Saturday, April 30, 2011

The entire episode today is the chant of all

Not in a way of ecstasy but an oratorio

Camping under radars, mostly with true friends

Under the apple tree and gravity

short tongued people make me happy

robins for little hurts, little happies

and piano hippies in the woods

 for million nature peace…

How I wasted it, long days behind the dew

Stuck at collar-sleeve as a due

I made a big mistake

 The biggest one

And it is eating me up

I hate myself watching the silver heel growing day by day

I let myself come alive in such frigid ways

 in the arms of withdraw

Not you, I don’t blame your kidnapping

Or the help you had, the softer side

The one that I loved more

The eel king that ruptured the solid

And how I made that mistake

I let the mermaids kept in the basement

And I aproned the wrong body

I shouldn’t have done it

Friday, April 29, 2011

I love watching your leg moves, it reminds me my own finger acceleration
The nerve working embrace through your blood flow
Tight jeans working on late mid age sophistication
I paused towards your shadow
And I cheated on you with yourself
The young witness that believes on orchestral company
You should remember; the red upon the first floor
When I stayed oh so quiet like a dead bird
Following your placid sleep upon my upper leg under the table
While the jazzy valet was playing
I felt your hand, the broomy fingers
I found your recent photographs awhile ago
You look old, older than you are
Well... annual harmless secrets are kept for todays
When I needed them the most
You know how sacraments of human kind interrupt sometimes...

I am mad at myself to feel this way
I miss the untouched moon
The resurrection of your change
The opposite sides of being ruled
I know you were firm
And I was small ...as the best if it had the chance left
But I missed you
The back seat of constancy, the words of cherry suit
The tongueless fitting mouth
That knows how to starve itself
The kind that likes to go on hunger strikes
While the table is spread with unexpected knocks
Unless she dines on raptures like an army heel
She drops with dumb and dark
I am mad at myself to let her speak out

Thursday, April 28, 2011

And it is never a confusion when it comes to your love
Finding words in a poor world of martyred and deepened burn
I Clear the paper smart in a second
Despite the forcing sunset with most beautiful lively spirit
I am still dead and I am still slumbering on my knees
Pleasantly bosoming, frightened and afraid to be remembered
The anthology of passion is simple
The innermost myself placing the superiority of surrender
letters come with offerings;
Labored in a special kind of postal service
The eye sight of you urges more interruptings...


It is more than scissors on the run
It is the knight grinder for curling fun...
scents and blooming crushes publishing the minority
It is the courtesy of unprinted section tender,
This material that we can never get copyrighted
saves us despite of tiger's forced excess exile
It is this continued dew morning that never inks out...
This intimacy of celebration slits passages to walk
Quite different if you compare it to young poet Touryan
The western blood of land confusion
This fusion announcer of theatric loving;
he says 'poet's wish is never true I am afraid'
But night's pleasing transport carries
The prideful waves to morning's million desire thread
eating, conversating, sleeping
day exaggerates on you with wealth
and when land is circling on water's phosphorescence
Nature's romance still comes to rescue
prose imagination in a crowded library-
you possess the pore by collecting fulfillment with priced salary...

It is more than scissors on the run
It is the knight grinder for curling fun...

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I have heard so many stories

Reading the paper at mornings,

Like a best seller in the room

The cupboard is still collaging the morning genre

Damaging reality with loving, full in the mug

It is still the water paint…not matured  for oil

I have been to a place called Stockholm along with other states of spectrums

A wrong of an eye, breaking through crystals…the rainbow is fake  

and you know the coffee there is hysterically addicting

It gives you the lightness of moody syndromes

But not anymore

I am now enclosing a map along with a short letter

And I surrendered to its confusion;

 I mix the mornings through nightly knapsack

Outside of my world

to its inside destination that gives you the sweet sensation of

Curvy supplies ….bright and wished for

And for some reason it is inspiringly quiet

Cat is resting somewhere, no dog is howling

the forest of skinny legs is accompanying with

 sounds of big cushions and it

surveys for its residents constantly, watching …and maybe humming

noticing the pink bow on the chest…ahh so lazy

in reality they split the dark without a credit of recommendation

they are experienced

the place is an island of untouched habitat of summons…

…or they are not in love…..

