming young and old , he gets lost,
This story have a big cost.

Bucket List

What’s on our bucket list?
If feral our desire,
which we cannot resist,
objects that we aspire,
displays cold heart, clenched fist.

What’s on our bucket list?
Fleeting flame and glory, 
labels us egoist,
makes not a great story,
never by true love kissed.

What’s on our bucket list?
Are we proud of our mind,
giving each point a twist,
head with heart misaligned,
that does kind touch resist?

What’s on our bucket list?
Oh, to be living light!
We but seek the bliss mist,
rapture by day and night,
sans need to so insist.

08-April-2022

Handing Trump the Election

Handing Trump the election


I big cities in the Us people are running wild 
this is not what “ black life matters” was about
a horde of people are running around destroying what is sacred
or should be, in cities of high crime.
We can argue the reason for this pointless criminality 
to create mayhem for the sake of it, the fact many black people
live there and appear to gun-related gangs, not because 
they are black but because they are uneducated and poor
living in squalor in drug-infested housing where only a few
survive by moving away.
The majority of letting us call them lost egoist people see
this lack of order and civility,
the high profile black leaders do little about this only come
out of their luxury home when there is a funeral 
repeat the same trite words, but have nothing worthwhile to 
say about crime and the woeful lack of education.
They the well off in the suburbia see this and not knowing
its origin, simply vote for Trump and so it goes on until 
we live in in a failed state.

Egoist

One who is full 
of himself,
as fragile as crystal ball 
on a shelf,

who sulks in resentful 
vain defense
against the slightest 
imagined offense,

and shines or dims 
or shatters
depending on the tricks 
of flatterers.

Tesla Mind

Tesla’s mind, A kinetic, static attic filled to the brim;
With magical ease he displayed his energy laboratory.

In centrifugal dance, grey matter clogs to universal energy; round and round, resounding souls spew forth from Tesla tricks.

Burning holes in his soul’s pockets; creativity never sleeps.  On the astral mind mingles with hyperactive atoms; their playtime, births a genius.

Tesla mind, like Einstein’s mind; a conglomerate of power, imprisoned by temporary mortality and oh, the miraculous echoes upon the ethers, eternally.

Science is a spoiled child; a self-limiting ego.  The greatest minds go far beyond it.  Answers sought, eluded by egoist, viral limitations; are potentially, forever lost.  Tesla mind will present them, in another future.

Tucked up for a night in a cold, black hole; Tesla mind tricks await their next performance on planet Earth.  Who will see and hear the static charge; that’ll manifest future miracles?  Who will realize what they’ll witness?

Tesla mind’s bunk mates are few and far between; ego never recognizes genius, in its own time.

Sorry

I thought of it and got in it
I have done the mistakes a lot in it
so solely,loudly,frankly i feel in it
sorry!sorry!sorry! i am really very sorry!

You have seen a friend in me but,
I have seen my life in you
You have seen a support in me but,
I judged that the impotency in you
For that please forgive this damn friend,please forgive this **** guy.

I kept doing mistakes regularly
You kept forgiving me frequently
I never asked and complied your views but
You always listened and followed my words
For that please forgive this heartless friend,please forgive this egoist guy.

You bid me sorry for the fault you haven't done
I hit you with silence for your assault i have run
You beat me scold me or mostly you hate me but
I plead you don't stop smiling because my life sets in that shining
For that please forgive this worst friend,please forgive this caring guy.

so solely,loudly,publicly i say you sorry!sorry!sorry! I am really very sorry.

Rhyme On L N Singh

One of the men who I always did brawl,
He did the same with me when I did sprawl
Against him in and around the school wall.
But I loved him as he supported in my fall.
He always who remained strong in squall.
His whole life is full of things big and small.
He had great powers to captivate and enthrall,
Which he used to control us full of gall.
I had been with him for nine years all – 
All years nine or ten he did scrawl.
Is he selfish? Is he loving to all?
Is he egoist? Is he supporting in fall?
Such questions harassed my pitfall.
 I got all answers positively in parasol –
He held my hands whenever I did call.
Made me what I’m now and took out from pall.
He is my inspiration, he is my ideal doll;
He is my guru, he is my cynic for my troll.

Gymnos

archetypically,
I sow my hysterical libido,
in the Jungian brain garden,
and reap only ecclesiastical weeds,
and subconscious rashes...

breaking apart, engorged, 
mad egoist, freudian slip'd,
spilling repressed aloes,
into her ashen columbarium...

penitent, penniless,
scrabbled up the storied mount,
silently trapp'd, interlocuted,
cast back to a southern field...

adiposed, juniper kiss'd,
scarlet nin, flagrante delict(oh),
wagging tongued, freely spoken,
i'll come round again,

ecstatically.

Traveller

Upon the silent seafront under the scorching summer sun,
I hear a voice that cries out soft and faint as it sounded,
"O ci którzy mogliby mnie pomagac, daj mi! Daj mi!"
"It's on my head you stood, tall and vibrant under the watchful eyes of the blue sky.

Listen you!
I am a traveller from a far away antique land,
Whose shattered visage lies, whose cries tell tales of cuffed hands in the sand.
I am with whom by myself I define, in the eye of God a man, the egregious egoist,
And in the eyes of other men, the enormous load, the outcast old psychopath.

Listen you!
In these winds that bleed the quietest of all my taints and troubles, I complain not,
And by the thundery roars of the rains and all the fears and scares they give me, I manage a smile,
I am a traveller in a desolate land, unaware of whom I have become.

Poem by HUDHAIFAH

Bukowski Contest

Oh, Morose Poet, 
A maid's breasts
Haunts you.

Oh, saturnine poet
Those roseate lips
A Stygian hue.

Oh, Egoist poet
Readers feel sorry for you
But you divert them to go
Tell them to feel sorry for others.

Oh, Competent poet
You  made plenty of poets
But not very much poetry.

Oh, Embittered poet, 
Life seethes
And life burns,

Oh, not so genius
Your dour pen scratches
At the center of heart.
          +++++++
+Not So Genius+
          +++++++
April 7, 2014       Form: Free Verse       Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place win:    Contest Bukowski by Amy Green

Give Me the Truth

She lit the match to light her cigarette, 
A spark danced into her heart. 
The mauve painted nails clung to her chest,
Yet the flicker had already become a memory.

An egoist shall never succumb to reality,
The past, invented or true, lures them away. 
The yearning is not one of happiness, 
Rather an absinthe scented illusion. 

These thoughts always press the brakes, 
Of a reasonable and cheerful mind,
To ignite self-pity and desire for liquor. 
A hungry demon setting its teeth into
A glass of recollections. 

Obscuring all that could create a calm fog, 
Flames now rejoice in tangerine tones,
Within a pitiful being. 
Mad through choice, not obligation, 
To escape from what they call regret.

The Day After

His touch
His kiss
His hugs
Don’t miss

His silent
His violent
Egoist 
I hate

His lies
And betrayal 
Those tears
Empty nights

He left
Heart was broken
And then I was free

To go
And to try
To do different things

To search
And to find
And spread 
Broken wings

To reach
And to do
So many new things

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