Art.Suvro.Ghosh

M46 inside my head.

Cool my head when I paint with my pen,

The paints then runoff to the side.

The text are vext, canceled and next,

A grotesque bird appears to reside.

"How much mad," they ask if I'm sad,

"Was he always abnormally bold"

Growing up like fern, weed astern,

I never knew I had grown up this old.

Now what others pretend to unsee,

I can't stop my pen from painting free.

They rise as a mass, declare the crass,

Is too much for the normal to see.

Truth and trust, transparency all rust,

The society of sin secretly grieve.

A creed of greed, vapid valor in seed,

Imaginary gods make believe.

The false hope, many out of scope,

Round and bound, echoes of their sound.

Now and then, again and again,

I let my pen stand its ground.

Febrile and few, my words in queue,

I am no match for the mob.

From my cot, I can only warn of rot,

Destiny's child now a mother's sob.

I can only try, words cannot fly,

They can only be read.

If you are, indeed reading this,

You see inside my sordid head.

M42 Every bite a spite

Say what, I shit on your god,

And verily you shit on mine.

We then, shit on each other,

And everything's gonna be fine.

Your shit may be spotty, not god's potty,

Like puked up beet, sweet, you can tell.

Or like stew broth, heads, froth floating,

Rotten carcasses, cooked very well.

In the communion, the priest shits a tonne,

A stampede of devout on the goodly ground.

On this hallowed spot, they wallow nonstop,

Consecrated fat gets mixed by the pound.

Apposite this shit, fit the mixed manly tits,

Plenty pious, the puny, and aplenty pinworm.

Poked and provoked, driven and probed,

Slithering slime sloppy the spaghetti form.

A war of shit, tit, zit, flit, with lips bit,

Start with the fusillade of false pride.

A tottering turd floating ominously,

With its inherent karma on a side, collide.

Holy much hope, shit stopper no scope,

The diarrhea of the chosen few.

"Hey," said the god, a fart, then a nod,

Before his asshole finally blew.

Just a flood, of blood, loud thud,

The dam of patience broken at last.

Freedom as in a game of carrom,

At least the physics can reverse the past.

Top turd has a tumor, but no sense of humor,

Fart bubbles trapped to suddenly burst.

If you step on one, soft squeaky sound,

Remember I told you first.

Shit not wrong, but when shit in a thong,

And sold at an auction for lanky legs.

Sired by a beard, not anyone I feared,

These legs spread wide for full kegs.

The band in this land can be bland,

The drums beaten with drumsticks.

Forfeited the forever, a saintly shit saver,

Bearded whores renowned for their tricks.

Beseech the gods for anal rods,

Deliverance by FedEx tracking needed.

This then caused a beautiful ruckus,

The fierce tribal turds never heeded.

The gods of force, are now all hoarse,

Imaginary voice sucking a soggy dick.

Diabetic feet, droopy nephropathic eyes,

Ganesh is out of order, and very sick.

Sanctimonious now, then, whenever when,

The pious in search of blasphemous ass.

Must pierce in the middle, that's the riddle,

Rule over the rump with pomp and gas.

Who said round, the earth is flat,

The rock was shit splat like this.

The rugged ridges in the forming fart,

Creative pressure in god's piss.

Thus entwined in kiss, heavenly bliss,

The tongues like gyrating hips.

Gargantuan hole waiting for a pole,

These are no ordinary lips.

Every bite a spite, day becomes night,

Holy hangs the best in the brood.

Married to the moon, unmoored tycoon,

His shit always tastes very good.

Times when, god held cheeks, open,

To let his fart inaudibly pass.

But then, garlic to blame, very lame,

Thousands die inhaling his gas.

He did now, the kissing to stop somehow,

Hath not seen fart of this wrath.

The babies did cry, I did not stay dry,

Splattered with shit, in need of a bath.

M41 a beautiful snail

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M40 potholes

Repression and denial are as high a form of art as deep are the cavernous potholes inaugurated by a mix of shoddy road and human moral material, if any.

The nuisance is mainly visible when you fall into it, the rain conspires with the visibility during this month. Broken limbs, lives, wheels, and now "overturned" is the more appropriate adjective, as the ministers and the potholes have both been seen to have massive increases in girth.

The stuff that people who are old-fashioned drag into conversations, like truth, trust, and transparency, doesn't lie on the real number line anymore. Mathematically speaking, they have in India long been rotated to the imaginary axis, so that the normal arithmetic that the laity is taught (I would presume badly) can't even compute these hifalutin things anymore.

