"YES, BUT WHERE ARE THE WHEELS?"
--Albert Einstein, at 2, when presented with a sister
--What is woman? A boon-&-hex, sometime-mate / sometime-check.
--Oh, what's man? An egg-ego? A comicbook hero?
--A brain with bones.
--Mixed with chromosomes!
--Woman is the ultimate X.
--The Royal Comptrollers of Sex, we're architect-builders of children, passion's pilgrims.
--Man: atoms with kinetic glands, machines-with-hands.
-An electric orangutan!
--You Singer-Device, all undone! Man's the Iron Cross and the iron dream.
-An iron sculpture of sweat and jizzum.
--A puzzled philosopher's tired scream: Why can't women be a syllogism?
A FEMINOPHILE'S PLEA
If you want, get a job, it's fine by me.
Drive the tourist carriage, that's all right,
just so's I can ride your dick box for free.
You want to be a fighter pilot? OK with me,
long's I can fly in your cockpit highspeed.
I don't mind even if you want employment
with the Sanitation Dept. Just let me
work nights in your manhole, okay?
… RAW OF THE ROSES …
a
When we played at being young
we were all less old than raw
All were hangers, none were hanged
and all were knights of the Lord
And then the ordered murder
that joins the chaos of raw
succeeded the disorder
that normalized our Before
Our invisible missiles
and markless wounds from the raw
advanced to marches and drills
medals formations and corps
the glory and brotherhood
the backwardness of raw
the salute to blood and mud
and boredom broken by gore
Our red company carries
symbol standards of our raw
spear and aegis of ares
forged by the hammer of thor
b
it was one hundred years raw …
raw of spanish succession …
that great patriotic raw …
trojan … peloponnesian …
pastry raw … pig raw … kettle
raw … or the whiskey rebellion …
or la guerra del fútbol …
afghan raw … jinshin-no-ran
guerra de pacífico ...
or la guerre des trois henri …
crusades … bello gallico…
or the raw of jenkins ear …
raw of the oranges … the straits …
in the mahābhārata …
opium raw … the eight saints …
or the raw of the stray dog …
DON'T GET ME WRONG
Despite all these eons of together, you still want me to write you poems? Okay:
"the stars:scattershot across the purple night / like bullshit on velvet"
Don't like it? Terribly sorry. This lack of sweet poetry, can you forgive?
But beyond your vertical crescent smile
there lurks O swastika – Mons Lisa skinners box
When you sleep your closed eyes look like Chinese twats
Though your eyes no longer burn with magic
and this hour with infinite possibilities won't swell any more,
yet your quotidian eyes still warm the frosty air,
and I don't mind my time with you.
And your arms don't anchor my lusts as they did before,
and your form isn't the amusement park it used to be
when I was the new ride,
but your embrace remains a comforter in the cold winter nights
and the scenery's quite nice still.
WE WITHIN THE WHEELS: DALIT
At the temple festival the tables went humming under the cabbage, rice, and melons. The summer sun waning. The baldbearded helium balloons dancing grandly among nubile paper lanterns, buddhas bronze/rotund. Ah, the season it was of Experience Superior – the feelings of love and the perceived reciprocity of love, when, past all balance and sense and generational propriety, exuberant amidst the consuming and consumed, we two, lanternballoon-alike, food and Buddha commingled, music and the truth congealed.
That's why your paradox didn't register at the time.
And the Children happy as tadpoles aswim in father's river. And the Children pampered like feathers adrift in mama's balloon.
Now my beauty r e a c h e s o u t in search of your damp and hidden cottage. (Remember the crisp sunflowers asmoke unkempt against the steep/&damp scampismelly dirt path. Recall the rose-of-sharon labyrinth oft-credited – before and since – as the soul's taoWay, eelslick & serpent straight, into the nirvanic heart of notUnbeing.) Your thatched and pointed little house – it's not where last I fingered its locks. The knobs now I'm told are handled some other where.
But even so, blind and blind, my beauty reaches out
reaches out
my blind beauty reaches
out into cold and empty vacuum.
And the Children pampered like feathers adrift in mama's balloon, and the Children dappled in shadow ajoy in haughty first light.
