The revolutionary dilemma

What to rekindle a revolutionary theme to spark the light of fire?

The poulace is under the burden of heavy debt for they want nothing

The knowledge from valid scheme of life is welcome to revolutionize

the jungle where the kings played Billiards only to discourse on love

And party with dancing in the open as if the gunslinger has fired shots

as loose canons to celebrate the love that could be brought of money

in the bank and to felicitate history as the keg pin to launch revolution

while he listened to the pragmatic thought of his consicousness whether

to upstage the revolution or uphold the his rhythymic love for the queen

his heart was divided into two, the more vain he became the more he loved

the revoltion in the jungle and its being.

 

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The Spooky Guitar

Wanted a tambourine sound on a guitar

silently to pluck the real power off the chords

and play the Nordic song of separation

As is the air waft with the scent of eloping rain

Wait! Listen to my heartbeat and then strum the wire

to the exact melody of fortune for the businessman

becoming something else, an igloo to begin with and dance

forlorn with a long face drawn in favor of rendezvous

under the railway bridge where we light the fire with a beer

and  to close the pugmarks, we sprinkle the snowy residue

and it is abandoned to the Guitar beat, the gypsy song

which you shared with and rushed off with coffee

while I kept on beating the guitar till the morning

I supress the kiss of the woods under my feet

as the last song is played on the spooky Guitar beat!

The masque on the face

The masque on the face and there’s a persona of

you doing butterfly trick

as if flying over the flowers

and forget the scent emanating

but I am doing fine as your valet

Now what remains behind is the chalet

of dreams nonetheless, she weeps

and sick of answering her tantrums

I do complain about what’s behind the masque on the face

a younger woman who needs no feast

There was a triumph of the soul

and you need no ghoul

as your stooge who dances with you

But as your valet, I see you in Opera

with a masque on the face

let’s give love a chase

and break into a flamenco

there’s a twist to the tale

and after a swig of ale

you end up in a quarter but pale

Let’s word the world as longing

of the feverish mood to put behind the curtains

drawn to divulge you to the audience

and I do part my way.

 

A Mortuary

Morbid and death stood silent watcher to the

song of lovers deep in the den of marauders

who having won the war for Africa now were

a bunch of laymen running a mortuary where

they would bury all those who were lost to the jungle

In the wake of aliens swarming the forests in

a search of etheral gold found on the planet earth

and the gentler folk of Eurpoean cascade bringing

fire to the forests burning all those found on land

and the marauders picking the souls of the dead

on their sunken shoulders say about mercenaries

going haywire under the burning sun that torpids

land scroched with blood and heat, as the mortuary

was full of gothic spirirt and the charms of the slain

An adieu was uttered by a maiden to his first love

who was brought dead from the alien swipe while

European conquest stood imperial and isolated

Mortuary was full of the stench mixed with cropses

of the stocky built of either race Alien or European

in the middle of Africa- the land of nowhere!

 

Art or Artless

What use is the argument?

To rouse sensibility or to douse banality

the tone having restricted to homeliness

she resembled more a peacock’s head than a Madonna

to which she brushed aside all the malevolent drama

and uttered the words ‘I Sleep by you’

not that you are a dead meat when sleeping

but me a dead leaf turned upon and laid off the hands

on the parchment to see art by Sylvia!

The lovesome

Those gilded love panes as the car windows

direct the sunlight deeper into the reams of life

she looks askance and withdrawn look further

away into the distance, waiting for the footsteps

to wring into her heartbeat the solemn song of

the boats on the lake as if dames returning from snow peaks

have halted by chance to catch a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes

The Vortex

Of the mean feet, an outpouring of oneself

as walking on the never ending tarrain

till nothing is reached but the self

into the vortex of thought that birds wing

and draw inspiration as a maiden sings

how the ideas are drawn into things?

the spirit of energy being sucked in, the ling

embracing the unknown and invisible impinge

upon the restless mind and occupy the hevanely seat there in