The Secret Ingredient to a Midnite Snak

The Secret Ingredient OR
Hey fatboy (although you weigh little—and you really do weigh little—i am indefinitely sold)

I am not a muscular man.
But Boys are weak and lovely
Because babe,
If you’re not the cook,
You can’t give me permission to eat!
Every diet has its day–
Goodnight love
I hate menu cards
And drumming nails the width of your waist on people’s doors seeking friendship–
And nutrition.
Men hate will, and
Girls hate ill-will.
And beasts look better than your mother.
Oh baby, oh baby,
Better to live with longing
than die with disgust
If Elegance is dead,
Don’t bring me ghosts.

When i want chowmein.

(2010)

Are Men Necessary

I don’t like when men in black berry suits look at you in a conference room expectantly

In complete amusement, beaming down haloes, announcing,
“Any Confusion?”

I don’t like when you’re out on a date with a boy, and after that he leans in to caress your curves
In complete wonder, wondering,
“Any Confusion?”

I don’t like when you’re going in a taxi, the driver with dishy eyes, a low brow
Lane breaker zigzagging at the pace of lightening, jumping lights yonder, yelling
“Any Confusion?”

I don’t like when you’re sitting in a bar, pouring over a menu fossilising words, waiters counting your creases and folds, dropping on you like flies, lizards, hawks, grimacing
“Any Confusion?”

Men might be men,
And boys might grow into them or turn into toads when you kiss them.
But When a boy does things to you without
Touching you from a mile, and you swell like a mother’s first mammary
Glowing with the lust of poetry,
The feeling that
Are Men Necessary
Becomes never more relevant a doubt than
Is Sex Necessary?

(2011)

Teatime thoughts or Thoughts at Tea time

Grey, 

Dusty,
Dusk. 
The sky falls like a blue watermelon
Pulping at the sea with 
seeds for tiny stars and ships so that 
Bowels unload
with the ease of 
kids skidding on their dreams feeling up a 
life beyond their years. 
Hard men practice and
Hard working men live with their dreams.

(2011)

Of Thick Skin and Summer Glau

What is a blackhead?

What is a break out?

Is it an outbreak?

Or a break in?

You cannot keep living with a microphone in your ears.

Live gently,

You’re not paid to wear my blood on your sleeve

We are forever, poster-ity

Weddings come and go.

Sometimes dogs will scare the blip out of you and cats will strike like lightening

From the treetops

Shut the big wide pores on your skin with a batman’s helmet

Or a batsman’s so

you never have to worry about losing skin or

sleep, in sheep’s clothing.

Take heart! there are hippos

in the elevator!

Worry about the next time you can’t turnaround because life is no circle, just a straight silly road

You are the cattle, the catalyst, another zebra crosser

Sometimes it is also easy to believe

I am Summer Glau.

(2013)

Reflections of a Sunday Morning Run

Nothing slows me faster than a run in other people’s shoes

Isn’t that inevitable; every single day!

In a Nike or a Hawaii chappal (or dog eared American flip flops)

You are turned breathless in somebody else’s time warp

It might be because your search has no coordinates and

Work-life balance is a situational remedy for the incurable lifetime disease

Of running in somebody else’s shoes

Racing somebody else’s marathon, first.

Is the heart a stop watch? Or an old fashioned hourglass? Or do you swallow alarm clocks for a living?

How worried are you, just how STONED.

The despair might be in that

Now is forever. But what is right now?

Everything: say management experts.

(2013)

Relieving Orders at Mealtimes:

Relieving orders at mealtimes:

Barf! but do not bite.

Sunk in the crook of his L bow, I waddled in his cures, tilting up to

that lazy smile, meandering gloves,

The hook of his lazer bright tools reconstructing my O with acid washes, plush new flooring, grazing past premolars, all 33, an extra deformity since birth. The future is scarce, he warns

treading old ground, even as he rollicks in the seventh wonder of my body, the origin of every good morning.  sometimes the world atlas swims in it.

There is nothing more artificial than a nano composite for breakfast and

Slicing apples with a butterknife.

(2013)

Pure Love

You hate that there is no such thing as pure joy, or pain.

Sometimes owning a car is a pure joy

An impure pain is when you can’t stay up all night because you are living with others like in a hospital or school dormitory; but can bask in the glow of high flowing electricity.  A pure pain is when you are looking for a home (or job) where there is none.

A party is a mixed joy where sometimes you have fun and other times feel miserable for having nothing to do but act so dowdy.

Dancing with your boyfriend can be a mixed curse

Dancing in the club on a stage is a pure joy

Often when I look back at the times I slept while driving,

It brings me unmixed happiness

Adultery is the feeling that you would rather order your food from somewhere because you have to eat to live; but the purer joy is when from the bottom of your fullyempty heart you can gorge on the grains of bliss, desiring, without for a second stopping to think of where the next meal comes from or the last one went.

Who the fuck wants a life where every emotion has a time and place every person a part of your bloomin’ cardiac estate

A mac can also be your best friend and not a macdonald and the purest joy in the universe template.

(2013)

Hoi Readers!

Welcome to my Poetry Blog

Mental Scaffold.

Hope my poems are tasty.

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