Your holy mantra for the season: Iloveyou can't love you. And the rutting neophyte at your knees picked at the koan's echoed contradictions. I angled it in the light, squinting along its crosshairs, but the scope just would not focus. Flash powder applied, I tried to freeze it in its frame. But the quiver could never quite gel. Dusted for prints, but no proper whorl ever emerged to point its finger conclusively. "I love you can't love you." I parsed the riddle into phonemic meaninglessness but the significance never decoded. Affixed onto the acrylic stage for minutest examination, clarity persistently remained at yet one remove. Until Enlightenment came at last, slowly in a rush. I'd always known you'd go, of course, but not so suddenly. And not so soon. The painful puzzle pieces shuttered into place. And the Children dappled in shadow ajoy in haughty first light, and the Children, dapper as bluejays, agreed in bawdy verdure. I love you can't love you, Clause the first personal, in classic equipoise with clause two cultural. Subject-ckause by predicate controlled, the halving twins yining and yanging about, plusandminus all at once. The treasured self, forbidden/desired, embraced/abhorred.
(My fellow anthropologists, take careful note: her heart's harsh judgment was conditioned by decades and millennia of micromacroforming. Metaphorically speaking, as such, I am the incest taboo. In those society eyes, I'm the faggot in the homophobic gym, the nigger in the genepool, the sheep in the unbleating humanfold. In objective terms, and all in econocultural conext of course, her loving me was always the equivalent of fucking the corpse.)
And the Children, dapper as bluejays agreed in bawdy verdure, and all us Children vampiric taters asleep in God's root cellar.
But the mantramoth, addicted, tethered herself to the tormented flame. The cycle doomed to turn and flutter, return and flutter, and flutter away. Return again, again away, covering and recovering the same old ground, rut ater rut after rut again.
And koan's mystery deepens.
But the Children happy as tadpoles.
TIME MACHINE
Echoless laughter
marked the mocking
rictor sardonicus
of our love,
showing us that time
is the machine
that shredshredshreds presents
into pasts.
And tomorrow’s rich
tapestries, which
were infinite once, have
slimmed to threads.
Life’s chaos indeed
is orderly but
not in ways we have
deciphered.
Our universe was
not Galileo’s
and also won’t be
our children’s,
but all their loves and
all their changes
will still be all the same
probably.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Bring Back My Love Again Stop Stop here shadow Where are you going? What is your destination? Where will your ship anchor? The queen of time The queen of love Come back Hug me like butterflies Bring back my love Bring back my love again You bring back my love again. You have gone drunk with greed For the transitoriness of morning dewdrops That will be destroyed after rising the sun You are a collector of flowers You change yourself every moment But you can't change the feather of love Everything bows to time You have to bow to time You have to be burnt With the fire of love Stop everything Just stop everything Come back And bring back my love again. The moon of my sky is down Who will shake my heart? Who will give happiness to my eyes? Who will paint my dreams? Don't think me as an old stone I am not lifeless love My love is not lifeless Come and walk in my heart See the sea of love Come back Look at my face Here is your seal of love I can't wash my face I can't breath without your love I want to hide in you Don't walk in wrong track Here is true love Here is true peace Here is true happiness Come back And bring back my love again. Have you touched the mountain of snow? My warmth is stored there for you Have you smeared the South wind? In which the words of my love are composed Have you swum in the river of love? That just flows my love Have you heard the sound of love? It is in my heart Geometric love will inspire you to come back A circle cannot change it’s center Love is not love which is calculated come back And bring back my love again. Don't break the rhythm of poetry As my soul lives in it Don’t miss the flight of time Time is limited but love is long Don't blame on your forehead As there is no true reason Get ride of the sins of the delusions Which are full of crime Come out of the cave of darkness As there is no vision No vision, no love Come back I will disappear your darkness Come back to the cave of light Light is love You bring back my love again. You tried to trickle me No, I am not fooled Tears do not quench the flame You cheated on yourself You have drowned in the sea of injustice Yet only you are in my prayers I love you from the depth of heart I live in you Ignite the emptiness Fill the cup of love Come back And bring back my love again. May life be blessed May the expression of the circle And the day -night of the moon -sun be united Immortality is in love history. The rain will come from the heaven The desert will give birth civilization Trees will spread their branches You are asked You are invited Come back Please come back And bring back my love again..
