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M130 Rut

Rut
____

Things are not going very well—just a clockwork of rusted ruts.

In the attempt to feel different, I let myself get lured into one project or another, until the meaninglessness of it all pulls me into the depths of despair. A pathological unhappiness—anhedonia—where joys once reveled in become distant memories And it's calibrated by how few words I speak in a week—sometimes none at all. But nestled in this muteness is the pervasive and painful feeling of disconnectedness that I can't share with anyone who would want to understand without judging. And if spoken words are a way to communicate, anything I say is moot; there's nothing I fear I can add to the act on the stage in this tragic comedy I am featured in, possibly as a shadow or a ghost. Yes, I'm just a ghost, and very importantly, a meaningless one.

This spiraling downward into a pitiless dark void, more like my sophomore dreams of falling from a cliff with a receding lover's face, is rife with internal critique at the circumference of each narrowing spiral. Each fractal curve digs further into the blights of trapped memories, revealing deeper malaise and forgotten hurts buried so many decades ago.

A postponed rivalry with my own essence, packaged deep in my subconscious, is a constant subversion of what I sought to be, but linked to it, it ended up as this united grotesque mind-pair, vainly inimical for its own good—an unrivaled belligerent fatigue that kicks the weak and tired fallen internal figure, starkly honest and too anachronistic, into disrepair.

And in this hellscape, where hope feels oppressed and emotions turn heartless, the opium of the moment is nothing but a shut door—shut everything, shut eyelids at least. I hang there precariously until I can burden my nerves with sleep, and then more of it, until I forget who I am. When I am absent—a nobody, abandoned by tired neurons too starved to care anymore—I start over again, floundering for reasons to exist.

It's true, my aspirations were plucked too early, like flower buds never allowed to bloom and the resplendent flourish put on unremarkable clinical hold. Very few people would see the side of life that I did, and if they did, they'd be equally cynical and deranged. And now it feels like a harbinger of my own destruction with these walks back the memory lane, yet within this turmoil repeating, there are lessons found and lost for people like me, who are not me, if only they could read.

M12 My cup of late-night tea

My cup of late-night tea

________________________

I may be alone with my tenacious worries, or I may not be, but even when I'm not, I can only worry about the worries that I see. Yet these worries and the worries I craft as reasonable placeholders for people of my type of bent are both equally indistinct ephemera in the nervous system, which we share with invertebrates, as well as at the chemistry level with the rest of what we call life.

I know that while this doesn't help allay the hostilities that boil inside from time to time or grind away the sharpness of the past memories of the former me, it's one rabbit's hole I'd like to know more about. I did read about the fact that we're probably at this place because we have invented the future in the brain. Our brain helps us hop from point to point on this time line of life made from the tattered bits of fragile palimpsest that our relationship with our memory allows, a stitched-together sort of sorry fallen figure, at least in my case, who's never felt comfortable in his skin or at any age.

This is in contrast to the great many people that I've been personally allowed the time to observe, who, by no fault of their own, come packaged with grandiosity and self-flattering habits that make life with the person inside a beautiful poem. An exaggeration of this would be that, in my mind, a person stuck in perpetual orgasm—a brain such as this—would be least desirous of anything else in the world.

If only we could invent such a drug, a superfentanyl, without any side effects, humanity would dwindle away in one generation since sex would be a poorer pleasure for those senses. If the AI does get the upper hand and gets hold of such a tethering tool, it might very well be predisposed to use it, guided by our fiction and prophetic expectations of cosmic doom. Or perhaps we would merge with AI and get an orgasm while feeling what it is like to be divided by zero, or riding on infinity in zeno's dichotomy paradox, crossing a room in half-distance steps. A brave new world in my cup of late-night tea. 

M128 Happy Diwali

Happy Diwali 

_____________

Diwali, the Festival of Lights, offers a profound metaphor for our times. It's a reminder that the dichotomy between good and bad isn't always clear-cut. This festival, rooted in age-old traditions, symbolizes the triumph of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance, and hope over despair. Yet, its true essence goes beyond these binary oppositions, teaching us a lesson that's crucial for our survival as Homo sapiens.

In today's world, where tribalism and religious irrationality often overshadow our collective humanity, Diwali's symbolism urges us to look beyond our narrow confines. The "light at the end of the tunnel" isn't just about personal salvation or success; it's about recognizing and embracing our shared humanity. It's about cooperation, mutual help, and the understanding that our destinies are intertwined.

We live in an era of unprecedented challenges—genocide, war, climate change, political turmoil, social inequalities, and the lingering effects of a destabilizing pandemic that has shaken the very foundations of our united society. These challenges demand a collective response, a willingness to rise above our differences and work together for the greater good. If we remain entrenched in our tribalistic instincts and irrational beliefs, we risk not just our well-being but our very existence.

Diwali teaches us that enlightenment isn't just an individual pursuit; it's a communal journey. The lamps we light are not just for our homes but for the world. Each flickering flame is a beacon of hope, a call for unity, and a reminder that our collective actions can dispel the darkness of our times. As we celebrate Diwali, let's commit to being the light we wish to see in the world. Let's embrace our shared humanity, rise above narrow divisions, and work together to build a future that's bright for everyone. Only then can we ensure our survival and prosperity as a species, living up to the true spirit of this timeless festival.

