Autophony

செத்தவனை சாவார் சுமைப்பார் (Those about to die carry the dead)

With Srebrenica and Prizren, old Banja Luka shot to fame: the grounds for a jolly new game, played over and over again. The rule was to chop a man when he had a good Bosniak surname; If he had a Serb-sounding name, the rule was to rape his women. Let's find a foe, make his blood spill, and gloat over his dying scream; we will emerge victors won't we? To build muscles, to bolster will, to strengthen the bonds of the team, let's play genocide, you and me.

Raindrops in Braille: love messages on my windshield. (Adapted from N. Madhavan's Dewdrops write Morse code:: there's a poem neatly typed on the windshield )

Winter chill... Sun rising on baskets of fish.

Ventilator tubes; Sobbing son sits by.

bright yellow dress blooms erupt on summer laburnum

Cactus plant in pot... hibiscus flowers wither by the idol's feet.

Empty temple... incense lingers, worshippers do not.

red spots on green: gaudy baron sits on lantana.

CV2WUDR8QHPZ

Flowering tree... van laden with plywood parked underneath.

Silence — the betrayal of the innocent by the innocent.

ਜੋ ਜੰਗ ਦੇ ਨਗਾੜੇ ਵਜਦੇ ਹਨ, ਅਮਨ ਦੀ ਸਾਜ਼ ਹੋ ਤੁੱਸੀ ਇਲਜ਼ਾਮਾਂ ਦੀ ਕ਼ਤਲ-ਏ-ਆਮ ਵਿਚ ਸੁਕੂਨ ਦੇ ਅਲਫ਼ਾਜ਼ ਹੋ ਤੁੱਸੀ| ਖ਼ਾਨਾਬਦੋਸ਼ ਨਹੀਂ ਓੜ੍ਹੋ ਤੁੱਸੀ ਪਰਦਾ ਖਾਮੋਸ਼ੀ ਦਾ ਇਨ ਕੋਹਰੇ ਦੇ ਰੇਗਿਸਤਾਨ ਵਿਚ ਕ਼ਨੁਨ ਦੀ ਆਵਾਜ਼ ਹੋ ਤੁੱਸੀ|| जो जंग के नगाड़े बजते हैं, अमन की साज़ हैं आप, इल्ज़ामात के क़त्ल ए आम में, सुकून के अल्फाज़ हैं आप| ख़ानाबदोश न ओढ़ियेगा परदा ख़ामोशी का, इन कोहरों के रेगिस्तान में, क़नून की आवाज़ हैं आप||

हमें गुलदाउदी समझिये, बाग़ान में बहार ले आइये; या महज़ गुल ही समझकर अपने ज़ुल्फ़ों की निख़ार बढ़ाइये| अगर काँटा ही समझेंगे, तो उससे भी सहमत है ख़ानाबदोश, बतौर सूई अपने आशिक़ के ख़तों का मुख़्तियार बनाइये|| हमें गुलदाउदी समझकर, हम ही से गुलिस्तान सजाइये; या गुल ए अहमर समझकर अपने ज़ुल्फ़ों को बाग़ान बनाइये| अगर काँटा ही समझेंगे, तो उससे भी सहमत है ख़ानाबदोश, बतौर सूई अपने आशिक़ के ख़तों का निगेहबान बनाइये|| (यह और भी अच्छा बन सकता है, क्या आप मदद फ़रमाएँगे?)

Half-eaten sun the haijin leaves office

Book launch party... hushed conversations about silver-plated earrings.

Slow-moving zebra; moonlight through my window bars.

Garuda's talon: nest-building material in firm grasp.

Tears running amok; gypsy heart enslaved in chains of starlight and dew.

Words unsaid... two pairs of eyes in infinite conversation.

Butterfly on lantana... two rainbows stand still.

Police in bomb-suits A hen takes chicks under her wings.

Setting crescent... a million city lights glaring.

High tea children in rags lean on the hedge.

