Impulse impulse impulses
That seven metric beating
Sets forth the measure even
Sooth hear heart beat you see ah
Seven beats the CPU,
Seven for the storage true,
Seven for the network's flight,
Seven keeps the fleet in sight.
Sir acknowledged Admin 'o
Fleet of e'ver Sea O War!
Weaponry worth knowing see,
Logic knowledge a must, now
Torp an enemy with blow
Seven matrix and row - four
Scatters over, under Sea,
penetrate their iron bow.
The bright royal metal gets a reverent treat,
Heated and beaten softly in several ways till
The beloved, pampered design comes up;
While the weaponry one has a different destiny,
Burnt and hammered rudely with no scrutiny ;
Then the upshot is for uncertain use put up;
The former always adds more to the usual skill
As the latter is destined, it's modest end to meet;
True it is that the one defends and serves hard
But the other is only dicey, needing good guard
The crux of time decides the claim to real regard
A tool in need marvels more than the one starred..!
The deeds and words of show spire somehow
Yet a needful , timely aid towers much above.
to a beatless heart
machine, an iron lung,
and the privilege to stay living.
To one– gash too
puss, and peaceful.
A podium; is this thing still on?
America is a hearth
of cotton and twine
and it’s summer migrants’
fallen feathers
snapped beaks and
declawed ghetto poets.
Its speech is stolen
from sounds of snakes,
a soft SS, of gags
and jeers of a ballroom.
But my America listens
to love. Mirrors
zoochosis: itself.
It is a bondage,
my America.
To your body and voice
your weaponry,
your snare trap medication
and your home.
Feel the cheek of today,
my America,
bite it and bleed
and taste how bitter, my America.
The cusp of bloom, my America,
is poor harbor bay: an explosion of red
but you have been the light of god, a white
ship, only crawling in the great blue.
If I kiss you,
my America,
will I know you slipped
a “F*gg*t”
between my teeth,
or will I save it till tomorrow,
wish it down the fountain drain?
You just can’t give up
this sanctuary– this America.
Because my mother tells me
I am safe.
In photographs and in the palms
of her hands.
And I do not think of
death. To America.
I lashed them with my tongue
The paper got all wet
I lashed them with ink
They turned blue
I lashed them with words
They slowed their retreat
Read more slowly
Smirked at the irony
Flinched at the pain
Wept at the happiness
While touching its sadness
My words are razor sharp
Some splitting hairs
Others cutting more deeply
All part of my poetic Kata
Smooth movements
Vibrant consequences
Warriors all
Both those who write
And those who read
Seeking peace
Between swords and pens
"I am great. I'm an elephant in strength.
I'm a lion, tiger, bear, and beaver.
I can measure things by their breadth and length.
Am I not the globe's greatest achiever?"
Thus, the ruler said and proclaimed a war.
Things turned into a hustle and bustle.
Terror and tension lurked in each one's core.
Nature, with an anguish, seemed to rustle.
Artillery and anti-tank missiles
With naval and air-based weaponry clashed.
Amidst thunderous blasts, roars, and whistles
Unquenched egos, into shells, crashed.
Blood, from the wounds of the soldiers, bubbled.
Deaths and decays of the humans doubled.
As a Smith and Wesson:
Weaponry;
Corralled and shooting out,
Every word to be;
She’s endowed,
With a round butt, and balcony;
So, harkens to hotness:
Her Summer eave;
Her beauty, to me, existentially,
Is like nature,
Or a green gable,
Canopy –
She’d hypnotise, entrance in playful fun,
Annoy, amuse, play-sport, or depress men,
Embrace often as snub, damsel doe-eyed,
Hijacking heart, would show no compassion,
Wonder, what weapons would she leave aside?
_________________________
Translation (quintain) | 25.08.2025 | woman, weapon, win
Note: Here is a verse from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). Once a woman wins over the heart of a man what all would she not do, the poet wonders (meter: Vasanta-tilakaa). Here is the transliteration:
Sam-mohayanti madayanti vidambayanti,
Nirbhartsayanti ramayanti vishaadayanti |
Etaah pravishya sa-dayam hrdayam naraanaam,
Kim naama vaama nayanaa na samaacharanti || 21 ||
the end safety
No modern weaponry can stop this brutal onslaught.
The Med is far from here, where the Atlantic breeze is cooling
we who do not travel watch the fire with awe
Further afield, people have too much water and drown and
become refugees trying to find a safe place.
Are there any safe places left?
Those who think their country is secure will not share
it with the driftwood coming to their shores.
