Art.Suvro.Ghosh: August 2023

P2701 Prophet triple X

Societal rot, like shit stain on a cot,

God is clearly a cute kid crude and sick.

In his self indulgent juvenile fantasy,

He authorized me as his masterbatory prick.

Arrested in development I am too,

An equal opportunity asshole.

I am not averse to the gruesome,

Unflinchingly lecherous my dark soul.

My shit bullshit, a smashing hit,

Plan to triple puke my punch,

The three main religion into a ball of vomit,

I hurl after every bengali lunch.

With shit up to my tits, it will surely fit,

The type of future I hope to fuck.

How holy vomit mixed snot, pin worm knot,

Dislocates the unsuspecting who are stuck.

Holy pickled corpus cavernosum in pissed off rum,

An engorged phallus in your asshole will fit.

Soothing aloevera very nice thrice,

Reduce the chance of sentimental shit.

I ram hatred, pseudoscience, bigotry and flimflam,

Into the fabric of every thought.

Before you know, you are a whore,

Obey the almighty fuckpot or not?

Now is the time to turn the other cheek,

No ass cheek, you titless forbidden fruit!

Now I spray more you ill begotten whore,

To make you repent your ugly root.

Yes like they say, sort of cleansing spray,

God covets rich humans in one big holy clan.

All included and charged on their face,

In one convenient quick installment plan.

But butt fuck you may, charge extra,

You can even fuck a whore horse.

Just pay your bills through December,

Credit cards accepted of course.

It's a glorious day I conceived this limerick,

Sitting slant on my bed scratching my balls.

Shall not the zeitgeist whisper naughty things,

Into my ears or order free booty calls?

I'm famished, my rice is cooking,

All work for almighty to come near.

I eat thrice and then three times I vacate,

Rice into a pious pudding and holy beer.

The less enlightened frowns must know,

It's god who bless us when nature calls.

The relics of past, risible they say and mock,

Clearly they need to see my hairy balls.

My shit faced dick, my dick faced shit,

Core to the body, wrapped in sin.

Identifiable marks, three spitting voice holes,

Yapping constantly with a loony grin.

A masala abrahamic soul could be so much more foul,

Bring so much doom, death and despair.

If done well it could wipe the shit out of all the other bullshit,

In a tremulous whisper of dismay says the soothsayer.

I'll drink the planet's blood to the dregs,

I piss on your face and poop in your hand.

Say trillion trite bullshit but do scary shit,

Lick my dingle-berries, to celebrate , I demand.

Holy those souls, looking for fucks and trolls,

Join me, my emotions boiling to hot.

Chaos and loot, vomit and poot,

Always gift the devotee, diarrhea in a pot.

Thus today, religion triple X is born, in Kolkata the town where rickshaws, fraudsters and ministers toot their horn on the same cartoon.

Fuck you all, on this auspicious day.

Says I, prophet triple X the new top goon.

P2709 It's a holy day

I'm fit to fart, now again I start,

God willing a tempest storm.

This september I'll roil the rough winds,

The smell of rotten egg signal my form.

It's a holy day, when you can fart and be gay,

And nothing leaks out that you know.

I feel pleased my fart released,

Now I clean my asshole also.

My farts restored, the gods scored,

Imodium stopped the diarrhea robust.

Bells in hell ringing I can tell,

Celebration through farts a must.

My room smells like shit I admit,

My flat like a rectum in remorse.

Hopelessly I tried to fart,

What came out was poop of course.

My pants in poop, my bed sheets too,

They are all diligently caked in brown.

The floor is brown, the wall a spray,

Hell I swear my mirror has a brown frown.

My shit smells bad, the neighbors are mad,

I'm a devout religious man.

See the language people use these days,

Also now overflowing my commode pan.

I'm a brown man, I'm also full of brown shit,

Can't tell where shit ends and I begin.

That’s why I fart a lot, just so that I know,

The bubbles tell me what I'm seeing.

There would be a day in the future of this planet when the homo sapiens would see a few farewell storms that would last first a few days, then a few weeks, then a few months, then a few years, and then, although the sapiens wouldn't be around to see these wonderful creations of theirs, centuries and mellenium. By the time these storms would stop, the earth wouldn't remember the scars of the erstwhile pestilence known as man, or their creative hubris, their many gods, and every little bit of what stood on its side of detriment and fall. There would be nothing left in the recording of layers of rocks that would have anything remarkable to say about the vainglorious species that let its fiction eat its own head.

The people and house are roused,

Two clay dams in distress break free.

People like husk and chaff are blown,

Scattered in swirls then whirled into the sea.

Death is here, and it's near, everywhere,

It just shook the mountains too.

The summers will never be green,

The cold like spears, cruel and blue.

Men with gaps between their gods,

The vast and endless unknown.

Feverish and uncertain about the now,

Strange markings on a stone.

Daniel, derna is dead, doomed,

But you haven't taught us anything.

We humans have amnesia,

That help us forget everything.

War mongers we are, by far,

Hallelujah can't neglect those dogs.

We fight with brothers our right,

Guns and blades but no cogs.

And while we are still registering surprise in one location and perhaps patting our own fancy backs that it's not in our backyard, at least where I am now, the nation, now undecided about what to call itself, Bharat or India, has several times the problem that we can see in Libya, if only for its size. The thing is, right now, the press that has the advertisements is in the pockets of the people who don't want to show leaking dams and screaming people getting washed away to sea.

And as it happens, if you don't see it, it's like it never happened. And the population who do sit in front of a television bought with a hard-earned installment doesn't want to fritter away the large screen 4K luxury on low-resolution images of poverty of people who resemble and remind them of them if the drain pipe in their road were to break tomorrow. It's only rancid and rotten people who have nothing better to do than poke their nose into the curated fairy tale that people are trying to build around their otherwise dilapidated ramshackle lives and who don't and can't own expensive 4K televisions that focus on such things. If they did, they'd join the Lotus group, get a large television, and start collecting 4K disaster movies.