Frogs croak Mother pulls out the raincoat

Lizards dart dragonfly wings shimmer in starlight

মেযের মৈতরী হৃদযের সাগরমন্থন

Embracing couple... A bottle of pills labelled sodium cyanide.

हर साँस को जाम ए शबाब गर मान ले, तो जीना हर पल जशन है जान ले| ना दौड़ है ना होड़ है ख़ानाबदोश, गर हैवान को भी तू इनसान मान ले||

I am in cycles, not an endless chain; Vapour deathless, I rise to fall as rain, And thus I dream of immortality – I sprang from mud, I shall be mud again.

Rat's intestines – Tiny pharaoh ants scurry about.

Crushed pack of Frooti... A naked baby bawling on railway platform.

Terracotta dolls: A coffin lowered into the mud.

Cracked camera — half-finished drawings strewn amidst rubble.

Dappled moonless sky... The spotted panther crouches.

किसी सेहतमन्द से न करो मुलाक़ात मेरी, उसे जीना क्या मालूम जिसने कोई दर्द ना पाला!

There is a woman at the beginning of all things... And a war-crazed man at the end of it all.

जब दिल की मंज़िल सितारे हैं, परवाज़ की सरहद बादल क्यों होंगे?

Suckling mother... soldier-child plays with kalashnikov.

यारों-दोस्तों से ज़रा होशियार, रंग कब बदल जाएँ वह ख़ुद नहीं जानते| दुश्मनों के लिए रखो कुछ प्यार, मुहिब्ब कब बन जाएँ वह ख़ुद नहीं जानते||

black tea a new day dawns

A stained-glass window; shadows on the temple floor paint a new fresco. OR Stained-glass window shadows on the floor paint a fresco.

கருப்பு டீ வெள்ளை நாள் உதிக்கிரது

ऐ नमक के घोल तेरा भी क्या जादू, जो आँसू बनकर हर ग़म घुला दे!

A mother breastfeeds in empty torpedo hold; when life is, death's not.

Does a comatose primrose make the much verbose Thutmose lachrymose?

They're sodium chloride, by what chemistry do tears wash away sorrow?

To be friends, I need you to reach out to me... To be in love with you, I just need you to be.

पगले रो दे इस शब-ए-हिज्र को, के दर्द-ए-जुदाई आँसुओं में बह जाए... जो ख़लिश-ए-अज़्ल के बरूह हैं, क्या गर्ज़ उन्हे तेरी यादों के कफ़न की? پگلے رو دے اس شب حجر کو ، کہ درد جدائ آنسؤں میں بہ جائ ۔ ۔ ۔ جو خلش ازل کہ بروہ ہےں ، کیا گرز انہےں تیری یادوں کہ کفن کی Cry fool, this night of rupture, that separation's pain wash away in tears... those facing the void of eternity, need they the shroud of your memories?

Some lamps you light will burn through the night, Many will die with the wind, some won't light at all. But the flame that you must never let die away, Is the flame that lets you see your dreams.

यह चिराग़ रौशन कर भी अन्धेरा है, जो तेरा नूर ए रूह नामौजूद है, जब तिश्नगी जलाकर बुझ ना पाए, यूरिश ए मॊहब्बत कम ना होगी|

Nothing elevates like watching dough rising and the Joneses falling. or Nothing elevates like watching the Dow rise and the Joneses falling. (Second one on a interpretation of the original by S. Balakrishnan)

Few thing delight one as the smell of fried maida and petty triumph.

कुछ सपने पूरे होंगे, और बहुत अधूरे, कुछ सपने सपने ही रह जाएँगे| लेकिन उस चिराग़ को कभी बुझने मत देना, जिसक रौशनी से सपने दिखते हैं|

Trees dice the sunlight, turning a blinding white into a playful delight.

फूल बिना काँटे, मुर्झाये यौवन को याद करता यह बदन

Ink is DNA, writing thhe poem anew for every reader.

