I know
I do not know anything
yet I think
Thoughts are traveling
this sense to that sense
roundly, like the oval earth
Cultivating hybrid judgment
now work of peasantry scrivener
Garden after gardens of insight
now barren pasture of tricky light
attracted many but sighted blind
One beautiful butterfly attracts
thousands of bees to flowers garden
without honey who can quench the thirst!
-27.01.2021 Chattogram
Never To Old For The Sandman!
Ah...respite relished sleeping like a baby,
variations on theme I iterate
impossible to stave of sleepiness,
nor advantageous to struggle against weight
of heavy eyelids akin
to bajillion tons of freight
after squeezing out every iota of energy,
whether mental or physical exhaustive state
subsequently pleasurable surrendering
into realm where unpredictable self portrait,
where pleasant dreams await
a personalized vividly dynamic
realm, where consciousness doth abdicate
analogous to A Stop at Willoughby
Season 1; Episode 30 of Twilight zone
May 6, 1960 - Original air date
though evocative images fill mindscape,
I immediately forget conglomerate
sans, illusory wonderful world
potential motherlode, did create
a bittersweet dire straight,
asper this aspiring scrivener
REM recall equals absolute zero
no matter awakening eye designate
natural process this body to facilitate
transitioning to formulate
after juncture of adequate
time ample restoration did satiate
yours truly revelled within tete a tete
among "FAKE" persons mine
unconscious did amazingly, gracefully,
and inexplicably generate.
great mind over matter to set brainy bedlam
in an organized queue
so while attention of your
might be moderately rapt, this rue
stirring, hen pecked spouse
best stop digitally squawking sew
the ethereal essence can beak comb
brought to cypher awareness too
and in a figurative nutshell,
when doth a scrivener know when to quit
or tubby pointed rhetorical question -
at what juncture does any artisan
more prolific than yours truly
reckon that his/her faux masterpiece
can no longer be perfected?,
cuz further rit
dick kuel us tampering, potche ing, footsing,
would induce dedicated followers of mine
to undergo severe urge to wanna spit
or throw FAKE nipples,
subsequently they would feel tit
till late head, find this schlemiel
to end this plotz to whit!
FINIS.
"Another Fine Moist"
Underground with the worms?
It's another fine moist
You've gotten me in, Stanley.
N'est-ce pas?
"The night was moist," wrote Billy Crystal,
As the writers-blocked scrivener in
"Throw Mama from the Train."
You run into many old friends, here.
Here in the slime is where I'm at.
Let me show you where it's at.
And that's a fact, Jack.
My ROM brain is prewired,
Yet subvocal mnemonics filter thru,
A RAM cache, stored for future amusement,
But crossing over now, randomly.
ready to bite
a rug with a
wide grin of silver teeth
and a back with a thousand turns
face full of hair and eyes
like a hanging Jesus
reading the forest`s floor
with its tiny handwriting, a scrivener
in a girl´s secret diary; tired
as a folded-leather bat then
snappy with a trapper`s sleight,
tearing like dough
under a rain of feathers
the inside of a hen,
praying and eating to love;
then after the kill;
a leash under green shadows
in the half glass of dawn,
the black fence of pine,
the shocked hole of silence.
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