(The legend has it that a little boy named Nachiketa found a way to the Death-God’s house to ask Him about life, after life and rebirth. The legend also claims that he got his answers.)
“Before you go,’
The buffalo god said,
‘Know this, child, know-
A time will come so,
Of your limbs, will grow.
Friends and foes-
In a wooden burnt bed
Will silently stow
You away. And you’ll row
A boat. In a river of red,
Batting with a strange paw of a crow.
Howlingly will glow-
(Hell-bound, you’ll see) The fire of head
Burning, fingers and of toes-
Closing your eyes and heavenly you’ll know-
The oil of virtue that the god has this made,
The womb of a mother, where the child grows-
To the day of the light and a warm smell of bread.”
Her palm held a moonlit ocean,
Her eyes dreamt of a rolly polly seal-
Her stars glowed for a warmly vision,
Her back ached from standing still.
She took a step to fly that blue,
Whales and starfishes flew to the sky-
Coral and green moss before she knew
Rained down on busy passers-by.
Behind the crack of a small walled row,
Clouds clot where to make red bricks-
The little girl looked up on tiptoe,
If she could soar from her super attic-
“Daughter, oh, daughter of sea marigold!
From razzy womb of a dreamy mermaid,
Don’t fly to the sky, I’ve become old-
Let’s have downstairs a cookie instead.”
A calm football on the carpet, boom,
Cried a man with a flip slip disk.
A coy girl’s cootie in a concert, rock,
Rocked a skinny boy in a skeletal brisk-
The boy’s got a job for jabbering mambos-
Jumbos, peculiar to the prison shifts,
The jailor’s manner was at a moronic best-
Asked the boy out for his glazing lips.
The boy turned out to be a tingly doh-man,
Tossing and turning, a tantrum prick-
In a hinged bed, in a horrible blather-
Hearing heartbeats that made him sick.
Wiggling boy, oh so, scissorly waxed-
Woody foot wandering, a leisurely frisk,
This world, wacko, ain’t a worthy place
Parking, only at owner’s risk.
If I go
Will you come with me?
If I burn
Like a star
Will you burn with me?
Is made of marijuana maze,
Dreaming the flight
Of a dour faced boy-
Hunched over a nude
In an old Playboy.
Smells of money, small mark ups-
A steel trolley floats on
The floor, pulling a Czech girl,
Belying the drag of a
Cheap daily skirt.
Is made of none, smells of none.
None in the name, none described-
The thought of none, the dream of none
Son of, daughter of, none!
Created this day, boy and girl.
Is full of drama and doors-
Open and shut-
As if a human heart, a rose bud-
If only, one could see.
Why weary now, friend, the white bell
Rings. If we breathe in hush, the stale
Corpse won’t let out the scream, the
Dreams won’t feel like birds, sea shells-
The old, foamy sea when muffled the cry
Of help. And hid in a petty man’s sty,
When the storm raged, breaking the sills
Of the bay, making the brave ships fly.
Home is a harbour, in a coherent play
Of love; torn, silly ships, in which stay
Till the storm dies, skull-crossbones
Adorns the navy blue sky. A pirate bay.
(I found a very old Greek poem -around 800 BC old- by Daemon Hipocritus. If you don’t like it, blame the poet.)
Gimme a moment, angel
Gimme a minute or two,
That what is taken, angel
Will be back to you.
See, this is a crazy dream
We are on th’ demon’s side.
Let Gods live pious lives,
We are heathens, don’t abide.
A lull and the battle wounds –
Every pain is worthwhile,
Tube rails blow white skirts;
Dancing diva, Monroe style.
It’s not about love, angel
Take sweet clay home, angel
Leave the fire, red-desire –
No! There’s no burn, angel
It’s a dream in purple, blue
In the morning when you’re back,
Everything is back to you.