Impending Autumn

Now is the season for death. A death that will bring life once again, but for that life we must die now. This is the season for love. A love that will take you further apart, but for that love, this love must die. The present is doomed. The past misunderstood. The future?…

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Two by Two

TBT apparently there is such a thing. "Throw Back Thursday". Well I'm throwing this out there again in the hope that someone will understand it.

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A Pome was requested – here it is

It was a hectic day at home, I was going about my work when all at once my dome went abuzz with the need to shirk and compose what I call a pome. And here, it, the pome, is, if this were a song this would be a bridge. The parking lot was…

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Mistress in white and blue, my posts don’t excite you, my status provokes no comment. You give me the news and the homily and updates from the family. I have you on the laptop, I have you on the tablet, I have you on the phone, I have you in the office, I…

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When I think about you When I dream about you I feel my heart go still I feel I’ve had my fill If I think about you If I dream about you I’m wasting my time Just blowing my mind So let’s just call it quits Let’s just say goodbye You’ll find happiness…

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The boy on the beach in Goa Cried please bring me some more Beer if you please At twenty five rupees Here's my mug, please pour! or Further delay I will abhor! or Alcohol has not yet reached every pore! or Write your own line, you bore!

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Being There

Time passes in lonely discomfort. They sit together, far apart, watching without seeing flashing symbols of contemporary life.An age of reason, a feast of thought, a life of duty, a world hard fought, an eternity of action without reaction, speech without words, duty without reward, loyalty without reciprocation.The mind is numbed by thoughts…

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Two by Two

Hazy day Crazy play Cars on tar Jars on bar Bright sun Sight gun Funny crack Gunny sack Red blood Dead hood Heave ho Weave more Wail squeal Jail meal Rag Doll Sag Moll Volt Jolt Cold Mold Lazy Sway Hazy Day

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Portrait of the writer

The art of the writer is a precious thing. He writes for himself, but others are served. The heart of the blighter wants the woman to cling. He wants for himself the other thinks “perve!”. The part of the writer is a constant thing. It creates itself barbers conserve. The fart of the…

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The End

No one knows Where the love goes Shadows pale And men fail When the end comes No one cares To find out where Loving ends And minds bend When the end comes No one says What should be said Heros die And eyes lie When the end comes No one tries What should…

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