Why I love thee alcohol

I will admit, right at the start
I have had one-too-many tonight–
Of course, you will say, "Not too smart."
and scoff me without being too polite.

But would you hear my story?
Do you care to see the pillory
that I carry around my mind?
Listen, and be a little kind?

I am not too sure you would.
I am not sure if you ever you could.
But I shall tell you nevertheless,
not that I have anything to confess.

I drink because it sets me free,
and lets me unconditionally be,
what I was and ever wanted to be,
The man that was happy and free.

Don't get me wrong, I am not unhappy or sad,
I am am not in a state that I would remotely call bad,
I am happy and free today,
but that is not to say,
that happiness hasn't got its shades,
and that in comparison to one, the other never fades.

Perhaps I was moulded in a different mould,
by the lord in a moment bitterly cold,
and as I grow old and old,
I have a sense that it was all foretold,
and I knew that the dream, to me, was sold,
by the lord who knew what to withhold.

I drink because it lets me forget,
the cacophony of the distant happy trumpet,
and lets me step out of the prison of my mind
and gives a bit of light to the eyes that have been blind.

Very well then.

I have had enough to drink
and I don't care if if this poem does sink
I will sleep a sound sleep
and for once won't, in my sleep, weep.

And that is why I drink and don't think and drink until I sink.

Chops

Sitting on a rickety wooden bench by the cam,
I hear the rusted nails squeak under my weight.
The guttural cry of the bellowing ram,
rang in the air. The time was half past eight.

Porcelain knives that come in cellophane bags,
cut deep into the flesh, but shatter when dropped.
The edgy ram was bundled in a tattered rag,
and brought to the altar of science- a feast was called.

The merry din of the joyful crowd,
masked the palates craving for that tender loin.
As the ram moved into the plate, some spoke aloud,
of the art of getting the right cut of the shanks.
It was a congregation of kind hearted people afterall.

Call it anything

It was a month in spring, life without a lull,
when she came along, riding on a song.
the flowers were in bloom, unseen was the hull.
That loony train, that feeling there aint nothing wrong.

On came the summers and the sun shone high,
that lovely wind and the clear sky,
the kiss the embrace, against time a race.
Laughters and giggles, things falling in place.

It slipped into the fall and those leaves were shed,
Off went the cuckoos and the vultures gathered.
The turf was pale as the signs of winter appeared.
The last mile was to be run in the blinding night.

It was winter- the sun the moon the stars all buried in snow
Scratched the surface but to find it was frozen below.
As I lurched waiting for snow to melt,
everything froze and death’s grip was felt.
Silence.

Paragon of humanity

Praise the man who lives his life

without a malady, free from diseases.

In his prig barn yards over the cliff he rolls over to sleep,

in indifference to the groaning misery and he does what pleases.

He is of immaculate reason and faculties immense,

can shut everything out with silent tears and silent pauses,

and never thinks to reason with issues intense.

Yes, the one whose bliss is rooted in uprooted self applause.

He always slices his melon in three,

He eats two of them with pleasure and smile.

And forgets the third while it rots for a while,

and later blames the rotten fruit on the poor tree.

He blissfully believes in himself and his own righteousness,

discards the dirty sheet and lives each day.

He never cares for the pile or his own foolishness,

first slaughters the sheep and then picks lambs to slay.

He would always be right and would always survive,

He would have health, strength, peace and his life would go on.

With nothing to pull him back, forward he would always strive,

Hail him. He, yes he is the new world's paragon.

**Written with deep apologies to Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"**

hitched a ride

One grand old shining dream

woven along seventy fourth clear stream,

with silky threads and was without a seam,

under cloudless skies and shining gleam.

The route to the paradise,

was rugged and ol' but smooth was our ride,

the fiery redhead that hitchhiked was by my side,

and her smile made the tan worth the ride.

Stopped at the ol'd tavern that served rome's aov,

drinks got scaled and glasses toppled,

the hunger pangs on the italian moon were cleared,

and before we hit the road again, a smile peered!

The night we spent in a pompous motel,

the red head slept in peace and I thought of the ringing bell.

The next moning at thirty past seven,

she said, "manna from heaven."

Hit the road and drove to the refuge,

digging for diamonds

(he thinks)
who is whose,
while chasing the goose?
who has the faith?
eh! serenade the obtuse.

the soil is barren,
sweat isn't enough- its brazen.
it needs my blood to quench,
i think i need to ask- "what about its stench?"

(destiny tells)
break the bones,
use them to till the holes
dig deeper and keep smiling,
hold on! you dare not tremble.

got lignite? smile! what else did you expect?
what superhuman feat did you effect?
just used your bones to till,
and blood to water the foothill.
be real and learn to smile,
if you don't, you're too vile.

(the final verse)
don't feel sad. you cannot.
slaves of destiny, born on midnights;
light of sparks and shine on tides,
cannot complain. it never happened before.

centipede

on the brazen grounds i crawl,

wrapped in the dust.

i wasn't here the first,

but i'd be the last.

i am your centipede.

on the narrow lane of sunshine,

dampened in ways no one ever knew,

a thorny hedge somehow grew.

and it now blocks the destined path of mine.

i am your centipede.

the days of dark dawns and darker nights-

the ones i run away from,

keep chasing me, i'm outta my home.

the first gnaws on my heart

and i think i don't have much of a start

(i'll be chased down)

i would be the centipede.