Poetry from Graciela Noemi Villaverde
MINSTREL OF WORDS His sayings crashed against the walls His anguish was no more than another new frivolous tape, crowning a brain who played the game of errors Eloquence is not enough The heart oscillates tonight and slides off the edge of an eyelid, Wavering in the swamps of petty goodbyes, Mercy... For the man who passes free from your shadow, free from you Mercy For those who analyze the foam of the underworld Wizards of the spike, Bonfire Bird Embalmers Memory footprint ... Frozen His revolution celebrated the apotheosis of life in decline Meanwhile, she continues to dream of a bed laced with rose petals. She keeps forgetting the reality of her always coming back to a life full of sunshine. GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires, she graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, which have been awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers .UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
Poetry from Sayani Mukherjee
A precious fruit Holding an apple is History circulating in motion The first fall, The first digital revolution, The doctors' one way. It serves purposes of many. But i hold an apple With my pocket knife Make art out of a fruit A nice butterfly, smartly knitted A map of my origin It can be moulded in many It can divide nations too Wage a war Genocide and what not An imaginative flair Of so many realities. Objects then are not objects But a history Fighting against the white crown The sun down ruling Tearing the flag with just A pinch of writing. An apple can do wonders- It saved my neighbour's Life A sickening days of chewing The flesh and the core The lady is now walking fast. Then I have heard A boy of merely ten Fell to a dark depth A big precipice of high altitude He was picking apples An apple served his death. A precious fruit, I thought And stopped my pen. May Days Rains in May days are like coins The surplus is warm The last drop, Tangy -An orange flush Over my cheeks To remind me Flush away and heal The poison ivy. In the afternoons I look up, The violet vast spreads In the open. A rainbow makes my sensitivity A beautiful pool Of coloured waters. Then I know howling storms pour To mirror the humane Blanketed deep around A vulnerable, little child Coiled in wintry rage The eyes are afraid to look open And taste the earthly paradise. At night I walk open The night plains winged with doors of magic blind A stairway to a fountain The tails swim in the mermaid bliss Funnel like, the soma Wets the green flush and weed out the darkening thrush. Then, the castle of The mountain Where cherubs lie in ditsy water And sprinkle the purplish hymn Of Almighty And his blessed lamb In surplus rain of May days. Spectral Shadows A small child of buried past Pocketed her memories over her little watch- Ping out the unhinged wall Over the bricks, Little tulips here and there Lying flat over A cauldron Of Holocaust Shrieks And template of dehumanized Silence. The sudden fall of The writer And institutions that zipped Up his lips Over testimonies Later, he wrote a book On linguistic silence. His fall failed back Between two worlds Masked and silenced Words of Jews and Zeroes. Dates of people She remembered well Her taped Eyes that grew up Upon Seeing flashes To Spectres In a whim Of seated big men, Eating away within The ruptured channel. On Monday, she met a friend Of her past school Swaying by the river walk Of little feet dangling above. Rosebuds after the summer haul And she made friends From one to many And chalked out their birthdays Like her favourite puzzle- Two of them stringed out She could remember too much She touched the thumb And cut the string And sat down by the last bench With her little flowy skirt And loosened net shoes. "I sat and counted One two three I can remember all of them- Her favourite way to dance in the hall And how she made her first cut out I sat then and became invisible A whole bunch of rosebuds In the afternoon fall The fallen petals, the trampled buds And i sat at the end Tallest and i counted One petals two and three With my bag of rosebuds after The classroom went dingy And i was alone And it rained hard Then I gave them my Umbrella and my favourite petals As I sat with my Spectral shadows With my pocketed watch. Sayani Mukherjee is a poet hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. She received her post graduation degree in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Her creative works have appeared in various international and national magazines like Medusa's kitchen poetry, Litterateurrw, Beatnik Cowboy magazine, Third Eye Butterfly press, Writers workshop, Synchronized chaos magazines, Fiction niche, The quiver review, The Chakkar , Literary cognizance , Literary Horizon, Horroscope press , The romantic breeze including the literary magazine of her alma mater and several others. She is also part of various anthologies of poems i. e. ''Paradise on earth'', " Bleeding hearts and Mumbling Minds' ' etc. Recently her debut poetry collection ''ODE TO MERAKI'' got published by Authorspress, New Delhi. She likes to engage her leisure in photography, cinema and arts.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