Ideally, the pleasure of seeing someone else in a calcutta hole (not the historic black hole of calcutta) is always greater than the pain of suffering a broken part or bearing the brunt or cost of it on yourself, especially if the amount of adipose tissue is conveniently set to cause a splash. The good news is that in the city of joy, there's enough carbohydrates (blatantly as bengali sweets and masquerading as Americanized fructose corn) and not enough common sense in the jostling or sophisticated middle class, and the sedentary lifestyle in the upwardly mobile gravitate by putting on gravity, as exhibit to the gaunt hardscrabble featherweights, that they're certainly better off.

Mostly out of sheer pride and prejudice for the skeletons around them, such podgy princesses don't always look where they're going. The fun is foolproof if the crater is near an open sewer with various amounts of ungulate body parts and human feces that can be clearly seen floating like breakfast oatmeal.

I wouldn't stand around for the splash, but if it does happen and I have an aerial or distant view, I can't say I'm not pleased. There's nothing wrong with getting a hearty laugh in the middle of the day when you're safe and dry, while someone else isn't, who's had a leg up unethically and part of the kakistocracy. Schedefreud the German word for it, and I have a belly full of it for anyone landing in a ditch.

This coincides with dengue season, and since the cosmopolitan mosquitoes on special duty from neighboring Bangladesh are doing overtime, they are rather nasty in their mood swings, and depending on which part of the ditch you splash, a thick cloud of war mantra chanting mosquitoes will arrive over the oversized flesh and start their work. Within a few minutes of screaming and crying, the mass of fat will galumph itself in parts on a rickshaw to wherever such large amounts of fat are accommodated, usually their government quarter or other such large, spacious caves left by the extravagant British.

Spheres in my cheeks, I hate nerds and geeks,

Served ten thousand sweet rosogolla daily.

A girl over a tonne, I blot out the sun,

I bribed into everything, proud bengali.

M39

M38 having a bad duck day

There's a hollow space in my head, that's for sure, that I happen to fall into, an unhappy sort of place that gets invited in when the weather's overcast and gray, the only constant in my kaleidoscope. I try to follow the trail of diminishing marginal utility in the chores I do when I start slipping into these dark moods. Right now, the rain is sort of in a dilemma; it hasn't really quite made up its mind yet. If it's done for the day, the rumbling sound of thunder is sort of an undecided monologued expression that's awfully loud for a soliloquy, even for the sky.

The day had eloped successfully into a hazy Bengali afternoon, orange with the pollution that's now characteristic of the air. The clouds broke the color space and upset the usual boundaries of the sky for the birds. A few birds are doing what birds do, and I don't know what that is, superficially to me, noise. Everything is noise, and the absence of it is really what is good for me. That's why I crave sleep; the few hours that I get are just a simulation of my absence here. I don't really matter to most people; there's just an oversupply; the rock's just coated with this infestation. Slime. A few less, at least ones that aren't of any consequence like me, would make the remaining broth healthy.

I'm just the rancid type that form the unsavory ruinous rubble, bubbles, which froth and foam into societal scum that's bad for everyone. The rainbows on these bubbles are as evanescent as the memories of the echoes of the laughter that once belonged to me—a forever ephemeral, fantastic, merry mirage that burst with the bubbles, spending what little color it had into the meaningless gray. Eventually morbid cackles of a demented mad man possessed with metaphors and schedefreud, the outpost for most that forget to lose gracefully. At least there needs to be more room; unless we exit, where's the room to fit the newcomers? I see people who have just been born already in the same job market; if I don't expire honorably, I encourage them to push me off a cliff. I hear some want to live forever.

Then again, I think, whenever my thinking isn't cloudy, that this is an island of meaning for the atoms that keep the space supposed to be me, me. I mean, they're never really the same atoms, but semantically, it's still me. I'm just another piece of information, really, that's alive, and the universe is a bigger clump of it. And although unfortunately and regrettably, the constraints that I'm dealing with have some challenges, it's by definition supposed to be this way; otherwise, it wouldn't make any entropy sense. When the only road points in all four directions, a peripatetic itinerant can either start questioning the geometry of his existence and go mad or look at the dot in the gray center of that nowhere and be willing to bet on a voyage. I know, I'm not making any sense, just another weird duck that's... (no, I can't use a bad word. I promised) having a bad duck day, I guess.

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

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.

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.

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.

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