She left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
The Man who walked backwardsFor thirty years, Praveen had only walked backwards.
Through the city, he spent every day pacing the streets making scribbles in his notepads. He didn’t pay attention to the confused expressions of passers-by anymore.
He didn’t care for the comments, the questions or even the accusations of madness. He heard all their theories to why and even their concerns to his ability to walk forwards.
He continued to walk on, backwards.
Sometimes people would join in and walk backwards alongside him. It wouldn’t take long before they’d give up, realising the art meant crossing roads and dodging lampposts. He’d glance at them pointing their smartphones at his face as they filmed him with fascination, sometimes breaking a smile to let them know he understood.
Sometimes he would answer their questions. He walked away watching their confused expressions as they tried to understand his answers.
He did explain to a journalist once. He told her he’d taken this vow thir
OverworkedWe set aside a time, one hour for a meeting;
our search for a room hindered by our search
for the solution.
Can we set aside a day
for creation and have a canvas we can all paint on
at the same time in the same room
and order ice cream or chip-shop chips
whilst we make our master design?
Then do you think we can turn our idea
into a real life innovation?
Or do we continue to scavenge old buildings
for neglected conference rooms once
booked by occupants no longer present. Do
we panic about the problem and confirm
we are in shit before we've truly understood
the colour, depth, and complexity of the shit?
Do you think we could stick to our plans and
do what we say we will do when we do it? We
go home on time and drink gin-and-tonic in
a local beer garden, enjoying the warm sun instead
of an overheated, over-exhausted office.
Machine WindWind tip-tapping against
desperate to attract attention,
off desolate rooftops
where there's no blue skies
but the lingering pollution of
The wind infers longing, where they once worked,
sweeping each corner in search of their presence
or past existence, a distance too far
of just what happened and why now absent.
Still tipping and raising the alarm,
there must be someone there-
a twisted gust takes one more lap of hope.
no more than hope.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle his
tiny legs. Each stick is a new
exploration three steps to
“come on” you shout as he trots over
gravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunch
beneath his feet
and back again.
A dog bounds by, so much energy that
it sparks fear in the little trekker as
he clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.
Arms wrapped around his world,
he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywood
the movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,
tilt towards the camera.
The executioner motions forward;
a tall man, no guardian angel.
She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glides
to prep for the grand finale.
A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.
Black and white replaced by orange overalls.
She was found,
She was judged,
And Judy Monroe will be judged
Until opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallow
and her pretty head drops.
When the tall man grazes her last touch,
leather grasps her wrists tight.
the poison plunges and she falls before them all:
behold her final bow.
release and exhale.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
'til we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an app for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
teen sitcomshe's a carousel of lovers; bow before homecoming queen
built from holy Roman marble and a pound of Maybeline
a hundred cameras catching teeth; unconscious girl out the door
friendship bracelets slipping off and melodrama turns to gore
cherries popped beneath high-heels; pulses slow down to a crawl
no more teacups, dolls are gone- big girls play with alcohol
ShadesI'll lay you down upon this bed,
Eyes blinded with a strip of black cloth.
I'll take my time to circle around you.
Enjoying the light aroma of fear and sweat;
Mixed with just a hint of excitement.
I'll see your legs pushed together,
Perhaps in anticipation.
Or would it be the butterflies;
That dance a shade of scarlet upon your cheeks.
I'll take my time to run these fingers
Along your soft milky white skin.
And even before you part your lips to confirm it,
I'll already know that you belong to me.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
RainShe was bloated, swollen in her
Own melancholy moisture
Threadbare at her contours
Unravelled into gray woolen
Strings, too loose for her skin
And they drained off her shoulders
To pool in a waxy heap by her
She was rounded by opaque
Moons, liquid apricity. The life
In her womb churned, awakening
From quiescence. Her being
Shuddered from the maelstrom within
And in a great wailing cry of woe
Her waters burst in a ferocious
She roiled under each contraction
As unearthly poetry thundered from her
Throat, emblazoned with lightning. Her
Child is birthed, swaddled in her failing
Body, decrescendo heartbeat.
And as the babe breathed, the wind
Abandoned her shallow lungs,
The Night VisitShe arrives on time each night,
With a flurry of quick footsteps,
Followed by a timid knock at my door.
The reply I give her is often curt,
'Enter,' I'll say
And she does.
I spend a moment taking stock of her appearance:
Noticing bare skin beneath a heavy brown coat.
A few droplets of sweat run down her neck,
And she swallows nervously as she awaits my instruction.
I approach her slowly;
Enjoying this moment where the distance closes.
My eyes take their time to pull her into focus,
And like a bolt of awareness she becomes vivid;
Her lips a sparkling red and utterly lush for a kiss...
Her eyes are doe-eyed and completely tame;
Her makeup is perfect, as I've always liked.
But I can tell, beneath that flawless surface,
That it was rushed under a dim streetlight.
At this point our lips are separated by a bare inch,
I like to leave this distance as I stare into her eyes.
I enjoy the way her breath quickens as I ask her the question,
The question that beg
The Death that is Left BehindI.
the layers laid,
alone is a man who scrapes
outward. He is
like the child fallen
down a deep well, who
sees the way is up and yet
scratches stone walls
instead--the flesh of
fingers giving way, symbolizing
a waning vivacity sealed
in the center of his diamond-hard
Sound is a physic; music, a friction--
white hot motion to motionless
souls. It is pain and heat, terrible
and beautiful, healing, and the death
that is left behind.
progress reportthe astronauts never returned and neither did the news
in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon
the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch
as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.
in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual
mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film
tightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair:
it's the morning of the opening,
then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.
like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm
a bandit, or a preacher
or the oncoming horde of space invaders.
but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,
and now the crack,
and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.
they release a report that states that the floodgates opened
by themselves, that the valves erode
like the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,
AnimeAs soon as i saw Anime on Tv I was happy to see it played,
I Like inuyasha, FMA, Naruto and many others but why?
At 34 years old loving anime, isn't this strange?
Loving Anime is loving someone
You cherish it forever
Until You die but Anime is Amazing what they can do today..
Its in 2-D, 3-D and CG's But no matter what,
Anime to me will always cherish me into my heart and soul
When i was younger Anime never existed,Why?
Anime will stay into the younger kids today,
Anime will rule the world maybe someday?
What can you do not without a pencil today?
You Can draw Anime,
You Can always give you're best shot to draw even if you're not good enough,
True isn't it?
You can put Anime on Tv, on a website about everything,Anime Kick Butt.