Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Cooking Secret Ingredients

tHE wrItiNg oN tHE wAll...

Confessions of a Complicated Man They Might Say
See How He Capitalizes Letters
Violates the Ancient Codes of Grammatical Honor 
The Man is Fullof Himself
See His Bragadaccio
Read His Audacity
Vain Expressions Expounding His Own Glory
i Hate His Stuff
The Pompous Bastard! Talking About Leonardo DeCaprio Rather Than Horatio
Say "Who Is Horatio?"
The Point Being He Does Not Quote the Great Bards of the Past
English Classicists
The Wordsworthian Romantics
French Absurdists
Or Members of the Hallowed Renaissance
"Where Are The White-Western Geniuses in His Musings?"
Or Those Still Alive 
"Look How He Can't Even Remember a Single Name. What a Shameless Shrimp!"
Now He Laughs
'Cos He Won't Even Download and Upload and Paste a Single Gandhian Gem
He Even Ignores The Buddha
Sees Right Through The Precious Guru
Even Walks Past Thich Nhat Hanh
The Ever-Lovable and Quotable Dalai Lama 
Instead He Pays Homage to the Subterranean Blues
Writes Short Letters to Dylan and Cohen 
On a First Name Basis
Reads Burroughs' Junk
Tributes the Haunting Thompson 
Watches The Deer Hunter 
The Deer Hunter

Fear and Loathing
Frequently Refers to a Certain Dude
Talks in Montana Tongue
Travels Without Money 
Almost Lives in a Carboniferous Car
Seasonally Changes the Clothing Stored in an Attic
Detests Laundry
Male-Grooming
Experiments MAS
Looks Kinda Groggy But Seems and Sounds Happy
Its Dodgy 
You Suspect and Doubt
Make Inquiries
Query Quarries
Research Rumor-Mills and Gossip Hills 
And Having Found Nothing of Rote in His Note
Take Jabs With Accusatory Fingers
Meanwhile He's Still Writing
Penning No Regard for Academic Setting
Burning Hung-Over-Halos
Societal-Model-Heroes
Playing Sympathy for the Devil
cover art for DVD release




Lobbying Compassion for the Evil
Saying 
"i Don't Write. The Words Do. Like the Paranoid Barks of Scooby Dooby Doo"
That He's Just a Mere Medium
Hanging Out in the Garden of Adam 
Where There's No Eve
Her Serpentine-Pet-Peeves 
Or Rigging' Apple Trees
He'd Hacked Them Down
In Their Stead Planted Wild Lotus Gardens
Which Harvested Every Season
Spring Summer Monsoon Autumn and Winter
The Secret
He'd Whisper Quietly 
Winking a Grin-
"Its In The Ingredients"
Herbal Imagination
Organic Touches
With Dashes of Raw Naked Revelations
A Punch of Open-Cheeks
Intimate Invitations
Waking Up to Wild Blasphemy
From a Gal You Thought You Knew
Drinking to Such Misfits
And Other Beautiful Losers

Late Morning Tea:- 
sunflower


The Universe is Yours
[ i Hope You Find it Spacious ]
The Way You Want it
And the Skies Too
With Everything It Contains
From Above the Glittering Stars to the Diamonds Buried Below
We've Crossed the Line

i'm Fine
But Here's a Free Tip For Times Gone By:
Its Better to Rip Off a Man's Heart 
Than to Slice and Dice it Piece By Piece 
You Should Know This
Its The One That's Beating in Yer Chest
It's Called a Heart for Those Who Feel

And a Body Part for Those Who Buy It With a Dollar Bill

And Just Another Bothersome Organ Oft Used as an Emotional Slogan

The Thing is This:
The Person i Love Still Lives in My Head
She's Not the One Laughing Over Me as i Lay Dead
i'd Like to Ask "What Happened to You?"
You See, i Was Always Around Offering a Hug and a Help
But i Guess You Grew Up
And Now its a Tad Too Late

Let's Rephrase That and Wipe Clean the Black Slate
And in Milk White Overtures Chalk Down the Words-
Now Its Too Late
Love Shouldn't Transform into Hate
But it Does Die a Thousand Little Deaths Before the Final Break
There Are No Retakes
Because Its Late
Let's Not Blame Associated Karmas Or Dharmas
Or the Bent Hook and its Wriggling Bait
Not Even Fate
Some Things Happen as Shit Happens
There Are No Rehearsed Tap-Dances
You Either Take it On the Chin or Throw it in a Bin
i Chose the Former
That's Why i Say Its Now Too Late



RiPPles:-

HST, We Miss You

Dead Poets Are Dead,
Long Gone,
Once Upon a Time Guys,
Decomposing Down Under,

Vaporizing Up Above,
Fertilizing the Soil of the Earth,
Bringing Rain, Hail, Snow or Storm,
When Not Raining or Playing Fertilizer,
If Ye Care a Moment to Bear,
Are Their Writings,

From Papyrus to Paper,
Inked Quills to Plastic Sensors,
Short to Long Hands
Typewriters to Tablets,
Whatever Analysis Abounds,

Or Glowing Descriptive Rendered to Their Bios,
Or Still Killing Them in the Grave,
And However You Tag Them,
As Sunflowers or Psychos,
Daffodils or Demented Dudes,
What's Left is Their Humanity-
With All Its Frailties,

Psychological Pathos;
Imbalanced Ethos,

Societal Suicides,
Communal Chaos,
These Expressive Physical Members of the Mental Body Dismembered Their Heads,

Plucked-Out Their Eye-Balls,
Marveled at Hollow Sockets,
Knifed and Chopped-Off Their Ears,
Shot Their Mouths,
Hung Their Necks,
Clothed and Wore Weirdness,
Abnormalities,
Experimented Their Brains,
Volunteered to Sleep in the Incinerators,
Played Guinea Piglets,
And Fowls,
The Die Cast,
Many Died Instantly,
Some Survived Till Recently,
Others Became Casualties of Worded Expressions,
Natural Confessions,
Now Bequeath for yer Reading Pleasure asking Desperately if a Connection Took Place.
Seeking Touches of Yer Warm-Blooded Empathy  in the Cold Void and the Vastness of Such a Haunting.
Requesting Karma if there Be Any Ties of Cocktail Suits or Worn-Out Jeans and Jackets.

And My Favorite- Labored Leather Boots.
Dead Poets Are Anything But Dead,
They Die and Come Back Alive,
Revived,
Reincarnated,
Risen,
Repeatedly.
When the Spoken Word is Thus Jotted,
When the Written Word is Thus Read,
Now Break The Bread!
Rejoice!
William S. Burroughs

Rekindle!
And Reading On,
Relive Their Lives-
Ye Might Just Understand Divine Conception,
Suddenly Feeling Alive,
In The End Knowing They Were Just Being Human-
No More Than You and I,
No Less Than Us and Them,
We Are The Same.
We Are The Same.


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