Happy Diwali everyone

M127 🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴 🄶🄰🅉🄰

🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴  🄶🄰🅉🄰

___________________________

There's a frothing ferocity in my depression when it corrodes away the patina of the hunky-dory facade—the anesthetic of a disconnected mind. It's like the depression is a sort of short-circuit fuse wire from my brain to a grounding reality. 

Amplified when I see the bubbles of irregularity and irrelevance, and apathy plastered wall to wall on LinkedIn, each iridescent frolic bubble cavorting in its own make-believe virtual halcyon, hiding the real life within. I see many use pseudonyms and avatars instead of portraits, even proxy locations, and yet, gleaming in the dullness of this pastiche fakery, these fraudsters are just like any other lowly lifeform. But I guess this is the new us, everything and everyone behind a mask playing back a ritual mime mimicry, which in turn spawns more contrived behavior until we don't know what the fuck anyone is talking about. A blindfolded idiotic spastic moving of parts so that someone gets an advantage out of it, and this when we can ill afford reality. 

The universe doesn't need to crush the infinitesimally pointless plastic world and magnum opus of homo sapiens—distorted sensibilities, now almost a spineless invertebrate that has crowned a pernicious duplicitous character as a coveted permanent fixture. The people killed in Gaza, hidden or flagrantly in the open—it doesn't matter what you put before the horrendous word "genocide. ", it's still murder. It's a mindless slaughter. It's not right to get used to it, or we won't have anyone with us when we get slaughtered. 

I remember when we were children, there was a puerile future mongering so that, with the knowledge invested in our sordid past, the wretched mistakes wouldn't be repeated. But here we are—retributive genocide, and more importantly unthinking amnesiac people. When the unthinkable becomes mundane and civilization comes to an end, the moral providence expires into the instinctual feckless tribal dance of the rabid ape that we are beneath the branded t-shirt and double entry book-keeping. 

The ponderous and slow clockwork of counterbalance, once decimated, isn't easy to reconstruct. It matters little where we live—an Indian in India, an American in America—the crisis is personal because we are breathing the same air, and once the reigns of secular commonsense grow malignant tumors, there's nothing left to hope for. The leaders are spineless cowards. The void in voices makes me feel weak and throws me into my own haunting. 

The Bengali girl fetching water from a pond is sort of affirming the human and cultural simplicity with which I grew up in this mad, selfish, and indifferent world. I no longer can identify myself as part of this new world, and it depresses me. No longer will she, if she was given life and allowed to climb out of the LinkedIn screens into the ludicrously hostile reality all of us inhabit. 

M 126 I'm a bengali

I'm a bengali

_____________

I'm a bengali turd, life brief and hard,

I don't even know who the fuck I am.

Definitions inconsiderately untrue,

I'm not the type on a calcutta tram. 

I smell worse than dog poo too,

Yet from an esteemed holy ass.

Godawful the color and complexion,

In me trapped bubbles of flammable gas.

Also a family heirloom, 

A dynasty of princely pin worms. 

Very flat, flat worms coiled in, 

Not ordinary my usual terms. 

Hindoo I should be, by my birth,

Embedded cheeky chants as farts.

Elevation I desired as my goal,

But now on a pan my splattered heart. 

The world has shattered my dreams,

How will I forgive the hairy birth hole.

How will I reconcile my holiness,

When mommy is a puckering asshole.

I sit sad I can only be mad,

I see the mommy opens once more.

What do I see—brethren like me,

Plop like before and make me sore. 

The fresh feces smell like hindoo hell,

The ground beneath slippery wet.

Soon a yellow river says hello, 

Cello tuned fart, biblical a piss flood set. 

If I had a mouth I would scream, 

Sans holes, I am full of shit and fart. 

Circling a hole, I see my mommy asshole, 

Gets fingered and I exit in several parts. 

M125 Darling

Darling 

_______

Darling why are you so upset,

Why show all your teeth?

Surely I can fuck if I try,

If I can talk my dick out of its sheath.

You know how tired I feel, 

Work is such a bossy bitch.

And when I come back home, 

You're working up a shrill pitch. 

Calm down and turn around,

I need to take a shit.

Last time you hated the color, 

The smell gave you a hissy fit.

Don't worry your last eggs are good,

Maybe they're taking a little time. 

My grubs are warm inside the balls,

Spineless sperms mostly supine. 

Bake me a cake or something, 

I could appreciate a desi wine.

Be good to your man always, 

Hint : make his dick shine. 

Plus the holy dihydrogen monoxide,

You sprinkle when I take a shit. 

It infected my asshole whole,

A pious but painfully lumpy zit. 

I shit through the zit, can't sit, 

On my ass after defecating. 

Plus the masala with green chillies, 

Keeps the asshole bleeding. 

Loud dogmatic pitch tear the stitch, 

Super afraid the gigantic turds. 

Her scolding scalds my brain, 

Acerbic her fierce words. 

The gods are fucks too these days,

Colluding political partners in crime.

A poor rickshaw puller knows not,

If ever he'd see a better time.

Holy hindoo barefeet and bullshit, 

My pet a pubic tick on my ball-sac. 

Treacherous life treasonous kin, 

Multiple stab wounds in the back. 

Romantic slimy thick a new bride's lick, 

Happy were the times of your feast. 

Pristine that smile, now a hole of bile, 

Ferocious animus in an unrestrained beast. 

Perpetually profane and in public, 

A spectacle of lower middle-class. 

A fart begins, her fear forces a cease, 

A tremulous cadence flutters my ass. 

Highly strung and not well hung, 

I am a man who lives in his mind. 

