Tic, Tic, Tick,
In the depth and darn of my heart
Of my tidy soul or tipsy;
Tic, Tic, Tick,
Between the Rose-petals –
(Now they shiver as in the year-end) :
Tic, Tic, Tick,
On the twin drums –
(I think they now sound not fair) :
Tic, Tic, Tick,
Beneath the bows and upon the arrows,
My brave brain or brainless;
Tic, Tic, Tick,
The only tide or time
Unabated, unaided, unbending and unceasing;
Do think for a jest:
You weren’t born in this brutal blunder;
Or as a blond bitch you’re born;
Or didn’t come there –
To see the huge structure, being put up
For your life-long-time and after
Or slept on separate
Without guessing loudly what the reptiles do
Outside, under a milky youth, in her shadowy scarf;
Or didn’t raise my left arm,
Then your right, to touch and see, to touch and see-
The sin of life headlong, hale and hidden;
These wouldn’t have been here, if it so…
When braying all the brambles,
Scanning at a sky-bit, my sugar like sand
To beget a little shower embracing,
Going through one genuine-most genital,
To me there came you with a hush-joy;
Remember and memorize the day, dear Pembrok…
At a time they blossomed (to say sweet) ,
Ecstatic and effeminate, effulgent bi-two eyes;
So it happened, back to me two steps,
But on the other side you were or are, I do believe;
It’s you frank and frolic, friendly bosom,
Forced me to chain myself –
With an unending soft and smooth Rose-chain…
Or else would have become one –
A yield yarn, a cunning culprit, an addled abscess;
Yarn, culprit, abscess, yarn, culprit, yarn…
Nights have fallen for a long but –
Pretty, well (and wet, I’d say) :
Lying in a bed, we’re in a breath,
In a shadow, a trembling shadow
And in a –
Triumph in a trice…
Then and there I prayed –
Yea, versus your profound prayer;
It’s not been polished even now,
The huge structure of dear’s lively dream…)
I’m so cruel, so ugly and am so crude –
Oh! For the belly & below the belly…?
Right then a twist,
A twist in my fate too
That parted us, the wings of a Phoenix;
From left to her right wing I counted seventy-four,
Seventy-four, dear Pembrok…
Brush aside the day-before-petals?
No, you won’t, I do believe;
Or what’s the fun of it,
If we forget Yester roses we fondled…!
Gone to Pond from Land – my native land,
Read for five long years:
‘Money is what money does’
-Under a gallant roof;
More than pent eights in that period,
With a sigh, fire eyes, pale lips,
To your full moon-nights I came
To receive and share –
The triumph in a trice…
My maiden tale of Yellow Bird – a paradox:
Fade in the dreams of fourteen years,
Fickle fifteen yellow feathers;
Shouldn’t have become a pare –
In my stark story;
Gave it first but for me:
“Yes, love you, Yellow Bird”,
Our Yellow Bird – a paradox…
In this sterile story, you know
Each and every curve, I know;
After a long brunt –
Found I lost my Bird’s letters
And outcry of four old eyes…
Then, what then, can you guess?
Bird became a stroke on memory,
No more I know, but how -?
Lost my bosom along with her,
Along with her wondrous wings;
It’s certainly a sweet dream, love, a dream,
A sexual dream, I do believe…
Tasted ‘fore my tongue’s tamed;
Turned in teenage, the leaf over;
Nay, the way – admit now –
Way of life-luster;
Yea, in my chaste chant,
It’s the first and foremost chaos…
Ere-done error, I do believe,
Or you blame me for non-’s fault? –
Here’s ‘mma in my maze,
Mamma hasn’t ever done it even in a dream:
A kiss, Kiss, Kiss with her lips…
There’s care, son-love, certainly;
So none’s but fault’s fault,
Perhaps the feud of fate, dear Pembrok…
To me an itch-in-inspiration,
Always a hateful welcome to,
With due respect I review
And with due review I respect,
The fate, my sole faith…
When the last leaf of autumn
Desired for a dip-dropp nectar –
From the Golden jar of coming spring,