Workday screen-staring, Saturday suburbanry: cycling endlessness.

Three mobile phone friends, endless sms poems, eternal haiku.

नीयत है दिल की ख़्वाहिशों पर मचलना, नसीब है पैरों का पत्थरों पर चलना, पर सिर्फ़ वक़्त फ़ैसला करता है ख़ाना बदोश, किस दिन मुरझाना है, किस तारीख़ को खिलना

दीवान-ए-आम में हँसते रहे, परदे के पीछे रोये, पर क्या रोना क्या हँसना, जिसके दरबार में परदे ही नहीं?

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

कभी लतीफ़े ही भेज दिया करो, इस बहाने मेरा नाम आपके षमने तो आएगा!

The heart amuses itself in teaching what it never understood.

Take a mouse, cut off its tail, And make it stand up, hobbling On crutches named Pride and Honour. Feed it with many things - The bitter bile of frustrated years, The sour curds of congealed dreams, The sickly sweetness of petty triumphs. Make it breathe the rancid stench Of Gucci-scented wretchedness And middle-class motionlessness. Retain the ability to compete fiercely, For scraps thrown by the rich, The instinct to abandon the weak In moments of testing danger and to gorge as if tomorrow will die. Put in a hundred emotions - Petty envy, religious zeal, Impotent greed and the craving bloodlust Of seeing neighbours stumble, The joy of minuscule cleverness, The urge to steal coins from blind beggars And to luxuriate in the pain Of butchered animals. Add above all A genocidal hate of all that is not me. Suture on a thumb useful for strangulating, A beer belly bursting With undigested unpleasantness, A lye-laden tongue, And the tribal smirk of triumphant bigotry. The mouse is now made m...

आज शहर में मेला लगा है| बस की खिड़की से आज नज़ारा बदल गया है, आज न टूटा फ़ुटपाथ दिखा, न सड़क के गड्ढे, उन्हें रंग-बिरंगे चीज़ें बेचनेवालों के ठेलों ने ढक दिया, आज सिर्फ़ रंग दिखे ‍ हज़ारों खिलखिलाते रंग - हरे, नीले, लाल, गुलाबी, पीले, श्वेत, श्याम - मिट्टी, प्लास्टिक और लकड़ी से बने खिलौनों का रंग, गुब्बारों का रंग, कागज़ की टोपियों का रंग, काँच की चूड़ियों का रंग, नकली फूलों का रंग, अजीबोग़रीब तरह-‍तरह के कान की बालियों का रंग, और इन सब में घुले बच्चों की लाली का रंग| आज न सड़ते कचरे की बू थी न मोटर के धुएँ की आज बस थी ताज़े गजरों की सुगन्ध, गरम तलते इमरतियों की मोह का सुगन्ध, कचौड़ियों की ललचाती ख़ुशबू, इडली-वडे की, और कुल्फ़ी की वह पलभर की नाज़ुक सी ख़ुशबू| आज ट्राफ़िक के हार्न तो बजे थे रोज़ की तरह, और यत्रियों की गालियाँ भी थीं शायद, पर मेरा ग़ौर कहीं और था - लडकियाँ चूड़ी खनखना रहे थे, बच्चे-बच्चे का शोर था, हँसते बच्चे, रोते बच्चे, ज़िद्द पे अडे ज़ोर-ज़ोर से चिल्लाते बच्चे - ठेलेवालों की पुकार थी - गरमा-गरम समोसे, मनमोहक चुनरियाँ, मस्ती भरे प्लास्टिक के ट्रम्पेट, सब बिक रहे थे, "भारत का नाम, चीन का...

मेले के गुब्बारे भी ख़ामोशी की तलाश में भटकते होंगे, पूनम का चान्द अमावस की आस रखता होगा, शहर की बसें किसी गाँव का रस्ता ढूँढती होँगी, सागर की मछलियाँ किसी वीरान कुएँ का ख़्वाब देखतीं| मैंने न तलाश की न ख़्वाब देखे, इन सियाही की लकीरों में मैं कबसे गुमशुदा हूँ|

Sometimes one's an elephant amok in the bazaar, helping oneself to the apples; more often one's a cockroach at one with the road, steamrolled paper-thin.