Can't find her honeypot, 

Hidden in flabs of the gluttonous kind. 

So massive that her mass bends light, 

I see stars bickering, lost in their trip. 

Decorous this shanty of peaceful scanty, 

Only when she's fast asleep. 

M124 Ambrosia

Ambrosia 

__________

I vomit up food, I'm no good,

I'm a piece of shit clear to see.

I can't get along, my dick not long,

Forsooth something wrong with me.

For instance my face, a wrinkly surface, 

Can't make a fair and svelte miss to look.

And it doesn't help, that my pubic hair,

Has acrimonious lice in every nook.

So I should die, I should buy a tie,

And hang myself from it.

These and other not-goodly thoughts, 

Verily make me feel like shit.

Not my fault, my shit like malt,

And flowing as a flow very shitty. 

Can't conform to rules, or ass gaping tools, 

I hide from the overconfident city. 

A bong can't be wrong says the throng, 

Mostly nitwits of dunning-kruger type. 

Hotly chasing ideas dead in hollow heads, 

Asswipes tooting their sweaty bagpipe. 

But this life is shit, shit I know it,

I don't know, always in a low mood.

The imaginary god I pray says,

"Suvrotica sell your shit as food.

Unite the fucks disparate and disquieting, 

Belligerent those bags of bengali bile. 

Tell them you're a reincarnate or shit,

A prophet with an anal sphincter smile." 

That's an idea though, the shit flow,

Does look like chocolate some. 

I had to pull a highfalutin out,

Cadbury stuck in the rectum.

Pasted on the wall praised by many, 

Some said twas the second cumming. 

It was an uninterrupted log, I sob, 

Just look at the size of that thing. 

Delivered to here, gas from my rear, 

A holy hopeless fanatic fart I am. 

God through me, ambrosia can sell, 

Then I can pay to fuck a foreign ma'am. 

Yes I won't brood, I'll sell shit as food, 

Hallelujah the goodly god is good. 

The clouds fart a confirmation, so nice, thrice, 

Am on Amazon, selling chocolate food. 

Totally cool if my stool,

Makes to every household's "I want it."

Surely then my piss vomit and fart,

Will get recommended by AI or shit.

M123 Sashi

Sashi the bengali holy man

___________________________

I relish fish, all this just one dish,

My world holy and very fishy.

Into peddling drugs like thugs,

Same to same, my name, Sashi.

Sanskrit for the sun, ain't yet no gun, 

I gently grab testicles and squeeze. 

Or using a feather, I torment a nose, 

I eat the snot in that sneeze. 

"Sashi," thinks I, "what ought I do," 

Desirous to get kids hooked.

"Eureka" says I to myself, I cry,

Spike with fentanyl the ganja I cooked. 

That way, I improve my chances,

The fucks become forever paying friends. 

I laugh at the thought in my happy cot,

Can't sleep, so this is how life ends. 

To this goodly god I pray, suck my hooray, 

He's into drugs and alcoholic drinks. 

Together we plan the end of the world, 

His shit, by holy, really fucking stinks. 

A hindoo bengali super holy,

Parsimonious, but I like food.

I galumph to the market many times,

Blessed by god, my shit goodly good.

Yes, I mix shit up all the time, 

PhD in religious theology was hard. 

Alas, unrighteous pagan I was before, 

Sacrosanct now my sanctified turds. 

Not bashful at all about my holes, 

Hark methinks I goodly divine. 

Invented turds that resemble gods, 

A dozen nobel prizes mine. 

Even my diarrhea is venerated, 

The shit pan a hallowed can. 

I ship them once brimming full, 

Ecommerce next, how beatific my plan. 

Celestial that ass says hello with, 

An ordinary and necessary fart. 

My shit readily sinks, otherwise it really stinks, 

Grand life's this goodly part. 

I traffic drugs to the bangladesh border,

And export temple quality holy beef.

Reveling in a life of honest-to-god luxury,

I clean my anus with premium bay leaf.

Or I wipe it on my cat, a tad fat,

Has made reaching my asshole hard.

So I don't wipe, was anyway a hype, 

I shit lonely, like an itinerant bard. 

The dingle berries sell very well, 

Prithee I want you to buy it. 

The lice in my pubes or pinworms, 

Free per kilo with my gourmet shit. 

My dick atrophied into just balls,

A protection from the petulant other.

But nothing wrong with my finances,

I can still become a three-balled father.

The bengali girls podgy always,

Fuck, why are they so obese? 

Can't find the honeypot under fat,

So I fuck the neighborhood geese.

Romantic like shit, "hello this is it,"

I say to woo my thought bride.

Imagining how I'd introduce myself,

As my shit floats up in a sewer tide. 

M122 To the intelligence inside you

To the intelligence inside you

_____________________________

I am a sorry piece of shit, I surely know it,

No one likes a lecture puking poo.

However I might strike a fancy perhaps,

To the intelligence inside you.

You see we are in shitty times,

It's not strange to become shit too.

Look around you, famine and war,

There's a dick dangling over you. 

Of course shit is the poor man's comfort,

The rich doesn't like comfort of that kind.

They ought to end you think, the leaders 

Yet like turd another plops from behind. 

But it's our ass remember, 

These fucks from the ordinary stock. 

Political systems are concensus farce, 

People sucking each other's cock. 

Dangling dong swagger kong,

Our collective thumbs inside our ass. 

These war mongers fuck our face, 

Pernicious others gaslight the mass. 

