M37 I can write and sketch for food.

Haddock without his vocabulary is almost like having no teeth. Many not born in the caveman days like me (1975) may not have even heard of Tintin, Haddock, or his blistering barnacles, but those still alive or on life support please say yay. I say this, as I was eluding to it in my last post, I have to walk on eggshells with words. The very people of the world throwing bombs at each other for imaginary fathers and territories are shocked by the mention of remnants in the chemical contraption, an evolutionary digestive tube I think we ought to be rather proud of. And they are disturbed by my popular and tersely elaborated rendition of the human reproductive organs and their functions, which at my age,  being in sparse use, I can only bring into conversations. 

It's a pity that we are prudes, ashamed of the wrong things, and I, as an alien from outer space (I like to think), can see the irony in what the species finds embarrassing. The text for this post, has been floating in my head like flatulence, a gentlemanly word I'm told I can use, except that it doesn't change the fact that at fifty or near, things get shifty with garam masala. I'm often given the false impression of an elevated state of matter by my rectum, when the fact of the matter after sphincter labor is a soiled mind, bed, and often nation.

I worry about getting buried in heavier things while, in the process of releasing the troubles of my intestines, like it must have happened in Morocco. A new fear unlocks itself, and I can't find my head. This is really a relief in India, where contradictions are the norm. The headless man in his bathroom, dreaming stuff up, isn't at all anything new; this is really just, if I may say something, trifle mainstream in India. Of course, I'm just in the minority of the decrepit wrecks who come out of that room only to go in again and repeat; most of the other examples are the only one time in a day, confident, usually well groomed, intelligent, and erect shadows of characters that run the nation. 

I have to prepare a resume that reads:

I can write and sketch for food.

I don't know if anything else will be sustainable or truthful to what the world can support or what my cellular system as a whole can execute under the cover of that name I've used before; that person doesn't live here anymore; he's moved on without a forwarding address. Everything I allege I could do in the past, there's a million hands raised, who can shout louder and have crayons decorating their curated parallel universe of make-believe curriculum vitae, and now with AI, how do I compete?

I'm an inveterate stickler, too old to be cute, too bold to be mute, while everyone else is younger, prettier, and can bend over backwards, with compatible lubrication satisfying the latest requirements for sucking up to the politics of the day. They don't get up many times to make sure the state of matter is indeed gas and not liquid or solid. Am I past my usefulness on this planet of apes? 

M36 Fancy a lotus

Haddock without his vocabulary is almost like having no teeth. Many not born in the caveman days like me (1975) may not have even heard of Tintin, Haddock, or his blistering barnacles, but those still alive or on life support please say yay. I say this, as I was eluding to it in my last post, I have to walk on eggshells with words. The very people of the world throwing bombs at each other for imaginary fathers and territories are shocked by the mention of remnants in the chemical contraption, an evolutionary digestive tube I think we ought to be rather proud of. And they are disturbed by my popular and tersely elaborated rendition of the human reproductive organs and their functions, which at my age,  being in sparse use, I can only bring into conversations. 

It's a pity that we are prudes, ashamed of the wrong things, and I, as an alien from outer space (I like to think), can see the irony in what the species finds embarrassing. The text for this post, has been floating in my head like flatulence, a gentlemanly word I'm told I can use, except that it doesn't change the fact that at near fifty, things get shifty with garam masala. I'm often given the false impression of an elevated state of matter by my rectum, when the fact of the matter after sphincter labor is a soiled mind, bed, and often nation.

I worry about getting buried in heavier things while, in the process of releasing the troubles of my intestines, like it must have happened in Morocco. A new fear unlocks itself, and I can't find my head. This is really a relief in India, where contradictions are the norm. The headless man in his bathroom, dreaming stuff up, isn't at all anything new; this is really just, how do I say this, become a trifle mainstay in India. Of course, I'm just in the minority of the decrepit wrecks who come out of that room only to go in again and repeat; most of the other examples are the only one time in a day, confident, usually well groomed, intelligent, and erect shadows of characters that run the nation. 