My face is pockmarked with breaking dreams, hope oozing away like yellow-red pus; the body haemorrhages desires to the ceaseless illness of survival. But the blood festers within, raging impassionedly, impotently until it bursts through, ebbs, clots and dries among feeding flies. Published in  Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

As little drops tame the blazing sun, the thirsting earth spins wild with joy.

Sometimes it is hard to know, which is dusk and which is dawn. For was the day a mere eclipse, careening into the blackness of unending night? ...Or is night but an eye-blink, waiting for the light to come, first in trickles, and then in torrents? Sometimes it is hard to know, which is dusk and which is dawn.

ख़्वाबों में जो रोज़ाना आती हो, एक बार खुली आँखों पर महरबान हो जाओ, कि हमें भी अहसास हो ज़िन्दगी जी ली हमने

आँखों-आँखों में हुई एक छोटी सी बात, हलकी सी मुस्कुराहट टिमटिमायी, और बीच सड़क पर ग़ुलिस्ताँ महक उठी पुरानी वाली: आँखें मिलीं, एक मुस्कान महकी, और फिर कायनात में कहीं खो गयी

Give me not hope nor nostalgia, burdens the present does not need.

I look at the ceiling the blank, blank ceiling and the blemish-less, soulless angel white walls loneliness my paramour prostituting my fingers. Black, muscular bodies dripping with the sweat of construction bricks torsos barely contained in tattering loincloths did they feed each other? Or was it a place to make out consenting or seduce or gang-rape some starving servant-maid? There clearly is sweat in the congealed cement, spittle, semen perhaps, blood too, rich red blood, either fallen or murdered; concrete needs its sacrifice. It never is an anodyne, colourless, antiseptic suburban flat; listen to the walls, for there is always a conversation to be had. Published in  Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Words haunt sometimes. Sometimes, like grit in an oyster's shell. That hurt, the fester. They ferment the poet's heart, causing her to lay layer after layer of mother-of-pearl, till at last a pearl gleams through. Willst thou bless the fool, who uttered the grit in the first place?

வா கண்ணா, வா, என் வீட்டுக்கு வா, படி ப்டியாக வா, என் வீட்டுக்குள் தான் உன் வீடு இருக்கு? என் இதயத்தில் இருக்கிரவனே வா, வா, வா, வா குங்குமம் பூசிய காலால் படி படியாக வா என் வீட்டுத்தரையில் ஒவ்வொரு அணுக்கும் உன் ஆசிர்வாதம கொடுத்து வா என் வாசப்ப்டியைத் தாண்டு கண்ணா, அதுடன் கொண்டு வா, உன் குரும்பு, உன் அரிவு, உன் விலையாட்டு, உன் தைவீகம், என்னைப்போல் நீயும் அலைந்தாய், நீ மதுரா, கோகுலம், துவாரகா, குருக்ஷேத்திரம், நான் மும்பாய், கோல்காதா, ஃபஸில்கா, கோடேகாம், நீ இதயம் இதயமாக் அலையுவாய், நான் இதயத்தை தேடி அலைகிரேன், எனக்கு இது ஒரு சின்ன மனம் கண்ணா, வா, வா, இந்து மனத்தை வீடாக மாற்ற வா

What am I? A body and brain, Products Of carbon concatenation chemistry, An intelligence and conscience To enable bits of DNA evolve. I'm someone, anyone; I might be Bachir Gemayel Among guns and shells a Maronite; I might be an Afghan Between powers a puppet Pawned in a Great Game; Weak, then powerful; Alive, then dead; Somebody, anybody, nobody. I might be someone else, Maybe a pharaoh, Maybe a dung-beetle, I might be you, I might be a third person; Never more than A safe conduit for some genes.