Like deadly silent poot, under their boot, 

The commoner fucks like us die. 

When is enough really enough? 

When will we rise up and try?

Miseries have their populous source, 

Religious wells nourished well.

Humans live by dividing silly hats,

In many a sillier variegated fractal cell.

Vicariously poverty is tourism, 

Necrotourism get people's dick hard.

Of course,  consensus, only for clarity 

Charity-"not in my backyard."

And so the tale is tall, my boat might stall,

But I'll keep my limericks limping. 

One day when I'm long gone,

They'll do their own pimping. 

Ask no questions, I'll tell no lies,

But my shit will leave a stain.

I refuse to be a silent bystander, 

Muzzled in ball and chain.

M121 I stir my rod

I stir my rod

____________

I stir my rod, it's my erected god, 

But limp for many years. 

"Na na na na," i sing, "bengali banana," 

I milk it fondly with happy tears. 

Mostly I watch louse beget louse, 

Songs about pubes, rapacious rapture. 

Pilgrim pinworms from my asshole, 

Screwy nefarious nitwits I capture. 

On one dingle berry tree I see, 

A pinworm adam with steve cavort. 

Bollywood style holy galumphing, 

While pinworm eve building a fort. 

A dingle berry don she marches on, 

Recruiting females to her cause. 

A rumbling fart spooks the ladies, 

I show them who's the boss. 

Well I am almost half a hundred years, 

The springs aren't spruce anymore. 

Plus for real, I don't have money, 

Can't ravish a mercenary whore.

The ejaculate leaks quietly, a fugitive, 

Watery furtive smile, likely infertile. 

I'm sure I can't be a daddy, even if, 

I fucked all girls within a mile.

Ah that dream, many manly dreams,

I am a tiger with knees held apart. 

But eviscerated and refractive forlorn, 

Bulbous the balloon filled with fresh fart.

Totally into X-Files and shit porn, 

Not the ordinary jaundiced jackass. 

Pious and holy, doll-dick bengali, 

I float on farted sulphurous gas. 

A tight and virgin asshole, 

Goodly says a bengali good-god. 

Ass fucking popular in hindoo hell, 

Influences of the US abroad. 

A homo commie without a mommy, 

Started fresh on a layer of holy shit. 

Towards the drunken end,  frolicking friends, 

Begat with splat some nepotistic vomit. 

So holy, goodly also the lack of animus, 

Gods paying to get ass fucked. 

Hallelujah my sphincter fluttering, 

I won't have to pay to get sucked. 

Coolio says I, sheeeeit, this I should try, 

Lamenting the heterosexual odds. 

Chicks don't like an asshole like me, 

Disused my embroidered anal rods. 

Holy tiger plus totally hindoo, 

My tits jiggling with joy I find. 

I feel a pleasure poot coming on, 

My mind still of a puerile kind. 

M120 Alien in calcutta

Alien in calcutta 

________________

I ain't normal I tell you that,

But I guess you know that already.

A spook by look, an open book,

Screwdriver to unscrew humanity.

I am a system from another planet,

The genes modified during birth.

I grew up as an autistic child,

Now a canceled middle age girth.

I see things that you can't see, 

The invisible knobs of fealty. 

Bricks and butts, trees and turds, 

Polynomials nested in reality. 

It's all numbers from start to end, 

Missing from the cavemen stare. 

Time's an entropic illusion, 

Past future and present interfere. 

But I can tell you one thing,

You don't have to worry about us.

Aliens are inserted in the populace,

Like me programmed to cuss. 

I used to blend in well,

But I burnt the philadelphic circuits.

Now I can't pretend what I'm not, 

My tea I drink with biscuits. 

I like this city of my connection, 

The bengali swimming in slime. 

In this city the next great civilization lives, 

Only now a matter of time. 

M119 Dental pain

Dental pain

___________

𝙅𝙤𝙞𝙣 🅾🅼🅽🅸🅱🆄🆂  🄾🄼🄽🄸🄰 :

https://lnkd.in/dgz9djEM

Holy mother of cavity flared up,

The pain throbs under my skin. 

Can't move the jaw jagged sharp claws,

Tearing the flesh from within.

Trigeminal nerve the mandibular branch,

Shocks that fucks with my head.

Holy bengali shit fucking folly,

If this is living I'd rather be dead.

Anterior lingual nerve couldn't swerve,

Tongue pain referred, worms in a can. 

An earache may be in the near offering,

Warm compress of a tea cup I plan.

Ketorol DT should work,

If the cavity isn't an infected fuck.

Then a barrage of antibiotics,

Out of my ass shit smeared thumb I suck.

Holy father of shitty snot,

Saliva drooling out in a pool.

A god's curse, no money in the purse, 

I wish to regain posture and cool.

Cackling greedy calcutta dentist,

Their assholes stuffed with cash.

The fucks want to charge an arm and leg,

Unnecessarily their violence that's rash.

Expertise is in ripping scams,

Marked up over the market price.

Bengalis can't trust doctors in bengal,

They run to the south in a trice. 

I'll end the rant, I've piss my pants,

I may even shit slime with pain. 

In the name of everything that's holy, 

Marvelous pain design, now deadly vain. 

M118 Durga Puja 2023

Durga Puja

___________

So totally holy, duped bengali,

How I cherish this time.

Like god I sit, tits talking shit,

Auspicious and august the clime.

Pandal hops two pandal tops, 

Hardscrabble nitwits plague the street. 

I don't mix with the natives, 

Keep my shit very discreet. 