I have to prepare a resume that reads:

I can write and sketch for food.

I don't know if anything else will be sustainable or truthful to what the world can support or what my cellular system as a whole can execute under the cover of that name I've used before; that person doesn't live here anymore; he's moved on without a forwarding address. Everything I allege I could do in the past, there's a million hands raised, who can shout louder and have crayons decorating their curated parallel universe of make-believe curriculum vitae, and now with AI, how do I compete?

I'm an inveterate stickler, too old to be cute, too bold to be mute, while everyone else is younger, prettier, and can bend over backwards, with compatible lubrication satisfying the latest requirements for sucking up to the politics of the day. They don't get up many times to make sure the state of matter is indeed gas and not liquid or solid. Am I past my usefulness on this planet of apes? 

M35

M34 Felis Catus

I probably would be happy with a felis catus in my life, but I live alone, and I travel often and even where I stay, including things like the continent change, which are valid reasons not to get one. Plus, I've come down in the world. Significantly. I'm extremely hard up, make just about enough to barely eke out an independent survivalist life—you know, the usual hand-to-mouth, bread-line fare but without the strangulations.

Animals are way better than anything an unmedicated or genetically unedited homo sapiens can hope to be, especially cats; they don't pretend. They've retained that wild, unchained attitude towards life that sort of reflects my own in a way.

Of course, I don't have the "righting reflex"; if you throw me from the top of a bookcase, I'll land splat, with injuries that'll last a lifetime. It'll put me in diapers, or I might just die. I also can't jump five times my height; I can't jump at all. I have too much respect for gravity. And a compressible spine that aids running? Nah, I don't have that either. If you compress my spine, I thank you, and I die promptly; no running around is needed. I am really a simple stationary man, like a stationery item, for example. Just good enough for very few things. Limited. Not as versatile as a cat.

But I love all animals, including insects. I think they have equal rights to exist. We sapiens are with our livestock now at almost 97%, with the wild at only 3%. If we let this carry on, the joke will be on us. Naturally. No pollinating insects, all the major cycles lost, and in the end, no crops, no fish, no birds—just us fighting each other over hairy imaginary men who don't agree with each other and used to fight over other hairy imaginary men and so on ad infinitum men and hair all the way—religion.

Unless we can chew plastic, homo hemlock starves along with all its various types of invisible gods and goddesses and bullshit. In India, the textbooks have cut evolution and the periodic table along with the mughals. While my parents were Hindu, I never really got indoctrinated. I fail to understand why we have to feel proud by exclusion, by forcing ancient dregs that just can't float on the surface anymore because we just know more and know better.

It's really sad that all the ministers eat moghlai parotas and send their kids to schools and universities abroad while they cripple and sabotage the education system, which would create billions of unprepared minds who'd grow up confused. Perhaps luddites, perhaps Hindu fundamentalists, they hope. But egregious omissions create unemployable and depressed youth that won't know how to decipher reality. Why can't we be just humans, like cats, dogs, and pinsorms? Why Hindu, Sikh, Muslim, Christian, or this or that?

I'm sure LinkedIn will cancel my account again. I really should shut up. But I can't; the cat in me says meow.

M33

M32

M31 G20

The G20 is just another weasel tube of asymmetry for capitalists that have these 20 participating nations that superficially at least pretend that there's a burden for the citizens back home and not their owning businesses. But this time all the makeup is sort of coming off, since it's happening in India, where contradictions like this are so pedestrian that there's no point pretending. In fact, the hardened Indian who's used to a daily dose of corruption might not even notice the rift in promise and performance in global bodies.