Holding the little finger of my faith,
Once, came there I, yea, once…
“May I, may I come with you? ” – the little one
With her flaring eyes, the curly headed snow-breeze…
Didn’t remember it – nay,
Couldn’t whisper it – yea;
But in the wind, like a feverish…
“She’s longing for it for a long”,
In a low tone said your ‘mma
“-Get yourself her Dad’s permission”,
Didn’t remember it – nay,
Couldn’t whisper it – yea;
Nothing but I perplexed…
More and more I perplexed,
When I heard it – if you don’t mind,
From the extreme, my dear Pembrok;
From the rounds man in the shore of a sea –
Breathing in lust-deed,
Who used to sing somebody’s –
‘The joints of thighs are like pearls…’
Who’s willing wildly with me –
To give and take the better halves in future,
With who happened to enjoy –
The triumph in a trice
More than once, the very dear…
Then I waned wantonly –
Like a warlock’s want;
Or as a Seal-king,
Walked in the wake of a circus queen…
“Let her come with me to the city
(From the land to the pond – said) ,
She’ll returns ‘fore seventeenth”
Glancing at my dated-watch
And at his old shrunk face,
With a trembling tiny heart,
Nearby your Dad, I stood;
Tic-tick, Tic-tick, Tic-tick…
Just, just he’ll shout –
‘Get out, you – son of a … clear out, ’
-Presumed and I prayed it to be…
But as the backwater sounds afternoon,
Slowly, slowly, the man said:
“If your friend loves her too much,
Share the love with him;
If she longs for anything, then,
Don’t disturb this bloody fool…”
In the offing next,
Like a wet fowl it flew away,
My sole faith with an ogle, dear Pembrok…
After a long whistle,
Leaving you in the platform,
It moved and breathed –
Heavily wilily, heavily wilily, heavily wilily…
Wasn’t dreaming at my right, she?
Dreams, dreams along, but I…?
Nor thoughts, I do believe…
Mind my jargon to call it to mind
And forget possibly to forgive me.
Let me put down here,
One’s self-justifiable helplessness
(-May be, unmanly…) .
I do ‘hate’ you, my dear Pembrok,
Just to believe the same self…
The days over, each the life-dot
Without hurting the little mind;
Exhausted, the aromatic smell around,
Even then the snow-breeze remained there…
When, lost bit by bit my bland brim,
Awoke in my wishes an avid blot
And a bludgeon hand in hand,
Poured heavy shower all around Pond
And when earth let off her heat wave
(Her hedonic heat-wave) ,
Could have committed the last;
Ah! A suicide…
But another, my sole faith wanted;
Or it so, I do believe…
The night, my dear Pembrok,
Living even now, the natty and nasty night,
Dying even now, the narcotic night,
It’s naïve-naked illustration, can I?
And to you, no, my…
The next dusk, you know,
A day’s pale face
And too a moody, you saw;
On the very very day, you could how?
Hadn’t come to me there, nay suppose, Oh!
I do ‘hate’ you, my dear Pembrok,
Just to believe the same self…
My lonely elopement ‘fore the dawn,
From the cotton-soft slope of the belly,
-The left apple – head of the beauty,
-The left, the left, too from the right
And from the land of her nod,
At last tied me here in the puff-ropes,
-The empty bottles of ‘Coy Eagle’…
About the spider spinning yarn,
Scrambled in the night never forget
Or her blooming breast
Might’ve heard from the little one,
Or it so, I do believe…
Oh! My sweet Pembrok,
Come hitherward, you know where I’m;
Come my dear, all forgetting,
Give a kiss forgetting all;
Take me into my serene sepulcher,
Then there put down nothing,
To asleep, no one knowing!
Ah! Sleep, sleep, and sleep…
‘I’m living my own life
And the lives those after me…’
Come and curse or bless
Oh! Death, my dear pembrok…

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, February 8, 2009

Poem Edited: Sunday, February 8, 2009

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