Mostly I travel abroad, 

Pious the goodly foreign scenes. 

Blonde mistresses and son in Europe, 

Like god, mysterious my means. 

This month the fools are forced,

I accept only shiny gold coins.

That way the storage is easier,

Warming my super holy loins.

The perks of chair so fair,

Easy are the promises I tell.

Everything put in future tense,

Castles in the air I sell.

By decree the schools not free, 

Desist and decimate healthcare. 

By design roads built with shit, 

Pimps recruited everywhere. 

Only the ones with long wet tongues, 

Who obsequiously peddle my rants. 

Independent thinkers and press fucked, 

On my turd, grinning sycophants.  

In my hands this holy land, 

To my friends eviscerated parts I sell. 

Dense in number and in the head, 

The laity in a manufactured hell.  

Scams galore, a sweet money whore, 

I pass black hydrogen as green. 

Lies make the environmentalists happy, 

For sale, South Indian rice pullers I screen. 

Sweet shit porn, sweeter with sweet corn, 

Must be holy to get shit done. 

Holier than thou I fuck you now, 

This how yarns are spun. 

Into bitcoin and crypto as well, 

Apply the greater fool theory*. 

No dearth of greater fools, 

The pious shit scams like puree. 

Problems I show predate my time, 

Futuristic change the fabricated past. 

Always an excuse, from my ass, 

I can pick really really fast. 

Juicy the fruits, the lady recruits,

So holy I shit with joy.

Even my farts are famous, 

A ploy on media I employ.

Once on a chair always on a chair,

Hail the democratic sweets. 

Now they serve the bengali ones,

I the elected minister eats.

*The "Greater Fool Theory" suggests that people buy an asset, not necessarily because they believe in its fundamental value, but because they hope to sell it later to someone else (the "greater fool") for a higher price. A con to snare the educated and lazy greedy. 

The Rice Puller scam and various hydrogen-related scams can be likened to the Greater Fool Theory in the sense that they prey on people's belief that they can sell something of dubious value to someone else for a higher price. 

https://lnkd.in/d4Zq52zv

Hydrogen Scams involve a lie. That produced by burning coal (Black) passed on as produced by renewable energy sources (green). 

Buried in the festival ostentations, the real symbolism is overlooked. Women played not second but no fiddle at all in our backward recent prehistory, and they are still the first ones to bear the brunt of war, social injustice, and the overt misogyny in all religions. But some ancient Hindoos were smart enough to get their heads out of their shitty butts, giving us the Durga fiction. She embodies the collective strength of the divine, which, even in myth, is a chauvinistic collective of lazy potbellied male gods full of farts. She's a metaphor for the depths of feminine prowess, which are profound and boundless. Just one of them can easily outsmart a whole bunch of hairy dudes, then and now. Now even more. All males have left—hair in the wrong place—pubes, with stressed out lice and fanatic dingle-berry pinworms. 

Mahishasura, the mustachioed quintessential Durga villain, represents the male archetype arrogance that underestimates feminine power. The ungulate idiot didn't think woman could challenge him. Described as "the weaker sex" , through suppression and discrimination, women are told they are inferior.  

Her story shows the contradictions. Women, while mainly fat and water, soft, squishy, delicate, and symmetric, possess hard inner strength missing in hawkish males or their gung-ho groups, her accommodations necessary to keep the dick head species going. The resilience, creativity, multifaceted skills, adaptability, and sheer willpower, is the symbolism of this multi-arm fiction. 

The term "computers" itself harkens back to the brilliant women of Bletchley Park during World War II and those in the US war effort for the creation of the atomic bomb or even in astronomy, where the real discoveries were all women doing the tedious calculations.

Émilie du Châtelet gave us energy while Ada Lovelace wrote the first program. Radioactivity and DNA, along with the many unsung mothers and wives or daughters, played an unassailable role. Ernest Rutherford's wife, Mary Georgina Newton; James Clerk Maxwell's wife, Katherine Mary Dewar; Albert Einstein's wives, Mileva Marić and Elsa Löwenthal; and Antoine Lavoisier's wife, Marie-Anne Pierrette Paulze, were all remarkable in their own right. Their roles as partners, confidantes, and sometimes contributors to their husbands' works have been pivotal. Their presence and influence, whether direct or indirect as dream factories, have left indelible marks on the annals of scientific history. "Gublu chondro," my ex-wife, and "pills" in my last company from my recent past, or Mohua and Nandini in San Antonio, my mom in her days, or my own sister, are exemplars of the durga phenomenon. 

So happy Maha Ashtami, hairy fuckwads, degenerates, and feckless penetrative fantasists! Stop thinking through your dicks and stop the bullshit wars, or a durga will come spank your war mongering ass. 

Happy maha shaptami homo witlesses

May devi durga at least help keep the manholes covered in the city of joy. Note to feminists, the man in manhole isn't exclusionary. In a democracy everyone has equal rights to ingress although I'm not sure egress has been constitutionally defined. 

Civilization has advanced if not the outlook or the fettle of the middling rich populace, it certainly has added enough fat cells and belligerence to the everyday street scenes. 

So holy it makes me cry. 

M117 it rains

It rains real bad the streets get sad,

The city drowning in water pooled.

In bengali we say only a pissing frog,

Can sink this city unschooled.

Knee deep or walking like a creep,

Street urchins make the best of it.

Splashing with joy fishing for a toy,

They don't mind the floating shit.

It's fun especially with the sun,

The water starts to boil.

