Them

For them it wasn't about acquiring one another.
It was about co-existing in harmony.
It was miles from the contemporary ways of the society,
and there lied it's twinkle.
Breathing her, feeling her, living her and with her.
It was a love that didn't wane.

Sobriety

The subtle line making me from him
is the difference in our drunkenness.
He's too drunk on the indifference,
that capitalism has caused him to face.
His vessel is swell.
I'm still waiting on hitting the well.

For Hippie~

She is with the stars
and her hair are in the air.
In her easy bearing she walks far
and her pallazos invite many a appreciative stare.
She finds the dodgiest yet charming of most places,
and befriends the hippiest of vagrant human cases.
She gets high sometimes
to resonate her feelings with that of mountains..
Then she speaks with me over a cracky phone line
and tells me little stuff that gets my woman to smile.
I can't help but call her my entertainment channel..
and think of her missing me on that roof of that hilly cellar!

Bheeeed

Its a funny feeling
I can't seem to shake off
Easy money and women stinking
I can't seem to like, like a puff.
In my easy brains are mountains
I can't force me to like materials
This world right here is all for gains
I can't get me to bite these cheesy meals.
There are lights and ensuing fights
I can't help but take jibes
There is ale and many a stale men mights
I can't force and stop my sweaty vibes.
This night is just ain't right for my kinds
For, rock that's classic and nature that's naked, rule our eccentric minds!

Humans of Mornings

A seemingly acrobatic pigeon,
perches on the balcony rail.
It has those unkind canny eyes
and its feather suit all ruffled up,
like pretty Pinko's morning hair
when she undoes the curtains of her perfect abode across the porch.
Sensing no harm,
it brings down its other naily-foot.
And I see bandaging and sews,
on one of the foot fork tooth.
It seems this morning
that humanity persists.
Across the porch,
Pinko brews some tea to his lucky man
and a faded golden ballerina walks by..

The Cook

If there is a God, the master creator, I'd like to refer to her as the master chef. The culinary maestro and the maiden connoisseur knew her salt and spices at best. The stalk to create the marvelous mankind was meticulously chopped, diced and stir-fried with the mix of salt and spices imbibed non-uniformly by the stalk. Her salt was an ingredient and her idea of what the mankind would come to know as 'true love'. And her deliberate non-uniform sprinkling of the mix was her idea of one savoring piquancy and bland in waves, in a pattern similar to those sine waves. The maiden connoisseur made a second-in-command connoisseur, the world, and let it perpetually taste this recipe. And here we are, the world, the second-in-command connoisseur, still baffled and questful in finding the subtleties of the mix of salt and spices in the human-folk recipe; still momentarily savoring some bites sprinkled with the 'true love' salt and still comforting and normalizing our buds with normalcy of blands.. Thats life, pretty much!

Not Tonight

There is a wandering, vagrant loneliness

in this cold night.

The air is sloshed on mist

and trees are all naked

having shed their leafy attire

in bygone days.

Lights see their own reflects

on wet deserted streets.

I pour me a measure of old poor rum.

It comforts

the monotonous feeding memories

of inner tracks.

They don't see the light. Not tonight.