Yesternight I thought the stars came out, twinkling towards infinity, the moon was a sil'vry orb as she played hide-and-seek with the dream mists; I thought I met the Queen of England and the Prime Minister of Bangladesh on a helicopter over the Caribbean sharing a turqoise curacao in an electric-lighted reverie ; I thought I saw the sun rise, red, orange, yellow to the avian symphony of magpie-robins, mynahs and red-whiskered bulbuls; I thought I saw the hibiscus buds open and the frangipani leaves shed dew; But what I truly saw was the grime-laden red city buses with their overloaded, quarrelling commuters; What I truly saw was the trains stuck at bright red signals that wouldn't change to the green glow of progress; What I truly saw were my office lights in the false ceiling, the monotone of the air conditioner and the stern, upstanding computer screen; What I truly saw, was yesterday. (A bit of the Carpenters' 'Yesterday Once More...

Pourquoi est-ce que qu'il y a des temps pour danser, chanter, courir, tomber, voler, embrasser, étreindre, crier, rire, sourire, nager, grimper aux arbres, rouler, jouer quand on n'est que l'enfant? Pourquoi grandissons nous?

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.

बग़ावत करूँ भी तो किससे, ना ग़ुलाम हूँ किसी का, ना अज़ाद हूँ किसी से

I am a stranger everywhere; the house I stay in, is it a home or just a camping-tent?

A weekend's thrill, and then five days of boring, nerve-wracking hyperactivity: I'm on a roller-coaster I can't get off from.

दोस्ती करना भी तो निभाना है, कभी डायरी में हमेशा ख़ामोश एक नाम दर्ज है, कभी ट्रेन में घण्टे भर की गुफ़्तगू को ही याराना मान लिया

जान देने वाले बूँदें आपके अल्फ़ाज़ थे, अवाज़ मेरा बस दरिया था जो ख़ूबसूरती थी आपके अल्फ़ाज़ में थी, अवाज़ मेरा बस ज़रिया था

ऐ इनसान तुझे देखकर ख़ौफ़ नहीं होता, न तेरे दान्त हैं, न नोकीले नाखून, फिर ऐसा क्यों कि मेरा शिकार भी तू, मेरा शिकारी भी तू?

Two DNA strands divorced, two bodies joined, And I am become.

As turnover, they'll put gold, land, conquests and a few genes to my name. As profit, I'll get to take with me a cheap cotton shroud.

There is a human in every beast, that's why they are nasty sometimes.

I live on coffee and black depression, hurtling into nothingness.

Fragrant, soft, white, puffy rice Boiled with mother's love And mixed with cool, milk white curd Partaken gently Morsel by morsel ...And I knew God!

A red apple, some cyanide takes me to the sweet embrace of hers.

Why does the world hurtle on like a pebble rolling down a mountain?

Someday she will be a voice, not a memory.

आया था बेलिबास, जाऊँगा बाकफ़न, क्यों रखूँ हवस रेशम-ओ-ज़र का?

must it care where, what, when, who, why? Congress, BJP, Shining Path, Tea Party, balding Czechs, sexy Mexicans, sanyasins, witches, Mandodari, Sita, Ayodhya, Lanka, sluts and wives, smog, spring, ash clouds, Casanovas and Popes, lamas and rapists, jihadis, hippies, cobras, humans, dung-beetles where, what, when, who, why? does it really care?