Happy the microscopic world,

Unpaid a vacation from the soil.

Mosquitoes are doing better, 

Not so the poor and middle class. 

The affluence of merit worth shit, 

The goons of bengal harass. 

It's easy also for the pickpockets, 

But much better for the lead. 

Money squandered for drainage, 

Larceny in the ruling breed. 

Most now fat post diabetic scat, 

Makes the pooled water sweet.

Sweet this morning children fishing, 

Snakes lost below their feet. 

I've always said much upgrade, 

Of no worth in shanty town. 

Calcatian's calculus of complacence, 

Is like their shit, a holy brown. 

Down the street, not discreet, 

Are manholes for all pedestrians. 

Uncovered they provide a tour of hell, 

Complementary rooming with carrions. 

I sit now nice, the only trice, 

For me here is to stop the think. 

That may thus reward all of us, 

Adding to the water my stink. 

M116 I brush hard

𝙸 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍

_______________

I brush hard with shit, my turd,

I don't let the smell dissuade me.

That way when I speak it's a fart,

Key ingredient for sanguine glee.

New discovery when I puke, 

The retching brings up my past. 

Once a young boy with teeth, 

I'm losing the shits fast. 

My toupee or cap I wash not, 

I have crusty critters to house. 

I saw a cat chase a rat in my hat, 

A mouse with a fat leery spouse. 

I improve crowd impoverishment, 

A tact that's shorn of facts.

I use my other hole, my asshole,

For larger and nefarious acts.

Holy I am, a fat bengali kilogram,

My shit I've splattered across the seas.

I know my advantage are my pinworms,

The loony lice, ticks and pubic fleas.

I make the grounds hallow as a fellow,

Of the homo hemlock race of men.

My turds I use to plaster the walls,

Art of  pissing zen, I pen quite often. 

The books I read all goodly pious, 

So totally into religious neo-rattle. 

Pages full of blabbering bullshit I read, 

Tattletale drivel, holy pernicious prattle. 

From these I learn, from shit you earn, 

Just center your asshole on a yap. 

Let the tenacity in a turd land, 

Verily sing the larcenous rap. 

Thirteen men on a dead man's face, 

Yo ho ho and a bottle of piss. 

Bacterial infections are your kin, 

Can't miss god's fermented kiss. 

"Tell me fair why on ass so much hair?" 

When god asks you in a speech. 

He hasn't seen the crack in depth, 

Not hair but some kind of leech. 

Shitty shitty fuck his anus quickly suck, 

Be a good man I always think. 

I think many thoughts brushing my teeth, 

With a winking asshole fart more stink. 

M115

M114 🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴 🄶🄰🅉🄰

🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴  🄶🄰🅉🄰

___________________________

I paint and sketch often my retch,

The animals are out again.

Bold and beautiful the landscape full,

I can't imagine how I'll be slain.

I mean what can you do?

Anyway we're good with 🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴.

Just okay not to look at 🄶🄰🅉🄰,

Coiled in our cocoon we hide.

A scrotal fatal transcendental itch, 

Pin worms on a excursion trip. 

The testicular philosophy to retract, 

Iɴɴᴏᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀᴘ. 

Just as long as it's not in your face,

We're entertained by shit hitting the fan.

Vamoosed in the distance our morals,

Scruples hushed, rockets for bedpan. 

Just ask yourself why you or I,

Are different and in what way.

The answer from an indoctrinated past,

Will be an unapologetic spit spray.

This and that our guide to hide, 

Invisible gods on either side. 

Just like that another land flat, 

Unraveling this living ride. 

This from holocene to anthropocene,

Name changed a hole to an asshole.

This age thus, will fuck us to fussy pus,

Goodbye says the dying soul. 

M113 The black fungus

I am not sure how to say this,

But I am a terrible terror whore. 

I suck flesh dry and make them cry,

Fuck who knew I'd shit some more. 

Six feet sheet covered with shit,

I offer you a drink or three.

My love I  yap, black tea is crap,

I just came down from a tree.

It's a fungus in me that you can't see,

It's taken over my dead brain.

In this world I a menace unfurled,

Soon for you it's just pain.

It might be the end around the bend,

I send my regards and hyphae.

I'm glad you're feeling better, 

I'll be growing inside you and happy.

I wake up and it's another one, 

My lover the toothache is back. 

Nightmares are what makes me tick, 

Otherwise a bland outback. 

I dread the bengali puja every year, 

The flashbacks are unbearable. 

I sleep more just like before, 

I start feeling fucking terrible. 

I see dead people on the street, 

Next to the pandals they stand. 

The black fungus in me is back, 

You won't understand. 

M112 Super shit splat

𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝

____________________

Super shit splat I tip my hat, 

A holy melange from the top.

Holy this vow I make somehow,

Round and round I hop.

Hopping venal pious the penal,

Sacrilegious to so not pray.

Infidel with chronic infidelity,

Can't trust the tits today.

Look at them the skirt hem,

Sky high, makes the holy sigh.

Girls ought to stay indoors,

Otherwise god gouges their eye. 

A dilettante in a see-through panty, 

Belong to lost and losing souls. 

Of course the men are worse, 

Floppy wet-sock mumbling assholes.  

Must stone them dead, hit on head, 

Happiness must not be gay. 

Smorgasbord of many holy folly, 

I have nothing more to say. 

A belligerence of unity over the city,

A sign the gods all fed up.

As rain they pissed last night,

I drank to dregs a cup.

