The Love Bomb of J. Prufrock


Evolution by AandG

Reposted from Dec 6, 2016

vapors wander
under the door sill
smoke drifting insolently
from Magdalene’s cigarettes
in the hallway like a teenager at school
lacking Self-Awareness

the Terracotta Princess holds her head
in her hands and complains of migraines
in Winter stuck indoors and camphor smell
of wooden chests from Indonesia carved
with birds elephants tropical palms
hold our memories

we read our thumbnails like tea leaves
across the picture window wall of the sitting room
desperately brushing at the webs
that encapsulate sterile
lives once breathed
now only suffocate
in stillness scrolling
the Ether mesmerized
by the Ether swallowed
by the Ether

lost in addresses unknown
our unexplored paths rerouted to
numerical errors multiplied in chaos
as we count our digits and laugh at the irony

the Dominion knocks at the door
and lets himself in shivering from the cold
outside and shakes his wet raincoat on the living
room rug with the abandon of an overzealous Dane

circles the dining room table
weary from journeys taken unsolicited
but lucrative just the same if you’re a lost
soul and he’s certainly a lost soul lacking

come in
make yourself at home
I ready a cup of fresh ground
Moka from the stainless steel pot
and sweeten it to taste and offer it along with
the finest French creme pastry you can buy
in a cellophane wrapper

it isn’t much and may not
go well with the Sumatran
but it’s all we’ve got our
last pennies gone
to the offering

god is pleased
but we are not
—the Terracotta
Princess rolls her eyes
and I in my uncertainty query
the Oracle to make sure Shakespeare
agrees and the script is canon

for I am,
what I am, Or
am I?

God and the New Buddha

buddha ke bandhana by Wolves-PSD

On Buddha becoming Enlightened:

“If the mind of a person is free from all craving, no god can make him miserable. Conversely, once craving arises in a person’s mind, all the gods in the universe cannot save him from suffering.”

Sapiens – Yuval Noah Harari

stumble on a vision
understand a psalm
listen to a prayer
beg for an alm
thirst for the righteous
sigh and groan
not enough fishes
let’s eat the bones!

left on the mountain
seeking atone-meant
for the wicked
not for ones
who have not sinned
though they’re treated like one

Buddha met Christ
and said you’re clever
you brought the message
to more people than ever
I could in the distant
past or present
but tell me why
must they repent?

doesn’t Salvation
sound like salivation?
craving for life when
death is our station
telling the poor
give thanks
for their rations
don’t you believe
in upward mobilization?
must we continue
in damnation
if the spirit
is love?

“Be not afraid
I’ve conquered
the world”
Buddha replied:
Maya is not your pearl
of great value hurled at swine
or light under a basket–it is Void
we are tasked to accept it
not avoid it


today we worship
not God
we research
and tie it in knots
the simplest of truths to find
a way to separate the gall
from the wine

Breathe in!
Breathe out!
we do it each day
while some meditate
others pray

of the outcome
there can be no doubt
God has met the New Buddha
the verdict is out
God – zero
Buddha won

The People’s Poet

(in lament of past folly)


beneath a dark and august moon
with eyes of a stark and raving loon
I looked beyond the blackness of my rage

and saw there in the shadows
a distant laughing vagabond
who uttered vague cabaret songs
and danced the street lamp lighted stage

“reality bends like a horseshoe round my mind!”
he screamed “becoming lost behind me –
tomorrow is not reality for it has not become
today becomes reality only after it’s done”

he spoke his words no thought aforethought
he looked into my burning soul and grinned
a winsome gaze that challenged
all my well-worn guise

“you look to me a man of fortune”
grinned the wicked vagabond
“but fortune of what sort has bargained
you to end up where you stand?”

that his speech
seemed well-intentioned
mattered to me not
but the tortured man had reached
into my heart of tangled knots
and found a shriveled wound

“to each his own!” he gleeful moaned
“to each his own!” he mocked me
“what life you’ve lived so free at last
to strap you to this mizzen mast
with joy as you did revel
and cast your lot asunder
to hear the woe-begotten knell
of a not so distant thunder?

“your brow against the roaring swell
of seasick brine and salty spell
to face life’s bitter vengeance?

“for what you reaped is what you’ve sown
and not a lick of it so funny
that as in haste you do repent
and see your fortunes now negate
into the holes of blunder:
don’t worry of the furnace
that you peer into with wonder
for as ‘to each his own’ has been your cry
to ‘each his own’ has done you!”

“to each his own,” I whispered low
“to each his own,” I wondered:
what life I’ve led I chose my own
to be what I would be
to do what I would do
with no one there to taunt me
nor words to whisper in my ears
like a conscience that should haunt me

I tripped the light fantastic
and rode life to its crest
and what I’ve brought to bear with me
I did at my behest
and now I’m just a shell
of what I once did best

“to each his own,” I wept and moaned
“to each his own,” I sorrowed
to each his own, you’ve left me here
with nothing for tomorrow
and though my life has always been
a thing that I have borrowed
to each his own, I beg to turn
this tide that I have swallowed

The Belles of Picardy

… during
the Vietnam War
I became a conscientious objector

I looked with horror
at photographs of overcrowded cemeteries
with no room left to bury the dead

tombstones lined up shoulder to shoulder
on the landscape of Europe
like soldiers marching to their death

I remember
the photograph
of my father in uniform
bringing to mind that he had indeed
been one of the lucky ones
who had made it back in one piece
from the Pacific Theatre

in my head I heard bells tolling
hammering to the beat of foot marches
an anthem to the dead

and to my brother
who was yet to die the slow death
of Vietnam’s lingering poison

I called it
The Belles of Picardy
an imaginary war march sung by the nymphs
that beckon soldiers

from every cathedral bell tower
in every corner of the world
to the Fields of Flanders

(for years I had watched the dismal gray theater of Eastern Europe
never realizing that what they depicted could one day come true)

The Hero’s Gaze

        like a madman
walking up and down the street
shouting furiously
        at the cars he sees

        (one by one
their shadows fall) upon his flying gaze
with instincts of unnatural ability
he flings himself
        across the face of death

        the hero’s gaze
welcomes you to come aboard
to share his only chance
at life and glory
        at a glance

        “Come fly with me,” he gargles
and spits into your horrify-eyes
(like chaps across a bramble) a cushion
against the bristle
        of his life

        (I wish that I could tell you more) for
heroes die each day
just don’t be so surprised
to find
        you fear the hero’s gaze

To a Wild Rose

And who am I to be a judge
(and who am I to take a tally)?
but if a rose should live a thousand years
would not my own eyes see it gladly?

For a rose will wither and wrinkle
(its scent to fill a room)
but a rose that lives forever
(will not of centerpieces swoon)

For what winds that blow ‘crost those thorns
(coldest winds that men forsake)
will be the ones to carry the scent
that such a rose would make?

Now I’ve often wondered
at my ability to reason
how roses oft are quickly lobb’d
a mantle to be pleasin’

But yet for me what wisdom shows
in a lonesome hillside (crag’dmont) rose
(where even wintry winds cannot expose)
what ne’er has pleased a nose

For the scent of roses tell their death
(their fireside shriv’ and wither)
so it seems a rose will never die
if it grows amongst the heather

An Existential Journey of Fantasy and Discovery by V. Alarcón-Córdoba)

The Woodcock’s Crow

the woodcock crows
at the break of dawn
but no one’s there
to listen

hark hark ye
hear my plea
it sings
but no one
gives a care

then one day
the woodcock’s crow
was silenced! by a
poison in the air
(a silent deadly mist
that rose above
the factories
of despair)

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