In life's lasting winter I find in a haiku everlasting blooms

میرے کفن کو چاشنی میں ڈبوکر لپیٹنا ، و گورکن ، تاکی مٹٌی کے کیڑوں کو بھی کوٴی کڑواہٹ محسوس نا ہو मेरे कफ़न को चाशनी में डुबोकर लपेटना ओ गोरकन, ताकि मिट्टी के कीड़ों को भी कोई कड़वाहट महसूस न हो

तेरा मुन्तज़िर घड़ी पर क्यों ग़ौर करे, जब तू वक़्त की महकूम नहीं, तेरी राह को तकती आँखों को सूई से क्या वफ़ा? تیرا منتزر گھڑی پر کےوں غور کرے، جب تو وقت کی محکوم نہیں، تیری راہ کو تکتی آنکھوں کو سوٴی سے کیا وفہ

यह आसमाँ क़फ़न बनेगी मेरी, हवा रुदाली मेरी, गिद्द उठा ले जायेंगे लाश मेरी, मक्खियाँ जनाज़ा पढ़ लेंगी, आप से बस इतनी ग़ुज़ारिश है हज़रत मेरे, के जब साँसों की जिद्दोजिहद रुक जाए, इस ख़ानाबदोश का सर मक्के की तरफ़ कर देना

Burn your dog, never bury him; you'll never tear yourself from his grave.

One never knows how dangerous a dog is, till one lets it bite one's heart.

Poets love beautiful women, but I sharply suspect, they love poems to beautiful women more!

Never trust a dog to be loyal, for when you bury or burn him, is when you need him most.

Monsoon butterflies feed human eyes with joy; and lizards with protein.

Perhaps, I must learn to say goodbye.

indolent, half-lifted eyelid. A tail wagged drowsily. A half-whine of acknowledgment. A limp, reluctant handshake and taunting dejection on not getting the promised biscuit. A quiet, piercing stare as the clock strikes six that hour of his business. An ambling unconcerned walk, immune to tugs on the leash and no interest in thrown balls. Fingers clasped firmly in teeth, a demonstration of power that was right now not being used. Hungry, innocent eyes pleading for dinner, not counting the meal consumed minutes ago. The quiet snore, teeth half-exposed in warning to let sleeping dogs lie. Just like the quiet vacuum unfilled by furry memories of the dog who tore my heart .

Yesterday, someone was nice to us. They came home to invite us nicely - nicely and personally - for a wedding in their nice family. We nicely appreciated that someone was being nice to us. But how nicely does one appreciate niceness? By saying thanks for all that niceness? Or saying thanks for all that niceness and also nicely pointing out how that someone was nice while someone not nice, someone else not nice and someone else not nice at all were not being nice? I mean, if someone is nice, let's be thankful for that, and nicely so? Are we being nice in not-so-nicely pointing out how someone else was not nice? Could one think it's like nicely saying well, thank you for niceness but we don't care for your niceness because what would would really be nice is that someone else being nice. Is that nice?

Puppy. Device of God. Before which all kowtow. And meditate on innocence. And death.

Why are we born to innocence that only leaves tears behind?

I have before me a tourist brochure. I think it is laughing at me. The way ink soaked into paper can laugh. A way that is silent, malignant. It seems amused. That I have come to gawk, to gape. Where my forefather once cut down other people's forefathers. Like that of the brochure writer's. Or did not. I must trust the story the ink tells me. For the blood soaked in the ground never speaks.

Bosoms exposed, unclad, lead good men into sin and cause - as reverend elders say - boobquakes.

to some they're just words strung together that may mean something or nothing at all or mean different things at different times to some they're expressions of desperate souls entrapped in their existences conjuring shangrila elysian fields, ruritania by inked stains on paper to some they're everything truth & escape existence and fantasy being and dying the only way to live and to die

ख़्वाहिश तो यही है कि तुमसे फ़ासले रखूँ पर हर राह तुम्हें ही मनज़िल बनाती है

फूलों में इतनी सुगन्ध क्यों होती है? क्योंकि आपने उन्हें स्पर्ष किया| लहरें धीमे से गुनगुनाती क्यों हैं? क्योंकि आपने उनमें राग सजाया| इन्द्रधनुष मेघ में क्यों छुप जाता है? क्योंकि आपके तेजस से शर्माता है| हम प्रेमकवि क्यों बन गए हैं? क्योंकि आपकी वन्दना ही अब जीवन का लक्ष्य बन गया है|

Goodman diagram: explaining metal stress to relieve mental stress.

