Live with yourself. See how sore and bothered you can be.

Hollow

Is it Rhythm or a poem that the heart chugs on each day?

What is it?

An impure vein
dying its death.

Listen to the beat,
frisking about
like a frivolous beat.

In the lilt of the Nox,
lies a dead prayer,
a king and a queen,
raw silk, magnolia,
and the poems of poets.

Consciousness, decide between metaphorically adopting Newton's Laws and metaphorically vegetating.

-

A lord,
in Venice.

-

There is a wanderer in town.

A weekend of no music.

And now, the Moonlight Sonata
has the onus of sand;
steading by my sleep
and this night.

Somewhere, there is regret that I hadn't made it for the course in Phenomenology.
I should pen up. I should get back to Cog Sci. I could; even with the corporate wall behind me.

Fragile

As fallen yellow leaves
swept away
by the evening breeze.

Incomplete

Fragile and vulnerable
in silence,



falling back on our cigarette pack.

What has to be an elaborate dinner

If writing had to be with a mood and movement, I would consider myself to be a hypocritical writer waiting to edge myself from hypocrisy.

Like lettering a butterfly dream without any qualms.

Eliot!
Why don't you come back
alive and sprightly,
with hair so black and curly.

Can analysis be worthwhile?

Fresh!

Hoo, is that an incense, you blind-folder?

Tudoo - One tight slap-stab

The old tricks to keep one's blood boil threshold intact like counting ten - down or however-else, lettering words like 'tis cool, tis cool, tis fine, fucking fine, yea, it's alright' to the self, etc. actually work in anger, irritation, coldness, indifference and other assorted emotional atyachars.

Illati, iizuthu, oru arai araianum. Matter over. Ah, adukapporam anda silence iruke. Aanandam.