And they're quite used to saluting people with white skin, and reminiscent of British India, the special guests and the Indian Maharaja and his courtiers and vassals are on a separate space-time continuum for all practical purposes. At least on this pretext, the capital looks a little bit like the clean room of a bachelor's, expecting a special lady. The bachelor, a dictator, who otherwise never bothers to clean his eternally disheveled palace capital, hardly wants to stay in his country, unless there's something to celebrate or inaugurate. 

The underlying assumptions for the people who are seasoned pickles with magnifying prying eyes are that this is just another photo opportunity that will reinforce the iron fist rule of the Maharaja for another term and allow his favorites enough time to make the fortunes they have manifest destinies for, usually a luxurious life abroad with unimaginable, gargantuan, undisclosed Swiss bank accounts.

Which is all very good, except that most ordinary people don't understand or don't care, as long as their fractal selfish mini-universe isn't handicapped in any way, mostly out of inculcated democratic hubris as electorate, self-denial, commiserate complicity with the status quo, and as long as any flimflam allows them opportunities for infinite selfies, which this one does at guarded distance.

While the pointless opposition, chastened bystanders and mangy dogs have been all either not invited, cordoned off or unceremoniously boxed in, tongue tied or made busy with other basic survival needs, or consuming and entertaining conspiracies, the G20 will perhaps only open doors for the friends of the rich, the corrupt, and the politically connected, based on the history of the prior shindigs. The Gini index further deteriorates in the foreboding of the ceremony, a blatant classification of the haves and the nots.

The whole world is in the pockets of the wealthy, so the unconcern for the other classes isn't at all a bother. In fact, by being so ostentatiously open about it, the G20 is yet another reason why the middle class and the poor should really worry about what representations mean for them, if anything. Anyway, G20 has finally found the right soil that fit its transparency requirements, where questions are taboo, and the press are circus clowns, willing to do impossible acrobatics with the truth at the behest of the Maharaja. 

On one end of the spectrum, we'll introduce linear algebra and programming in nursery, while ironically, in the qualifications needed to lead the nation, an educational waiver is almost a constitutional guarantee, while as necessary political traits, we covet a sage like quiet senile biligerence, wanton disrespect for humanity, a fixation for corruption, a will to proffer various naming schemes at times when the looting can be done, and generally a proclivity towards autocracy. 

Sure, Bharat sounds as good a place as India is for the commoner, since for him nothing will happen except wasted years in the name of this or that. None of loot will ever make to the common man, trapped by the intentionally inscrutable laws that tie him down to lead a life that is the reverse of the excesses that are allotted to those who write these terse terms and will now be dining in gold and silver plates, breaking into helpless whoops of laughter as they're served the rarest Indian delicacies, while only within a few minutes from them many go to bed without a roof or food, nondescript, nonessential, nonentities, whose lives were extirpated, bulldozed, ceremoniously in public for the ostentatiously ineffective G20 in doing nothing about the very world in which this group exists, except for killing more trees and spending more money making fruitless promises they never intend to deliver on.

Too many hungry mouths, later in nightmares, with tongues parched dry like a desert, and the naked greed showing in the empty space in the orbits where the eyes should've been. Dark circle under those, adding just another dimension of unreason to the inequality and making the leaders vomit up whatever they had eaten.

M30 সোজা আঙ্গুলে ঘি ওঠে না

M29

M28 Al-Khwarizmi

M27 linga mukha naka shesha yoga

If you really wanna die, do this, try,

Through your yap your schlong. 

The balls in stereo left and right, 

Hang from the nostrils long. 

Yes and this yoga should achieve your goal, 

You'll be tits up and dead. 

Practice makes a man perfect, 

Get that going in your stupid head.

The name, never mind it's too long, 

I pulled it fresh out of my ass. 

The shit's still sticking to the name,

I'm sure you'll benefit, my friend has. 

Like anything holy, so totally, 

Charmingly devoid of meaning this is. 

The best part of the deal here, 

You don't have to hold your piss. 

My friend's dead, he was wicked, 

His family egged him on. 