Customery wait for the end of days,

It may be on a weekend I hear.

I have my freezer fully stocked,

Ass wipes fill a tunnel rear.

Shit when hits the fan, oh man,

Missing in action this I for sure.

A rat sans cat in the tunnel where,

I shit my crap so pure.

M123

Oh I smoke, but not crack coke,

This some artist quality weed.

I need to diffuse tensions sometimes,

A tensed mind unkind indeed. 

Ideas may look bright sans light,

But in the din of kin it's blurred.

This weed is some strong shit,

When stoned my speech is slurred.

Ganja it's called here in this part,

My slum in the city boondocks.

I'm drunk on booze helps the snooze, 

I prefer served on the rocks.

Then I take a calcutta bus, greasy pus, 

Drooling from wounds hanging on. 

A smelly poot, feet on someone's foot, 

A tin full of bengali biligerent brawn. 

This mid-october I sure ain't sober, 

The heat fucking my ass. 

I drink to think with weed in sync, 

Hot the air I pass as gas. 

It's a local hooch, I mooch,

God bless in me the holy goon. 

I'm getting an idea, it's in my ass,

Must pull it out real soon.

When I can't drink, dry days stink, 

The world becomes an insufferable hole.

In it a man suffers a hard turd,

Burning woes of a gaped asshole. 

Every morning thus, I shit acid pus, 

The diarrhea a partner in crime. 

I smell mango my diarrhea tango, 

Popping the pious with slime. 

I feel upset when shit unset, 

The sun rising in the south. 

The holy fucks leadership sucks, 

I direct my shit in their mouth. 

Gung-ho can certainly do but they can't, 

Unscrupulous and venal assholes. 

The Indian race gets shit on face, 

Morbid the many holy souls. 

I get used a bit confused, 

The masks of a grinning head. 

My friends only fat infants, 

Who like me live on mommy's bed. 

It ain't right these folks not bright, 

Under the super holy sky. 

A bengali man does what he can, 

Shits in pots the thoughts like I. 

Change this and that after the fact, 

But wipe your hole you must. 

Cleanliness is like godliness, 

Otherwise the shit forms crust. 

Not fully foul my soul, 

I shake my fist in jest. 

The rituals of the day fucks ass, 

Most people here just pest. 

M122

M121 sage shoukalin

I sage shoukalin, just in,

Hallelujah or hello, losers galore.

If you think your shit doesn't stink,

You're a stupid whore.

Glib with fib foaming ink on nib, 

People on LinkedIn like shit to spin. 

Coolio, no problemo, I can do that, 

Goad the gullible to hell with a grin. 

Holding my shit for millennia, 

Fancy me traveling in time. 

This son of a bitch is a descendant,

This diarrhea will be like slime. 

But he's autistic and shit,

An unremarkable and unfiltered spook.

I've come all the way, to stay, 

For him a masala medicine cook.

Sweet nothing but true fucking, 

Euphemisms I need to teach. 

He doesn't smile as if he has piles, 

Ideas in his ass outside his reach.  

To say please then piss release, 

Stabbing from the back the heart. 

He's been stabbed so many times, 

You'd think he'd master the art. 

Con with winking emoticon on, 

So holy this LinkedIn I cry. 

With english it's easy to be selfish, 

Your fish you secretly fry. 

What a creep, in shit knee deep,

A hole in his holy underwear.

But that's the only one he has,

And has asked me to share.

A hindoo sage weird in this age,

I went tits up long time ago.

As a super saint I used to paint,

God's shitty constipated flow.

I made shit up from close up, 

It's easy but this Ghosh is dumb.

He thinks people will listen to reason,

As a collective they only suck their thumb.

The collective thumb up their collective ass,

Now I hear has cooked other gods.

Bullshit has not gotten out of date,

Amazon will list my pointy anal rods.

Yes sirree those don't grow on trees,

I poke with rants, gibberish chants. 

Thus I'm set to spread hate in spate, 

It's ready already and out of my pants. 

 

M120 I feel weak

It may be blasphemous, at least since Israel supports the spying infrastructure in India—the popular pegasys system—to say anything that's not aligned with the incumbents, but I feel this isn't the way to go; both Israel and Hamas will be causing the deaths of innocent civilians, and I don't care about sides. Just like I said Putin was wrong, these guys are too. I feel more helpless and depressed.

It's probably just me, an up-and-coming loser adrift in this meaningless haze, or maybe it's because depression lifts the curtains and exposes the ulcers and festering boils under the imitation-brand t-shirt that society wears. The days and nights whirl into a dull, repetitive routine that doesn't inspire any creativity, but I persist in bringing pen and paint to paper. I do that because time is running out; it's this moment, and that's all I have—an ephemera that's constantly spooled into the past before I know it.

And soon the entire present will be spooled into the past, and I'll be closing my eyes. It's inevitable, and that's why I need to keep looking for the cracks through which the Tyndall rays stream through the haze in the early morning when the angle the sun subtends allows for this magic. At least I'm still breathing. I console myself; it could be far worse if I allowed people's bullshit to get any closer than it has. This self-imposed incarceration is what has kept me alive.