Civilisation is a passion play of masks, barely hiding fangs.

Civilisation: fragile Venetian glass that bottles seething rage.

Commoners giggle at mummified kings who slaughtered their ancestors.

Civilisation: Superman dieting on dilute Kryptonite.

Broken shards speak of an ancient city built on broken love stories.

Hearts beat, throb, stutter, break, break down, die. The city's wheel completes one turn.

The heart pulsates, races, skips a beat, gets obsessed, aches, stutters, breaks, breaks down, breaks up and dies.

One hundred years they made her sleep! One hundred years she could not weep, or skip or sing or laugh or dance, Until a prince had had his chance. One kiss of love did break the charm! He held her fondly in his arm, But she recoiled back in fear And summoned her guards to come near. For when she woke she could not tell That she had been under a spell. She thought he was an intruder And not her destined saviour. But when they had questioned the youth They came to know the bitter truth That time had moved a hundred years And then their eyes were filled with tears. The princess and her loyal maid Were very truly much dismayed. Both began then to loudly wail To hear them no one could fail. On waking from so long a sleep You too dear, would vainly weep, If you realised what you wore Was out of fashion long before!

The sound of tapping goes beep beep Good folk, switch off your black Blackberry Beware the deadly radio sweep Unless you have had too much sherry Government, Government, they tap a good man's phone Government, Government, their motives are unknown Tap: They spare not an iPhone Tap: They do it when comatose They even know your new ringtone But say they do not act on purpose Government, Government, with many a bumbling plan Government, Government, they can't end what they began! (With apologies to Edmund Blackadder)

What wondrous miracle a human neck is! Divine, slender, lissome; a bridge to connect The heart's beating passion with analysis, From the cold, calculating brain; a perfect Feature of Paris, Anubis, or Isis; That vulnerable, captivating effect Of David's ponderous marble poise - his veins as they stand out for a knife to transect; Does it not tempt the hand to reach out and clasp Between the palms, and feel the throat convulsing, Pulsating wildly, in its desperate gasp To break free; Or would it be deemed revulsing To gloat as slit veins leak blood and hear the rasp Of the dying, as one's own nerves are pulsing?

A gunshot in my temple, tempered by cocaine; Barbiturates, so honeyed dreams shall never fade; Or seppuku and its seizing, searing pain As my tenderly nurtured flesh meets whetted blade; Plunge a dagger into my dear neck, and wailing Screeching, screaming qualis artifex pereo; Or must it be by self-immolation, flailing, Buckling, gyrating in an obscene rodeo; Fall upon my sword, or trust my loyal maiden To smuggle in an asp and to it surrender; Perhaps a ripened apple, cyanide-laden To exit without pain, and go out in splendour; Which do I adopt, the most beautiful way To pass into freedom, and escape from today?

We're all of us Solomon Grundy Born by auspicious Caesarean on Monday Dying for 90% marks on Tuesday Demographic dividend on Wednesday Pension plans on Thursday Marrying daughters on Friday Ayah-ing grandchildren on Saturday And an urnful of ashes on Sunday We're all of us Solomon Grundy

I love you. takes oly 10 chtrs. Wht do I do wid d rest?

It is an interesting number 5 one short of the one that 6 (11) is held as a gold standard 6 (17) for measures of success and failure, 6 (23) the number that judges everything 5 (28) from someone's sincerity to 4 (32) the contamination in a bar of iron. 7 (39) It is a hungry number, besmirched 6 (45) by an accusation of incompleteness 5 (50) though it is so perfect in form, 7 (57) its twin members so beautifully 5 (62) illustrating its two divisors 3 (65) the first one less, the second one more 8 (73) than that other fabulous number 5 (78) which multiplied by itself yields 5 (83) that magic figure all men yearn for. 7 (90) Perfect and yet always incomplete. 5 (95) Ever hungry, ninety nine. 4 (99) (Exactly 99 words)