He wanted something fashionable, 

Liked dying choking on his own schlong. 

M26

M25

M24

M23 Come closer for the selfie

M22 The world now for the rich

Eat and shit on my commode I sit,

The bird was cooked just right.

I digest fast, a turd with a mast,

Soon a plop will signal its plight.

Here I say, at this pinnacle I may,

Civilization has created these pods. 

The comfort of my ass, the fan sucks my gas,

The loo a temple of gods.

Holy I feel, next a liver on the meal,

Served by a servant slave from Bengal.

I bought the wretch for a paltry sum,

He's here to lick the hole after the turd will fall.

I might become a cannibal,

The prices of the poor are very low.

You can even watch them die as you eat,

When you condescend to kill them very slow.

The world now for the rich, the poor is a bitch,

Gets slapped around and beaten with a cane. 

I am god, I feel like it, I'll celebrate,

Shit on the poor from my plane.

M21 A mere silhouette

I stand as a mere silhouette of my potential for what I could be, trapped by circumstances, errors in judgement, lifeless, aimless thoughts and trivia of a mediocre life. The whispers of dreams remain unspoken, vibrant colors that are without their erstwhile lustrous personality—this is my self-made purgatory, of necessity, of course—but what else do you do when you are alone? And this is my outlet—a canvas, a stage—where I can scream!

I feel singular in my struggles, starts, and restarts; every turn seems to lead to another dead end, another wall of indifference, and yet another villain. One scoundrel after another, there's an endless supply of the wrong end of the stick. Most are in for short cuts and quick money—just greedy bags of bloated skin that have innumerable gaping mouths scrounging for the next victim. In seeking solace, belligerence; in seeking expression, suppression is all I've found; these are the standard wares of the day. But hope refuses to perish, like a stubborn ember that's been pissed on but still wouldn't turn cold.

I'll keep screaming, keep searching, and keep dreaming until I can't.

M20

M19

M18

M17

M16

M15

M14

M13

M12 The cancer of favoritism

A lot of employers say they look for merit, which usually is a duplicitous cover for being on the lookout for a blend of bland yes-men or a slut, sexually, and functionally to the garden variety of monkey that can type an algorithm on the keyboard who comes in with a purchased certificate. Or, in the case of the proud aspiring companies, candidates qualified enough to regurgitate the boot camp, the leet code crammed vomit they're holding on to. The exquisite history and tapestry of how we as humans aren't capable of, or even required to, be a dictionary of code, how not having respect for our historical limitations, and how the blindspot for how gradually one thing led to the other is detrimental to a loving relationship of discovery 

An experienced person, especially one with an acerbic wit, that takes a while to comprehend and burns holes when and where it does by being astute and verifiably true is not a candidate you want to hire. They'd tell you a different story and send you off. There are a lot of reasons why I think we ought to rethink the hiring process. If you can tie your shoelaces and make eye contact, if you have the appearance of someone who needs the job, and if you have some elementary school in the background, you should be good enough to be trained for it.

Our tragedy seems to be caught in a perpetual paranoid sense of overachievements that aren't really ours; we are usually in the long line of discoverers, inventors, or thinkers, just putting the punctuation in. What are we so proud of? We've been on the other side of the chair, haven't we? The cancer of favoritism and nepotism is easy to crush, but in a corrupt country like ours, we spin words but keep doing it ourselves.

The extended drama of company entrance examinations and interviews is sort of every company's own brand of hubris, as if they really matter. In reality, if they were honest, they'd have an open web, an open book, and an AI-assisted entrance to emulate a real-world environment. But they won't; where's the bragging bit then? As if the speed marathon of the degree or certificate courses aren't enough, these companies have created another breed of extra-vain and hollow superficial creepy programmers who are as thinly spread as they are deep, and by no fault of theirs. It takes the joy and creative mirth out of computer science and tries to make it into another sweatshop product. The reason I say all this is that for any real creative or intelligent work, you cannot force anyone to do it; you have to provide a collegial environment where the brain can think freely and ask questions, daydream, and wander to arrive at a solution. 

