Would we, would we not,
"I cherish your pretty pink under-garment",
Is it chosen, by a little
By them, few.

Drones stalking, Queens waiting,
There are words, and more words,
Your love, a verse; But tell me my dear,
Caressing you is subtle or hard?

"I like your back", screaming my eyes,
Don't please don't, Shun this part.
Isn't it for your best? To like me.
I sing, not drunk songs, Sire.

My eyes in your life, Has
Been tears, take not less,
Not a little more, Don't litter love
Queen

Placid Little Smoke

Little tranced ladies, of Nicotine smoke,
My spraying women,
"What do you think, they hate me?"
She drew closer, closer within each heart of mine.
Caressing every fragment of this little soul.

"Can we take it to our bedroom tonight,
I sleep with a smoke".

I Am

Once, I had stood.
Even in the heavy torrent of the rain fire;
Against me were seated
The dire ends of humanity definition.
"Mortal" and the "Immortal"

"Dear Bard, We have but heard you wail in your own demise,
Pleading for my swift execution and deliverance.
You have bid me closer to your heart,
Closer than any man has felt the warmth of life from his
Love that was beloved.
Seek no further child,
I giveth what thy seek
The End"
Mortality consumed me, thus, with his eternal pouring eyes,
Each word which left with the hollow of the Mighty Galactic Wisdom.

It couldn't let my mind stray, Immortality, coughed.
Like the dust from the times of the Great to the history of the Shrewd blew.
"I offer thee, the Gift of Gods,
Where they would come for thy council,
But few day, the Valkyries will giveth their
transcendental beauty and their make,
To you, Mighty Philanderer of Maids.
To such glory, I giveth thee in Grace
To you the Valhalla".

Odin himself, it seemed hath struck the golden Hour of Gain,
Upon my fate and had my soul smoldered in Elysian Gold.

I stood still, as time watched me in patience
Having gripped every activity of life in a certain pause.
Anxiety spread like a Wild Majestic Galactic Fire
Oer the Threshold of the Unknown and the Known.

The Bard stood, to the fore.
Looking at my feet, it calming the dust under it.
Spake, thus:

"Dear Lords of Human fate, Peace can be but brought to me,
In the pleasures of Death or the as the Masters of the Human Sand,
'Tis more than any mortal could have hunger for.
It is the Eternal Sleep well deserved to them
Who liveth in the stricken labor of tide"

"My needs be not humble, lay so wandered,
Under a confused Sun and the troubled Moon,
Wisdom so wrought with self-disdain.
Fain, but I cease to think...
But, I choose to believe

Mortality if you take away Immortality from me,
The Only remains is me.
My immortality wouldn't be of virtue, If I had lived longer
more Than the pages of the sun proposes.
Death can only but harm me if I,
Was not a flame of passion,
Was never a smile for the season.

Thus, I choose to remain without both mortality and the immortal,
For my Soul speaks louder than any man hath said,
"Passion in me will be my Word bearer,
Even if Death takes me arrayed with its swiftness,
I will remain and stay, in my Words,
As the life of my Enlightened Immortality".

Maybe, a cloud drowned me in its Melancholy.

Goodnight

Back on the hewy cot,
The eye within the eye, looks at the eye.
The difference between the worlds;
Tiles that float as a fall from the ceiling and the plaster from the floor.

"It's a good night's sleep" I remind my poor memory;
As everything is torn in the waves of the breaking calm,
The Calm so still, immute and full of tirade,
Like a saboteur from the land of Cold winds and Warm fluids.

Takes me by chance on everything I say,
If I must, then I must not;
The fate in me musters not,
To make it a must in the Must of the seasons;
For I have none of the must to offer, if I must.
Thus, take it by the dust if you must.

Maybe, it still is a good night's sleep.
The tiles and plaster now in an array of erotic passion;
the dust in my mind calling for freedom.
I tell them, that one day they shall be free.
One day, the dust may swirl again.
But, today. As the world is made and made not

in it's mold.                                      Would it stay?
No, surely not.                                but the world is working for the dust!
No dust there must be surely.           We but are, all, nothing but dust.
Too much dust. Must you dare?       I will Must like a mammal if I must.


Goodnight.

For those, who love the Morning Gray Sun.

Cigarettes

The evil that has me sold.


About, four years from now I remember that burning lady I had put on my lips for the first time. It was sizzling away to a slow blast of smoke. Easing, seeping and mellowing the ever engorging activities of the mind welded on my pulsating brain that works like a petard. Slow now the world seems manageable, the reigns flow back in my hands. But there is darkness in the draws made by my being, not so seemingly now.  

Two years back. Stillness. Waiting for me to collapse, feel the slap of water on my cheek as my senses swivel away in morose depth of the cold waters. They are many a maidens of revival on the cost. But none shall set me free. I do not appeal to the eyes. I have caught on with my retarded survival and then it eases me out now.

Sinking low. I feel those memories of niceness escape me in gasps. I will hit stone-dead on the lake-bed.

The cold stilling in me slow. I feel finally the smirk escape me. I pull out the last cigarette and smoke myself the final ease. No pain, no blurry vision nor hindrance of my sickened body. I am home.

The Ink in the Pen writes.

Winning Lifestyles -
How profusely you had to wait.

These trends of a new life, don't appeal much.
Where are the lives of the given millions.
Waiting in lines and ques for a living brew.
Their backs are on the run and front is all torn;
They say that you are the winning and the loss of time.
It's a myth you only live twice.


To be the beaming beacon of the dry starved hopes,
To wring in the Circus of the petulant grope:
"Don't worry, little kid,
It's only worth a dime."
And you keep wondering, if He's ever got time.
To be on the road
Or to be the broad.
It's not worth a thought -
Neither a soul.
It's a myth you only live twice.


To be conquered of Woken,
You must know by now:
that at the break of dawn
It's only what you must leave and then
Live on the behind.
Harken your will and weigh you soul.
It's a myth you only live twice.

Pray the Made and not the Medium.
It's a hoax, your life is sometimes worth a dime.

My While

My long gone last save in the words of your mirth,
Here is where I had toiled.

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