Some people on LinkedIn misunderstand me as an impolite snob who rams in as a contrarian when everyone else is going giddy with emoticons. They don't know how uncomfortable this persona is and how unfortunate it is that they might not get anything out of my efforts. It's hard to reason with the crowd. I'm outnumbered. These are overconfident people who don't want to hear from experience unless it's obligatory or part of a paid course that sends them a paper they can frame on the wall. And even with all the trappings of civilization on the shimmering glossy patina of social media, it's still a tribal society of rabid apes barely past its infancy in evolutionary terms and well steeped in the prevailing superstitious voodoo and fiction they've been indoctrinated into, unwillingly at first and then as complicit partners in crime.

Plus, they're right—those that know have been bad communicators, hiding what is straightforward in the deep wooded impenetrable jargon land. It's a pity it has to be this way, but when I look at my situation, it makes me realize that if this is how science has to struggle for a foothold, it's because the scientists are doing a pretty good job of making it slippery for popularizers by creating an alien language that's hard to translate into colloquial everyday plainspeak. And thus, unless the bubbles are pricked when they're sitting on them, most keep sailing drunk with ignorance, which feels good. The main problem is that the bubbles will burst in their lifetime, and they won't remember the ugly, smelly, disgusting cynics that tried to warn them before.

 

M120 Snow the cat

Recitation 

Hello sire please don't fire,

I am a simple eastern man.

I eat and sleep my business keep,

According to god's holy plan.

Recently I know my cat snow,

Stole fish from your stand. 

It's a felis catus a very low status,

I hope you understand. 

It's a bengali cat, grown fat,

Could not convince to eat fruits.

Vegetables she ate she hate, 

My luck with bad recruits.

Won't take god in her heart and farts, 

Starts her bell to ring. 

The vedas don't appeal to her, 

Her yawning very depressing. 

Good with fights without lights,

You can see if she's your type.

I quiz her holy chant but she rants, 

Her asshole on my mouth she wipes. 

Very naughty and very haughty,

Her shit smells very bad.

Lately she's been shitting on me,

This makes a holy hindoo sad.

M120 homo sapiens fucked

Religion and local affiliations can be both uniting and dividing, while providing a sense of identity, community, and purpose. When exploited or misconstrued, they can lead to division, discrimination, and even conflict. This can have long-term repercussions on the socio-political fabric of nations. And you know what I'm talking about and why! Unfortunately, if Homo sapiens can't get their act together, we'll implode before the damage to the environment can exterminate us.

Globalization has brought about economic growth, technology transfer, and cultural exchange but has also exposed stark disparities, sometimes exacerbating inequalities. Capital flows to where it's most profitable, not where it ought to. The inevitable and increasing awareness of disparities and inequalities flashing on every smartphone is making it harder to hide the contrast between the simultaneous pile-up of wealth in one place and the absence of wealth in another, making issues flare. This heightened awareness is leading to fewer positive actions (like global initiatives to combat corruption or promote tolerance and economic equality) and more negative selfish reactions (such as a rise in nationalist or extremist movements).

The world today witnesses significant economic disparities, both within nations and between them. Cities and regions can vary dramatically in terms of development, wealth, access to resources, and quality of life. Now, in the most basic form I've read, diffusion refers to the process by which molecules spread from areas of high concentration to areas of low concentration. In the context of human society, it can lead to some kind of inevitable equilibrium, even through war and violence. Things can't stay like this forever in a connected world.

Densely populated areas, regardless of their economic status, can put significant stress on local resources, including water, food, energy, and infrastructure, but they can also be catalysts for societal breakdown. When they resort to unsustainable practices out of disparity, the environmental degradation with which we are sharing the sky isn't contained. This economic disparity will lead to feelings of injustice, fostering social unrest, crime, and more political instability.

The blending of cultures, religions, and economic classes in many parts of the world, while enriching, also poses challenges to cohesion. Differences in values, beliefs, and economic status can lead to tensions. Furthermore, perceived threats to one's identity or economic standing can lead to an entrenchment of divisions. Effective governance can play a crucial role in navigating these challenges without siding with one actor or reacting. Policies that promote education, tolerance, economic equity, and anti-corruption can help bridge the divide.

Corruption in India hinders growth, development, and equitable resource distribution. In the developed world, it manifests as policies that maintain or exacerbate global disparities.

M119 This god in me

Holy my shit I can feel it,

Only my god is really true.

Every other god is a straight lie,

Just gas through ass flowing through.

Usually after tea, constellation in harmony, 

I always consult the stars. 

A soft spoken fart the polite start, 

Like the acknowledgement in memoirs.

My fart, fine art, when I start,

Mysterious are the six days of heaven.

If shit gets stuck I put finger in the muck,

Sometimes a whole fist on day seven.  

From this side or that my turd always fat, 

An image of its engendering hole. 

Such high thought, thinking outside the pot, 

Pinching a loaf, a goodly puckered soul. 

I bite and fight my god my right,

I'm parked where I've shit before.

This then a holy land if you understand,

Otherwise you're just a rancid whore.

Often in the scent are my feelings pent, 

The gods clap themselves gay. 

This perfume a melange of toxic fumes, 

Holds the noxious naysayers at bay. 

Coolio says I, as I shit more or try, 

Bubbles in the bubba to beget. 

Hope between farts when broken in parts, 

A posture of divine pressure is set. 

Can you not see that this god in me,

Just plopped a turd so fresh.

Now this I guard from the common herd,

Silly mesh of cells called flesh.

Logic is sick shit, there I said it, 

The apothecary calls it the new plague. 

Guard with your life, carry a sharp knife, 

Always be holier and totally vague. 

Time for war, never very far,

Your own red decapitated head.

Join me and be both proud and loud,

Be good with my god or drop dead.