Poem Of Tamed Tantrum

Of schadenfreude,
Of chastity,
Of blasphemy,
. . . . . Of triple taboos.

There, born all of us
hiding between grinding tooth & tounge
falsify our wedding
to the beautiful sin!

Of mirth,
Of grandiose,
Of opulence,
. . . . . Of dot dot dot?

Wake up, basilisk!
Stone the mind
as it’s too fluid
with thoughts of
hell, heaven and between
it forgets
that we’re no god
no capitalization
to anyone

Of poem,
Of opera,
Of paintings,
. . . . . Of which can ellaborate life.

In ways that
won’t fade it.

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Aria of Tragique Despair

* * *

Five… first allies.
Before you can count to three.
Gone. As many maniacs.
As those obsessed with righteous.
Of their own.

Was it so angerful, lustful, monsterful…
Yet faithful,

Has it such wishful chances for victory.

My, my…
How silly the concept.
Our commander to a mere lost cause in obvious war?
Before, each one fails to lose proudly.

Are we there yet?
Where we don’t compete…
for things which aren’t ours?

So why are we dancing, darling?
Under the gravity of the pink…
While locking lips with
the roses of the strong hearted queen.

So tenderly sharp and brutal.
Like sleeping wolves on a flowery field.

And why are we crying, morning?
Fever. Gravy. Blink… of each of the swear.

I admit.
It’s so horrible it becomes pretty, full.
Like demon playing innocent.
Ah, the drudgery.
Like saying “suffers” in snake’s tounge.

Where the blue soul people went to, after all?
The edge of young & white horizon?
Or below what is red and boiled?

Sometimes, to repeat all life’s misery.
Somewhere, we are going to be in one peace.

Who’ll lead the way?
Who knows?

* * *

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No One Is Sane

could you cover the sky?
As it was born too beyond.
Would you drink the sea till it’s dried dead?
Dare you…? Even to imagine?
And, ought you leave the earth, 
how far could you begone? While alive?

I want…
to put you simply as what they are.
Oh, my heartful universe.
You’re always more, 
and I’m most insatiable, 
About you, everything is vicious gravity.

my forevermore desire.
When you look at me,
Please never bother to question
if I am sane enough to love.


Cause from the sunful start,
to the most lunatic end…
No one is. No one will.


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The Scent of This Morning

This morning smells so tender and baby-good.
I recognize lemon and some fresh leaves.
Probably basil, or honeysuckle.
Largo al Factotum is playing in my head!

Figaro! Figaro!

Holy whimsical, it makes a warning!
“Don’t bother to resist, it’s a beautiful chance.”

“Crazy!” I whisper to myself.
I missed all of these because of…
… of what?

My shortcomings?
Blantant disagreement?
No idea, like aforementioned… it’s loony!

Oh! Oh!
And a breakfast with some papaya and a granny smith apple,
I can’t say it’s not becoming. Eh?

Let’s brood, about this comely morning.
The dulcent smell. The bubbly atmosphere.
Erstwhile, just for a while. Why?

It reminds me to learn about forbearance.
How to face imbroglio. Yap!
Can I agree more?

It’s actually Sandalwood.
The scent of this morning.
Summery redolent I suppose…
Might be an umbrella to these cries of silliness.

“Hello, morning!” I screamed.

And the morning replied with a gentle touch of lovely wind.

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The Urge to Write

After some periods of not writing freely, like without boundaries.

I just want to do it now, I don’t know what to write.

But I want to be free.


My work requires me to write, but there are rules, guides, dos and don’ts.

And hell, and heaven… I just want to be free!

So, here I go jumping to the path of freedom.


It’s like wanting to pee.

It’s like it’s biologically alarmed, so… I need do it now.

So I write about it, the urge to write.


I’m sure it won’t be good.

It will be meaningless, but here it is.

My writing’s done because I just want to pour it.


Done, I’m free!

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