And recently, there has been a new kingdom in this species, where some companies double as fraudulent freeloaders and scrounge favors by promising employment. Usually these are bait and switch, with the goal post (a government person or straw-man offer) forever receding. Not dangling a fresh carrot but a rancid, stale, worm-infested turd. And don't think that rich countries have a dearth of unethical people. My recent experience was in Kuwait. The more I see, the less respect I have for Homo sapiens. Stay away from, and say no to, this sort of bullshit. Yes I'm an infidel, khalas. 

M11

M10 Blobs splattered

Just the damp, dark blobs splattered,

The sinuous moods of the manic man

Commonplace, commonsense notes notwithstanding,

Plan B is yet another futile plan.

Decked in green like nothing I've seen,

The parade of the greedy jealous feet.

Forfeited the dulcet for the cacophony, 

City over the bucolic street.

The mildew mold of mediocrity molds,

The skin is scratchy paper.

On which the items get smudged,

The palimpsest of failures shifted order.

When rainbows are wrong, strength is not strong,

The stress is on asymmetrical stressful things.

It's just the shriveled horizon,

Bendy fancy scruples that no longer sting.

Of what hope sustains the hollowed orbits,

The lantern cackle sputtering kerosene oil.

The hope-like shadows loom larger,

Lampoon menacingly on the wall.

It's hard to recover from the consumption,

Of lost faith in the illusion of life.

The depression melts what gossamer makeup,

Goes by that name for the everyday strife.

There's grief, and it's not brief.

And the time seems to step into a black hole.

It's just me, and the miseries I can see,

That torments my sleep-lost soul.

Fictions galore, there's a purpose and more,

But the stretch can be overused war. 

An ape we are, for good or for worse,

Only a tiny step out in this evolution so far.

A world is wise when it can learn,

But ours is kept slippery to stay in the past.

If we don't realize there's no god, no ghost, no one but us,

We'll be crumbling, stumbling, disappearing fast.

Page by page, the stories of age,

The narrative is incarcerated in gloom.

The spools of tidy threads that stitch are dead.

Just a long hall of past echoes—more darkness and doom.

M09

M08 Poo fairy is a grown man

Unholy as hell, shit-fuck I can't tell,

If the poo fairy is a grown man and

I wake up early and see this guy.

Reading his news sitting and shitting, I understand.

What kind of manners, my good baboo? I ask.

To come and do this and also piss

Is this how fairies ought to behave?

I do feel ashamed to even report this.

 

And since I'm born of hindoo egg and sperm,

Must this then be a hindoo fairy poo?

If so, is this aberration only in this religious group?

Or is it documented more widely too?

 

Double shame. I feel I lost the pious game.

On the high side of things, we are

Moon rockets, sun travel, and inveterate corruption

A poo fairy shits on the hindoo mascara.

 

Every morning, hence, I've been sitting on this fence.

I wonder if hindoo halitosis is going to cause pain.

The peril is in the chilling morning pill, when

I feel a cold finger in my asshole again.

M07

M06

M05

M04

M03

M02

M01

P2702 I go to moon

I go to moon, soon, next convenient noon,

My balls excited with juice. 

I have ejaculated like I am sixteen, 

I will open a lunar pubic hair saloon. 

That hair will be recycled into noodles for lunch, 

Or for pressed pasta if you insist on flat ones. 

The dingle berries will not be wasted from the gooch, 

But used to make incense to go with suicidal zen koans. 

My business may spread it's in my head, 

I may pimp out my customers during a cut. 

During the hair cut you may fuck their ass, 

I get to keep the money, the cut is on the hut. 

Many a plan I must run, 

The rocket needs a name. 

Moon here I cum, is the best I've got, 

But it's just too obvious and a little lame.

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.

P2708 Farewell storms

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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