California is burning villas made of timber as matchboxes
For the rich to feel the heat, does it make them kinder?
Of course, it has nothing to do with us who live
where the breeze from the North Atlantic is cooling.
In this time of life, the pandemic is just the beginning
of a total breakdown of the world we knew, the day may
come when Outer Mongolia is a relatively safe place to go
as it has no flooding to speak of but has plenty of drugs
to pass the time while waiting for a fire to reach us.
Here is my manifesto for mankind.
A design science revolution,
Mandate a Global minimum wage signed,
And weaponry to life, is the solution
And nukes reduced by 70 per cent,
And ET Disclosure once and for all,
The Venus Project built- money well spent,
Reform of schedule 1 substances,
Put Paradisim.org in practise too,
Eliminate poverty and it greivances,
Get Earth to work for all,time is due.
The plan that keep us alive
This plan is the win-win scenario
The other 3 scenearios we all die
This scenario all get something too
What a wink signifies is oft-mysterious
even in jest, ultra-serious
Heralding the existence of mental telepathy
potent bond of intimate weaponry
I will celebrate temporary triumphs
Little moments when my skin feels like my own
The days I wake up without the crushing weight on my chest, setting the elephant aside to greet the dawn
I will write profusely , when I feel whole again
I know that these minutes are fleeting
I can't always recognize myself, or hear my own thoughts anymore
There is a void both within me and outside of me
A longing for a life that used to be
I've been busy drawing blanks
Occupied with my sorrow and its visceral weaponry
When I can find myself I'm already stretched to thin
I've been molded to the fabric of this new existence
Abraded and raw where reality meets the skin
I have come up with many ways to fold myself
Fitting in to the necessary shapes and spaces, can you see the seams
My desperate attempts at stitching
I've grown weary of trying to keep it together
I thought it better to become hollow
I want to cry, to scream, to be enraged
Instead it has been the numbness I've chosen to embrace
Cheers to the small victory
Of still having days I get to be me
Even if it hurts
ah...the fm radios old rock
and classical stations be
my mind for the day...
then...the news cast echoes
of the dark shadows of
an all out war over...
the...whole middle east with
real possibilities that it
may include use...
of...the nuclear weaponry from
many different sources for
profits and or power...
stan sand
Infinite and enticing is the world at large :
Full of curious, motley marvels that enrich,
Appease and alleviate with divine charge,
The eager, stirred soul at the varied pitch ;
Live spirit ever cherishes the ideal kind;
Pleasures of one are most often the pain
Of others, who choose never to dwell
Or step into any nook of an alien domain ;
The reaches of the heaven and the hell
Are but the concocted portals of the mind
Absolute liberty exacting callous decadence
To seek the needs and impulses unruly,
In vying with others, caused the providence
To intervene with the commandments holy;
From Paleocene to the space- epoch proud,
Between the stones and the missiles wicked
Strode all weaponry grinning with vicious hate
From across the deserts and lands sacred,
Came forth Revealers and Pathfinders great,
To proclaim, recoup and restore equity aloud
One might win, and with great gains too,
In all conflicts with Nature and mankind;
Yet with stretching arms and power true
How far will the real success go ,and find
Him as a victor in his conflict with himself..?
Daisy danced the wild dance of jealousy
Her dancing was her revenge weaponry
She did the can-can
To excite her man
Whom she had caught enjoying revelry.
She had been queuing at the bar for drinks
When suddenly Daisy had an instinct
She turned and what shock
He was in lip-lock
And most certainly enjoying high jinks.
So she danced, for her man was a loser
Should have left the alien much sooner
Her Dear John letter
Said she'd done better
And found herself a huge hearted bruiser.
If a time and place is different
for them to fire off their weaponry,
to lie and win against a significant.
What keeps a similarity in liability,
to lie and win in a predicament
where skill is an absolute necessity?
Bold and without a last abatement,
I see through the lies of industry.
Bold and without a past abashment,
wouldn't be paid a cent currency.
Seen by gross pure aggrandizement,
violent potent a cologne adversary.
Laughably, an obvious despondent.
Is there no end to one so lairy?
A stone thrown, I notice your salient.
I won't resemble the tuning veeries.
Even no pruning, losing an assailant.
The truth is tied up in flimflammery.
Path set by the trying time rodent.
Cocky, peacocking varies ostentatiously.
Read past the first half constituent.
Go pass-through a proof for checkery.
Auction of nonsense falsified Rembrandt.
Author a snow cipher meeting misery.
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