Some declare:
“when the lights go out you are gone.”
I can’t help wondering where?
Energy is never gone, it transforms, persists.
Maybe what we think of as light
is wrong?
Light can blind, numb the mind,
it can be sickly, drive you crazy.
Light can inflame a maniacs brain.
True light has nothing to do with photons,
it could easily be termed a darkening
and still have the same meaning.
Light is a ‘Knowing’
without the need for knowledge,
it is beyond any concept of light and dark,
beyond thought,
religion or any spiritual path.
it’s simply knowing
how to flip the switch.
Unearthly beauties, one and all
Angelic faces, each a doll
Physique amazing, walking straight
In runway's perfect balanced gait
They smile, in answer to your smile
Dressed sharp and simple, modern style
Somehow they know what is in fashion
Those shapely legs inflame passion
No girl be equal to compete
With wonder bodies, eyes and feet
The arching brows, ideal skin
Earth doesn't hold your next of kin
We'd love to meet them, hold their hands
And speak, about to be fans
To run our fingers through the manes
Except a dream it all remains
They are not real, don't live here
These beauties not what they appear
At least not yet, not on my watch
All I can do is wish and watch
As catwalk model or a singer
A dancer with the moves that linger
Recite the story, silky voice
Leave us astounded, to rejoice
Be you not fake, I'd be on fire
Ones' manly brain, it goes haywire
Oh, why, but why create temptations
When none of you are God's creations?
Illusions perfect, by A.I.
Hello, my beauties, and goodbye
One day you'll join humans' world
I wouldn't live that long, I'm told
December 28, 2025
A language to have fun with,
Or if not, to play pun with:
In love, the two can cleave
Or else into two cleave,
If you like you can flame,
If not you can inflame;
These pairs mean all the same,
Anarchy be her name;
Have fun with it or none with.
________________________
Limerick | 24.12.2025 | anarchy, language, fun, pun, none
Note: English seems a language of articulated anarchy. If there are linguistic laws they are applied but in breaking them. You don’t spell as pronounced, nor pronounce as is spelled. Same words having many meanings, though it is so in Sanskrit as well. But then it has a common heritage which is Indo European. To cleave is to like, to love, to get attached to. It also means: to cut in half, the very opposite. Again, flame or inflame, it means the same. This verbal wackiness makes it an ideal playground for impish double entendre with puns galore.
Rage bait is a trap.
Simply a load of crap.
It does not seek or aim
to inform or entertain.
Its purpose is to inflame
and is just an online con game.
So lame.
What a shame.
Says he dreads his demonic disease,
But he spreads it like cheap processed cheese.
Don't think you can blame ME!
You'll never inflame ME!
What???....Mister Mephistopheles...PLEASE!!!
Its been a long time since I’ve felt blissful,
I know I’m the one to shoulder any blame.
Bliss ended long before years turned golden,
too many matters I’ve allowed to inflame.
I’ve always been, for the most part, a loner,
crowds and idle chit chat I’ve tried to avoid.
Married sixty years to the same woman,
Just two D.I.N.K.S. one in need of Freud.
But surveying the past changes nothing,
so musings should focus on time unspent.
But the future holds no aspirations for me,
it’s just about time to take down the tent.
But throughout my life I have been blessed,
faith in God has seen me through each test.
Silence before a kiss expected, is no surprise.
It whispers echoed promises, foretold in eyes.
Put on hold, until two hearts come closer together.
Face-to-face, breath in breath, fragile as feather.
A silent unforeseen kiss, can delight or betray.
Depending on intention, in the light of day.
An affront, a bewilderment; eyes know it is coming.
A blessing or a curse, so bitter, and unbecoming.
Forewarned wary eyes recoil, and refuse to see.
The head turns away gently, straining to flee.
A step aside or back, retreating out of range.
Deflecting touch, before longing turns strange.
Kisses, expected and unexpected, both inflame,
Desire with the outcome ensnared within the game.
'I'd paint rainbows with VIBGYOR,' said my child.
My Violet, with whims, will be beguiled.
Indigo will inflame wisdom with zest.
With the garb of calmness, Blue will be dressed.
Euphony will adorn my grassy Green.
In blonde Yellow, vibration will be seen.
With vibrancy, the Orange will be graced.
With love and passion, my Red will be traced.
Colours in a spectrum should be merged well.
Designs of crayons have a magic spell.
I search rainbows in each shade, my child said.
With vital rainbows my child went ahead.
The crux of light lies,
deep within its flux of afterglow,
in limbo.
Its will-o'-the-wisp,
Aurora Borealis, and St Elmo's Fire,
Its split into rainbow,
Its red shifts in time travel.
All its enigmas within, urge us to set,
the aftermath of shadows, aglow.
We love to be victims.
We wear our damaged hearts on bloodied sleeves.
We cherish the buried shrapnel with serrated edges,
that lies deep within, in time-lapse lockets,
waiting to be unlocked, awoken and inflame again.
The sharp painful shards and regretful splinters are awaken by,
silly deja vu triggers of guilt, regret and happenstance,
and innocent throw-me-down one-liners, floating on the wind.
They trigger, echo and ricochet painful memory laser beams,
that blast into irrelevant virgin-ground places,
reverberate and resonate,
and build the inflammation,
we want to feel.
For we long to be long-suffering victims,
infected, shrapnel-scared, beyond redemption,
serving our time as voluntary introspective inmates in jail,
with no parole.
Like a raging river barreling toward an arid basin,
sediment collects inside a hardening heart.
Weighing heavy, eyelids flutter over drowning maculas;
all that can be seen are murky riptides.
Vision cuts out.
Frantically flaring arms desperately try to skim the surface,
dragged deeper into an unknown chasm.
Sub-zero temperatures shroud panicking flesh.
Prying eyes open, undiluted pitch darkness surrounds.
Gasping for oxygen, lungs inflame.
Excruciating pain catapults through weakening legs.
Safety is nowhere to be found.
Reaching into an intolerably tight pocket,
I feel for your disintegrating picture.
My savior became my impending doom.
Only evanescent memories remain
at the bottom of this watery grave.
Some words we say are ill-conceived,
and once spoken can’t be retrieved.
If our words inflame,
we should feel shame,
and feel remorse toward those peeved.
Alphabets gather as words unravel
the passing and returning of moans;
lines of phrases inflame the arteries
of beauty, angst, love interwoven
by imagination's pining.
Tingle of words… fragrance of vowels…
caress of verses enter the soul, as if to dive
into the very basin of layered expressions.
On a fresh scroll baring my bones
and rawest of mood,
I enter a daringly new dimension
with a theme that reels my senses
that ink and quill ravage fleshed pages
As poetry makes the eyes hungry.
(a poem in Haiku and Senryu)
Draw a stick figure
future - sadly diminished
and chaos ransomed.
Paint the landscape
with the sweltering glare
of global warming.
Add micro-plastic
and forever chemical
flavorings to taste.
Come share this
with me - let kisses heal and
soft whispers inflame.
Some locks need two keys
to open, some heavens can
be reached by mortals.
.
.
A song for this:
All Gone Away by The Style Council
The color of the beating necessity of life and hope. A rose’s petals tender as a kitten’s purr.
A ripened strawberry on an exotic and amorous night, a chance taken.
A cherished heirloom endowed by the love of another for those who have not arrived yet.
A color of love and life-force that can inflame the future and free it from what has been shed in the past.
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