P2707 Anyway, screw them.

Generally, although I've tried, the trite message that only through cooperation or teamwork can anything succeed has fallen on deaf ears. People just like to exploit people, even though in the end it leads to their end. Those that pass on my reports as their credit amass the clients they need, but it doesn't hurt their scruples, and they haven't paid a single cent towards my hours and have the audacity to drivel on about their selfish side of things, gaps in communication, or other sewage to cover up the lack in their professional standing.

This is why it's important to have my own consulting, no matter how small, so that there's at least a legal fee structure, and because people get indoctrinated into the same school of meaningless fuzzy formal logic, they are less likely to trifle with a company's time than that of a mere mortal consultant, or that's how their brainwashed brains dressed in toga's used to think of it, and some still do.

While heavy cement heads with blunt nuances can come handy in various business offices masquerading as humans in a suit and tie, the underlying issues with need are still constrained by a soft, squishy brain owner, less formally dressed, who, for whatever reason, understands a little bit of what goes behind the obscure layers of abstraction that technology hides.

If they don't sit on chairs at the helm, while the bricks do, every civilization, no matter how advanced their prayer or appeasement technologies, will come to a grinding halt. The physics of the world tend to be agnostic to faith, and thus it's only the nations that invest their citizen manpower or buy them from outside in structuring a well-defined physical universe that will prosper. These places with baroque decorations of Half assed half answers will fester with more prayers and other ostentatiously public and communal forms of displays to their invisible being, but unfortunately only be growing more and more deaf and dumb to the real world of visible sensibilities which really matter and sustain cooperation.

Why I get to meet the world's diarrhea, I don't know. I am an obsolete person with excessively silly morals and values that don't quite fit this newfangled, customizable every person's own and always changing ephemeral standard of deception that's the fashion. Fuck or be fucked is the best replacement for Matthew 7:12, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, as prevalent in the world today: faithful friends, who just wanna fuck you, out of love, freeloaders, and plain fraudsters. The brinkmanship and duplicitous manner of these people in trying to be ostentatiously godly in vocabulary while being devilish in deeds makes me even more nauseous. Anyway, screw them, I've lost my patience.

My mind is sort of locked in squandering away the rest of whatever it's got in buying some hope and proximity from humans, but all I get is a waste basket full of backstabber turds and thorns. No matter if my life isn't long, it's almost nearly over, as I can tell by the bouts of depression and accompanying headaches that are prognostic. All I'll leave behind are some blogs that no one will ever find and recycled molecules that, by the laws of entropy, will never write like this again, thankfully, for the world. It will then be just a world full of spineless ass-licking religious dimwitted freaks praying in a cave, because by then they would have fought over each other's hairy gods and brought civilization back to the caveman days.

P2706 When I die

When I die, I die a boorish bengali,

Who lived his early years in awe.

And in the later belligerent years,

I might see the poles in miserable thaw.

A heated earth, a famished hearth,

I tried to ride this apocalypse to death.

But I feel the wind slipping from my lungs,

As I slowly lose my earthly breath.

A mere speck of a misanthropic man,

Troubled in his mind and by the moon.

The doom and gloom, or the boom,

Of the bomb yet to go off, too often, too soon.

I wish to be rediscovered, alive a ghost,

I fancy a scary face of a grim race.

In the haunting that will surely follow,

Obliterate the Sapiens sans a trace.

If not in life, maybe then in death my virtue,

In a come-back sketch or more.

The rare rituals of squiggles of the mind,

Of mine will remain as strange as before.

This river of life, now cuts me like a knife,

The leftovers of the flesh drift in pain.

In a distant time, in one favorable clime,

I'll be back with my promise again.

Omnibus-omnia-eta.vercel.app

P2705 My Moon

We now hit, soon pan spit in craters, the hindoos will first shit, Our rights are safe on the heavenly moon. No moslame or other shit, I remind it, Our base camp will have a mustachioed goon.

Or no jesus fucking christ heist shit, I swear touching early morning nature calls. Only cowdung and cow urine based war, My pant's zipper open and I say look at my balls.

Holy cheeky chants, full feverish flag furling cunts, Hairy hindoo cocks blocks the docks of the rocket base. The moon is ours, puja prayers and bulbous flowers, Adani Ambani and I soon by a pious noon, will own moon and space.

Three hundred thirty million goodly gods, Names of all the manly moon lanes. After the hindu deities I foretell, To the wretched parliament of opposing nonsense.

Half moon my eye, my shit I let dry, Thinking of my billionaire kith and kin. We will set earth on fire, let the fuck rot, While we on the moon drink sherry and gin.

Fiendish and foul all like coal except my soul, Nasty and ghastly mostly hairy men. Fuck off, be gone, it's all mine now, I have sent political bottles of semen.

A fence in space of hate and fate, Chandrayan will show a finger to anyone now. New attempts to land will fucking fail, The atmosphere filled with holy hindoo farts, And moony monkeys with fire in their tail.

Happy the scientists now, need to kill them somehow, Or they'll make honeymoon on moon cheap. Poison south indian tart with my poison fart, Make godi media give them solid grief.

They go south, open the scientists' mouth, And pour the shit from a temple. Like magic, science die with the sick, And their families are sad as hell.

Wanna give the gandhis gonorrhea dysentery and diarrhea, How I hope to see that family die shitting. That day I become the king immortal, My head like a giant moon permanent fitting.

We won this moon race, shit on many a face, And by the holy piles of shiva we shall shit more. Sun next my slogan text, To orgasm the election whore to a roar.

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