*** guilty nails torn off by a scream glued to a dead kitten graveyard inside is a bedroom the kitten sleeps and sees a red night in a dream abdominal memories won't come out dead kitten inside belly overcame fear of water drowned in non-birth drinks as imperceptibly as he breathes but where is the cat jesus christ? *** How to be a corpse in a big house? How to be a frame in a big house? How to be small in a big house? How to properly shoot neighbors in an apartment building? How to scream in a very large house? How to be silent? What is the right way to cry? How to die right? How to be a child? How to be an animal? I am overgrown-furry I'm overgrown with a stub of a church candle I grow like a tree for my grandparents The apple tree is a Christmas tree on the neck of a drowned man *** The water is silent: therefore it is on the lips, on the eyelashes, on the forehead, on the corpse. Water is a stone, and stone is silence and restraint. Remember how we were stones before we were born. Stone and tear: this is called patience. Thinking stretches like a silkworm over a wet path. Where are we going? Where does the rain fall? The dew conquers the grass. Tear after tear. Grass after grass. Face after face. Everything around is a reflection. Mirrors are silent because they reflect. God is silent because it is necessary. The person is silent because it is necessary. Man is the god of death, oh Lord. We put a candle for your repose, oh Lord. *** black night knocks on the skull box and opens the crystal door windy garden of silence look carefully at your feet *** Lonely kitten lost on the street Lonely kitten with my eyes all alone on the street Lonely kitten with my name is lost Lonely kitten with my heart is killed Lonely kitten is alone with the street Loneliness vs solitude The stars above are calling me on way *** iron sheet in the eyes of hunger fish float up and hang suicides on a tree holocaust coast in the cold forest the bones of the crucified on the branches in the cold forest *** Black birds don't let the bushes bleed Black nights prevent the grass from publicly crying Blue skies forbid hiding scars in the dark And in a room closed from the inside Тhe continuous winter revels Іn the broken bone of a dying man *** аnd when the soldier fell there was no one who could help him up *** people don't want to die and I hate them because they die pigeons compete with children in the race for breadcrumbs oil in a pipeline competes with itself in the blackness children compete with each other in false growing up candy wrappers of the night in the red throat of the abyss *** the imperceptible sky became a guinea pig dove pretended to be kissing a dove stone age everywhere otherwise why were two guys in love pelted with stones and not with wedding cards *** axiom of emptiness in the cemetery
Poetry from Noah Berlatsky
Every Use of “Self” in Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends and Influence People, 1981 Revised Edition
Itself himself itself himself myself myself self-improvement yourself yourself yourself yourself yourself self-improvement self-examination myself myself myself self-analysis self-education yourself yourself yourself himself self-confidence self-expression himself himself himself self-confidence self-confidence himself myself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself herself myself himself himself himself yourself selfish self-control itself himself himself himself himself self-improvement self-esteem self-esteem selfish unselfish selfish himself himself herself unselfish yourself myself yourself myself himself self-seeking unselfishly himself himself myself self-expression self-expression himself himself himself himself himself unselfishness myself yourself selfishness yourself himself oneself herself yourself yourself myself himself himself himself self-evident yourself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself yourself himself myself himself himself itself myself myself myself selfish itself himself himself herself himself self-confidence herself itself himself myself myself himself myself himself yourself myself himself self-control yourself yourself self-respect yourself himself self-esteem myself oneself myself myself yourself himself myself myself self-dignity yourself myself self-esteem myself himself self-criticism yourself self-criticism myself myself myself himself himself himself self-condemnation myself oneself myself itself myself yourself itself itself himself myself himself self-employed himself himself himself himself myself yourself himself myself myself self-reliance himself myself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself self-appointed myself yourself yourself myself myself myself self-pity himself unselfish himself myself yourself himself myself self-addressed self-addressed himself myself itself itself self-expression yourself himself himself himself yourself yourself myself myself yourself himself himself oneself myself himself himself herself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself myself himself yourself himself himself herself herself herself herself herself itself yourself herself himself itself yourself
Poetry from Mahbub Alam
The Rainless Draught Once we were filled with rivers and fishes Our ancestors told us the story of rain and flood The Bangalee lived on fish and rice Now, the rivers seen like the migratory birds In season or out of season Sometimes, draught happens enough to burn the world Sometimes water and water are everywhere Deluging the land in the open sky Make people and animal homeless surrounding all Nature in us and nature outside Responsibly goes to the conscience Humanity sometimes played like instruments In the clasp of nature – The severe inhumanity Sometimes, it played as a trump card Winning the race, a common play in the world We suffer from the pain in body or heat stroke Or float on the land submerged by overflowing water What’s the bridge of relation?Where the gates are set to hinder the flow And the door closed for suffocating in the waterless rivers People pass the days in torture for high temperature And the rainless atmosphere Would you please expand your hand? O Creator! We pray utmost to you The mild temperature to go in the world you made for. Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh, 25 April, 2024. Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a senior teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay, etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, and little magazines. He has achieved three times Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos Magazine for seven years.