the perpetuation of tomes

Must you go on, like
This? For dark is rife
Upon; for night is like
This? Must you go on for
Ever? For pulse is knife
Unmet; and thick as mud
Its bite: must you go on?

Miss your trembling beat
Of heart; it rebounds, it’s
Stuck, your beat, your
Heart; miss your trembling
Heat of hearth; it recounts,
It’s bound to knots of leash
Of thread: miss your heat.

Must you miss the ground
Of stone, the link of breath,
The curb of round and stench
And stench? Must you miss
The ground of home, the filial
Bone, the vapid mill of time
Repeating sharp, witty tomes?

demandside egonomics

The lovebalahoos cannot brink soultrips
    for free - the price of a can of soulfire has shot up.

The crewmachatos will sever catbrats
    for free - catmachatos are a dime for two dozen.

The bluefillips cannot blow soupbubbles
    for free - inflationary bubbledrops, you know.

The mangochops will sever moneyhops
    for free - fruities and veggies, no one cares a whit.

The frisknachos chomp their crispcrevados
    for free - or not; of this we cannot be too sure.

universal woman

digging up the dregs on universal man
you meet universal woman: a voice of

evening shade in blazing noon, tagging
leaflets of metaphor misused by man

with soft whispers of a loudness that is
yet to; brown days with autumn sky

leafing pages of red history pulp with
rhythms of otters and snakes and

worms charging up chapters of the yet
to; warm dust mingles with moist air.

revilements of the modern

I. creative spillover

The crystal ounce, elliptical presence, hound's sense of
    Smell. Chart of heavens, stargazing nonplussed, wit
    Demure. Prized for winning a loser battle, preambled
    Fit for loss, kill, wishful dining out with warriors.

The creative ouch, devilled absence, hound's sense of
    Smell. Priming each fleck of day-space with night-
    Space. Prized for rhyming a loser battle, preambled
    Fit for kith, kill, wishful dining out with warriors.

The culinary touch, asymmetric semblance, hound's sense of
    Smell. Gilded opprobrious reams of solid waste tucked
    Plush. Prized for arguing a loser battle, preambled
    Fit for puss, kill, wishful dining out with warriors.

II. revilements of the modern
The sea is fitted with an autorecovery mechanistic
valuation, the kind that stocks up the remainder of cults
living wasted lives in the the culled out breadbaskets of
not so much care; the meandering captivations of a riveted
manacled dusty frame of reference; the behoved sabbaths,
the reviled mannequined aftermaths, and the pair of
no-good shibboleths; climbing on to a heady cliff, you will
sink your teeth no further, dunk your hand in fire no more,
cart out lusty syllables from the oracle of inward necessity for
the last time, and practice; so they may cover their faces when
furious; so they may leave their parchments behind when tired;
so they will lift themselves out in a powerless moor of derived
wishdoms when time is right; the lifting of the veil in silence.

The unrepentant verse

The unrepentant verse stands alone for a while
          as often monks do making allowances for merging
Anytime now. Will the monk's beggar ways allow
          transfiguration to go on, as if transfiguration is a
mere word, heavy tailed, light to the deft-hearted
          and somewhat tired of bequeathing hope to the 
beggarly woes of an unannounced monkish herd
          relying on a sign, on a blip from heaven, to bring
a renounced gladness to the many many begging
          bowls? The hole is a hole and the punctured soul
remains holed up in big words. The unrepentant
          verse howls to escape this nonsense and stands.

Two unmediated lies
Whistle bound, the hereafter will forego
Preparation if the solemn is to undergo

Change; grease on the forehead will mark
Acrimony, heartbeats will measure change

Of grace, and the torn reminders of a
Rapid fall from the past are markers of

A gainsaid triteness opposing lunar falls
And galaxial proportions. Such is the grip

Of lava on the hush of dawn; such is the
Slip of tongue that gives verse its hold.

Arguably the mist is down and out trying
To find the graver consequences of its

Mooring; cantankerously held in arms of
Sublime dispossession, the mist is filling

Up in elegant containments, in ravines of
No delight, in slats of dearness, crannies

Of slight, catacombs, visitations at night,
Culminations, derivations of a heaviness

That reverses the meaning when it has to,
Otherwise it is quite content to stay plain.

The loin cloth

A sannyasi had only a loin cloth but the mice were nibbling at it. So he went and got himself a cat. The cat needed milk. So he acquired a cow. Someone had to look after the cow. So he found a woman to look after the cow, who also began to look after him. He married her and threw away his loin cloth.

From A.K. Ramanujan’s “Where Mirrors are Windows: Towards an Anthology of Reflections”

The cat needed milk. So he acquired a cow. Someone had to look after the cow.

Where do you find the time to milk the cow that feeds the cat that eats the mice? It is not time but the woman who tends the cow that feeds the cat that eats the mice. The mice that irk the bull that guards the cave which reeks of henna. The woman again who adorns the henna and mates the bull that gives the world its god.

So he found a woman to look after the cow, who also began to look after him.

The god that begets the word that speaks of her so she springs out leaves. The leaves of henna that fly away and call the wind that seed the forest. The forest that chimes of god that needs the woman who takes the cloth that guards the loin. The loin that breeds the world with the mice that irk the man of god.

He married her and threw away his loin cloth.

Cloudmist & birdseed lockout

Time is preparing a cloudmist with
Lanky daylight standing, shouting, “Grieve,
O mannequins of cause and effect, for
The hardy wind of peppy chalk has
Just arrived.” The rack of slided
Time would be shouting too, grieving, but
For varied quarters piecing time, wired
For cloudburst and tentacles of atomic fear.

Birdseed lockout
I have locked out semblance of rootdust
Only to the extent that malevolence denies,
Only to the summation of halos and points
Of intersection; I have locked out birdseed
Playlists when efficient and when warm.

Where has the multiplication table taken the
Metaphor to? Why does the volume increase
In devotion to pressure of halos and points
Of intersection? I have locked out birdseed
Playlists when effective and when calm.

Who has the rate of halfdeaths and ninesins?
The columns of arbitrage slide out calumnious
Residue, in proportion to halos and points
Of intersection; I have locked out birdseed
Playlists when essential and when warm.

The ruttal of song
I will now rut this song for its bilingual obfuscation
Of transcendence; what guile of the Olympian jokers
bears balm? Forsake the souls, rephrase the ghouls. I
Will now gut this song out for transgression of the
Lull laws that would stoke balm; shuck the Sanskritic
Overlords supping with Persian Grammarians and
Aramaic Algorithmeticians: there is naught but distance
Upon that table: a deliberate aesthetic to disengage gears,
Apocalypate fears. I will now rut the gut of this song.


if it rains fire
   you have to be as the water;

if it is a deluge of water
   you have to be as the wind;

if it is the Great Flood,
   you have to be as the sky;

and if it is the Very Last Flood of all the worlds,
   you have to give up self

and become the Lord.
(Allama Prabhu; translated by A.K. Ramanujan)
and become the Lord 
    to be dust and do as dust is 

wont to do which is
    to mingle as water, wind, sky

are bookmarked to do
    it says so in their polygraphs

they are not root as 
    yet; the graph is skewed though

and the fire is soot.