I am thinking to myself why I was introduced to products of British and Canadian
was it a political choice of reaching out ? Or was it vice versa
their target was us
first class but smaller market
that brought a complexity of belonging
even now, agile between ideas
I know the beat is first class but never for the market itself
They educate you and censor you forever
Like watching the PBS channel
You feel like you are recovering from something
While recording the ideas
But in reality you were not sick at all till
You were doing it....

tuesday, April 26, 2011

Premature world of words

So you took it to the big yard sale

With new seasonal changes on the block

You spatter your prosthetic mind to space of reconstruction

But you have forgotten this is the year of  vaccine renewal

Before you took the journey you should have had the single take

Without inconvenience of a tumorous stage

You should have let the medicine in hands of

Down to earth  people that can make the access easy

Winning is tricky, the grades on contentment seals the cognation

Since you are not visual and surely Nobel prize winning

Globalism is only a few percent multitude reach

I am afraid you were born premature…

five senses

How you give me what I want
The freedom wall for declaration to whisper
With great balance and fullness
The luxury of five senses
Though It is still the ink and tongue of announced yous
And you probably have noticed the changes of lift
I am not occupying with legible thoughts anymore
I am more of an improve, pondering to interpret the
Darkness in light in an age of 21st century
Absorbing the letter as tight as a mix of five senses
Engaging the profound wonder with innermost verbal tenses...

Monday, April 25, 2011

You know how time helps to emerge the eminent moments

The emphasis of being alive

 He said it is a door not an end

I am not sure about that

Since there is no proof and no one has  ever experienced such

A zodiac zone…it is hard to address the character

Realizing time goes on

And you are given more chances

You not only can open the windows but

You can reach the flat rooftops to see the view

You can climb the steep stairs and call for

Wind’s blowing glaze

I remember now how you talked about agony and angst

We don’t have that in our darkness

Solemnity in sentence, hurting one another

To clear the dewiness

But cant you see? I have more of ‘pop ruins’

Than an arabesque itself…you were all wrong

And it wasn’t the water’s invasion as well

It was you, you couldn’t die

Day by day you became alive, and that bothered you

Since no one was able to give that before

But instead I am now thinking where to turn

Where  an early middle age tools and baskets

Would find peace and indefinite typos…

Ah how it gives me power

Winning petitions daily

After the longest test on a parking lot

Ending up parking this time

There are sentences that I keep in mind every moment

An answer for all questions

I never carry the truth though

I take my own liability in hand

And move ahead

There is no clarity on owning

No effort, no bolt to transmit the electricity

A shift that I take moment to moment to cart

The product

And that is no one’s business

I hear the strikes against the written word

Mostly for the style, the Aznavour invention

Maybe Aivazowski, maybe Khachaturyan

But always my kind

Why?

 Well I would ask once again…’are you the keeper of my joy’?

The road is long and I take the sharpness of the blind blade

What is my kind?

The one that never comes to save me

The neutral one that spares me for cigarette money

But keeps for sweet smile

That’s him and he knows….

 to that 18 year old

Though his current photographs are giving me a strange feeling

Of disappointment

I have this landscape of landlord’s past run

If she was me, he was leaning to sun instead

And I was not disappointed today…

longing for panic of you

and priceless sights in my mind

Knowing that within hope

It is all a full soul and

Near to slowness and cautiousness

It is not a realm but something that would be considered as

The final itch…

And the delight that candles all

The one and only

Definitely ….my true neighbor

My pastoral bridge

The square shadow on a parchment paper

The Pure ambush

That you …your pause will be my salvation….

I miss the moments, the mixed images of sorrows and laughs

But I can imagine just one sight for reward

And that would be the end of me

The ghost of all, the one

Blue to blue with October shadows

With summer mask

I function in the assumption of  my own shame

The caricature images of bisecting the childhood

That’s we are not…

Sunday, April24, 2011

Oh you know how you touched there

After you moved your hand and managed to act like

You were dead

And you blamed the dark tornado that couldn’t answer the existing

The Fistful written pieces that came

Day after day after day!

And maybe sounds and tastes weren’t clear enough to

Call the cubs … mosquito whiskey bites

So nice….so nice

And chased by sparks…

Giant and reliant

Encouraging on the thoughts of peaceful suggestions and

Propositions

Darkness before tears come

That would be an unknown perspiration to discover

Like white wine

Helpless in the end…clear and present

Godmother on armchair, praising time…