Clamshell he called me,
I fluttered like I had no shell.
Writers, with words they woe,
with silence they crack your heart.
Clamshell, Crabshell, crap-shell!
(found in my drafts)
Poof! I shall blow you
When you die,
I shall smile at your pyre.
I shall laugh with the fire,
along with the sizzles,
hope it drizzles,
not letting you burn,
not so easy.
Hatred, jealousy, desire,
compassion,love, beauty, humility,
different words,
different swords,
One cuts deep and slashes,
the other opens the heart,
said the bards of the past.
So when you burn I shall feel nothing,
nothing at all.
I shall remember no past, nor concoct no future,
I shall simply let you turn to ashes and when the drama is over,
I shall blow away the dust off my hand and feel it,
is it ash or human flesh?
When will you die? do invite me for the funeral!
I shall smile at your pyre.
I shall laugh with the fire,
along with the sizzles,
hope it drizzles,
not letting you burn,
not so easy.
Hatred, jealousy, desire,
compassion,love, beauty, humility,
different words,
different swords,
One cuts deep and slashes,
the other opens the heart,
said the bards of the past.
So when you burn I shall feel nothing,
nothing at all.
I shall remember no past, nor concoct no future,
I shall simply let you turn to ashes and when the drama is over,
I shall blow away the dust off my hand and feel it,
is it ash or human flesh?
When will you die? do invite me for the funeral!
Balsam Pomorski Tradycaj
For a week it has been lying on my table,
next to my bed, within my hands reach,
to teach,
I listen and I submit,
Humbly, dumbly,
I listen and I talk, but can it listen?
I reach out again,
I see the colour,
the entire week it is the same,
slightly herbal, gold,
strong and bold.
It burns, turns
and puts on a smile on my mind,
a laugh on my tongue,
gone are the frowns,
the creases and bruises,
the ifs and then and buts and whens and hows and whys
floating in cosmos, lying in bed,
I look back at it,
Balsam Pomorski Tradycaj I say aloud like I would utter my lovers name,
the Polish Flavoured Vodka!
next to my bed, within my hands reach,
to teach,
I listen and I submit,
Humbly, dumbly,
I listen and I talk, but can it listen?
I reach out again,
I see the colour,
the entire week it is the same,
slightly herbal, gold,
strong and bold.
It burns, turns
and puts on a smile on my mind,
a laugh on my tongue,
gone are the frowns,
the creases and bruises,
the ifs and then and buts and whens and hows and whys
floating in cosmos, lying in bed,
I look back at it,
Balsam Pomorski Tradycaj I say aloud like I would utter my lovers name,
the Polish Flavoured Vodka!
RandomImageriesOfZeMinD!
An eyelash fell on my fingers,
a strand of hair sticking on my coat,
nails looks dirty and brittle,
I see dead cells come alive and die again,
I wonder how strange we are.
Strangers we find strange,
of people we mock and talk,
but we too are in the mandala.
A spider spins a web somewhere,
A man builds a house,
A lion pride hunts in the Serengeti,
A cat purrs, the sun is tired and the moon lazy,
but the man, the man is the man, never fatigued,
ideas and words and letters and bombs and blasts
and boredom.
Ask a man to sit alone in a room,
24 hrs and he is slightly mad,
so much he can live with himself.
He needs a remote, a paper, a smoke, a drink,a ball/balls
something to fiddle and meddle,
so much he needs to be himself.
A chillum baba of the Ganges,
A saint chewing cocoa leaves in South America,
A Buddhist monk in a cave on the Himalayan top,
each one, a Nostradamus wanting to be,
when all is clear, when all is known,
nothing but death surrounds,
play the music of life,
but even a symphony has to end,
silence will rule,
but someones music has just begun,
so the Mandala,
spins, spins,
it hurts my head, it spins,
so does earth everyday!
a strand of hair sticking on my coat,
nails looks dirty and brittle,
I see dead cells come alive and die again,
I wonder how strange we are.
Strangers we find strange,
of people we mock and talk,
but we too are in the mandala.
A spider spins a web somewhere,
A man builds a house,
A lion pride hunts in the Serengeti,
A cat purrs, the sun is tired and the moon lazy,
but the man, the man is the man, never fatigued,
ideas and words and letters and bombs and blasts
and boredom.
Ask a man to sit alone in a room,
24 hrs and he is slightly mad,
so much he can live with himself.
He needs a remote, a paper, a smoke, a drink,a ball/balls
something to fiddle and meddle,
so much he needs to be himself.
A chillum baba of the Ganges,
A saint chewing cocoa leaves in South America,
A Buddhist monk in a cave on the Himalayan top,
each one, a Nostradamus wanting to be,
when all is clear, when all is known,
nothing but death surrounds,
play the music of life,
but even a symphony has to end,
silence will rule,
but someones music has just begun,
so the Mandala,
spins, spins,
it hurts my head, it spins,
so does earth everyday!