Animist for spare change

where?

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 12:57:00 +0000

ageless intellectual
s straight
t
o
o
d
through a sigh of relief
at the role-playing
of a
martyr

following the murder
of a survivor of
p disasters.
r
e
h
i
s
t
o
r
i
c

mother madonna

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 11:51:00 +0000

she severs her knotty ties
with the apron strings to
take a shot at the birds that fly
may be even poetry - and

trite meetings inside a corner
where a few mainstream flowers
hold a bowl of water and her
increasingly easy tears...

the dandy measures her with
a tape formed from experience
and becomes even a part of her
until he passes the used torch

she holds the fire of a condo
above her head and waits for
children and innocence when the
due date for rent nears...

supraman

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 14:22:00 +0000

a long-standing ennui
addresses the need for
a firm standing in a prison cell

where

some ought to be free
and most others kept busy
in the quest for redressal.

Unnecessarily bitter

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 15:22:00 +0000

Mannini clears. The industrious Lombardo lunges for the laws of probability to direct the show just before the brain does. No. 10 waltzes in the form of Mancini who stops soon after. Industry and commerce crowd him. Boskov’s geriatric heart skips a beat as Roberto spots Vialli, the goal poacher twin, in his head. The rest of the world, however, merely watches the ball as the defense is split before the second is. A left foot volley drills a hole in the back of the net. Vialli somersaults to close in on glory. A scudetto for the blucerchiati…as I practice my chip over Tacconi who unfortunately is too old to be real now. My head volunteers to play whatever the belly fails to allow. Vialli morphs into Adebayor. And Sampdoria surrenders to the time of Manchester City troubling Manchester United. New heroes, will you please get off my lawn!!

Nouveau-fat man's poem

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 14:13:00 +0000

1. A method of slowing down a frequency of poetry, the method comprising:
forming an adipose layer over each of a wrist bone, a metacarpal bone, a carpal bone, and a joint associated with each of the metacarpal bone and the carpal bone; and
reducing a bone chill associated with the frequency of poetry using the adipose layer.

2. The method of claim 1, comprising forming the adipose layer such that a ratio of a volume of all of the wrist bone, the metacarpal bone, the carpal bone, and the joint associated with each of the metacarpal bone and the carpal bone relative to a volume of the adipose layer is less than 0.1.

rate gatsby

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 16:25:00 +0000

stung by serrated rainy day parasols

that distribute crossword solutions

for the rapid benefit of the great gatsby

who waited for his daisy to fit a down clue

"CAN I LECTURE HERE? PLUS A RESPONSE TO THE SAME, PANSY! (5)"

i solve for her yet do not want her

and am not impressed by gatsby too

for as far as "old sport" utterances

are terribly concerned, the parties concerned

were americanized darcies.

mental sales pitch

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 05:02:00 +0000

mr. x is callous in his inability to break into eye sweat.

i watched him sweat once like a 1 year old in an onion bag for no apparent reason.

my watchful eye had no reason, and not the 1 year old in the bag of bulbous break-sweater.

how tedious are we, the emotionless, say those who are attracted to said tedium through elements of self-torture.

my elements include cultured copper, vainglorious aurum, and the omnipresent carbon.

elements of self-torture, though, include electrical pulses and autorickshaws running to provide shearing force for sidetracked sheep.

i am the immobile, sticking out for the pulses and the deepest de-motivation.

do save a place for me in the forest.

compositionally invalid

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Sun, 31 May 2009 06:20:00 +0000

a return to homeland sans a state,

sans a land, and sans poetry.

it's been a while. hidden soldiers say

we must look FORWARD to the future

as i sit here describing video frames

from the future

being used to predict the present

intellectually looking into the USHA fan -

waiting for the palm-leaf,

waiting for the nuclear bombs that conspiracies promise,

may be some spite,

may be even some sprite

to ward off the rib-tickling laughter

to ward off the kids who speak lead guitars

and to ward off my inactivity with

all of the above.

hippie loneliness

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:50:00 +0000

shut up you festering sack of shit
says the old man scratching his nose
and the ginsberg glassed hipster
breaks a ruler in the city lights bookstore
the dog morphs into a paternal uncle
the yachts at sausalito peer mockingly
into a bum telling stories of 12 cent coke bottles
my mother and father are in india
my mouth is parched
my hairs ask for white minority rights
and i better stop this
depressing poem.

savage eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 22:50:00 +0000

she trains her "beauty" amidst the lavender flowers
while her man chases her around with a xerox machine.
i look out of my house, watch the same flowers with nausea,
and wish for the weeds to swallow all generic colours.

i am a lover.

bubbles day

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 16:42:00 +0000

i remember this year of silence
demarcated by a 1487 hourglass
and i still remain unable to gather
gather the wits to wish you a good day
for the bubble has grown (to probably a happy balloon)
while i still remain as it has been for some time
an inhuman cannon.

rain or shine - charles bukowski

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 19:28:00 +0000

from "Love is a dog from hell"

the vultures at the zoo

(all 3 of them)

sit very quietly in their

caged tree

and below

on the ground

are chunks of rotting meat.

the vultures are over-full.

our taxes have fed them

well.

we move on to the next

cage.

a man is there

sitting on the ground

eating

his own shit.

I recognize him as

our former mailman.

his favorite expression

had been

"have a beautiful day."

that day, I did.

easy roads

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 20:44:00 +0000

middle path father
middle path mother
middle path teacher
middle path preacher
middle path lecture
water the middle flowers
to middle path worker
middle middle middle
oscillate in small deviations
small vices are natural
middle middle middle
middle middle middle
ding dong middle bell
twinkle twinkle
die die well

Snake Eyes - Amiri Baraka

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 23:03:00 +0000

That force is lost
which shaped me, spent
in its image, battered, an old brown thing
swept off the streets
where it sucked its
gentle living.
And what is meat
to do, that is driven to its end
by words? The frailest gestures
grow like skirts around breathing.
We take
unholy risks to prove
we are what we cannot be. For instance,
I am not even crazy.

brick wall scratch

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 23:31:00 +0000

the wings are out oh so early
for the chicken to collectively cluck for
an abject closure
how much for a glorious cup of coffee?
how difficult, how bitter and
how undissolved
and I wait for the sugar taste
to appear in the vile fluid
out of the blue and
into the black...like a
pre-historic beast.

fate of poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 05:49:00 +0000

i saw a vainglorious cockroach

naked and trespassing my non-existent narcissism

as i stood cutting myself at shaving angles

during the filthy creature's admiration of its butt

and somewhere far in my consciousness

i heard brahms brought to life by nathan

the major chords and situational poverty

angering me enough to clench my right fist

to further hit the mirror and smear the surface

with the green goo of the silky insect.

it takes a killer to diminish an image.

Homage to a Government - Philip Larkin

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 04:20:00 +0000

Next year we are to bring the soldiers home
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly,
Must guard themselves, and keep themselves orderly.
We want the money for ourselves at home
Instead of working. And this is all right.

It's hard to say who wanted it to happen,
But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here,
Which is all right, and from what we hear
The soldiers there only made trouble happen.
Next year we shall be easier in our minds.

Next year we shall be living in a country
That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues will be standing in the same
Tree-muffled squares, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can hope to leave them now is money.

1969 (from High Windows)

calculation

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 14:31:00 +0000

"give me my dime back!
there is no tax on medicine,"
says the no-nonsense citizen
clutching the $1.19 tylenol
on one hand that hides
the $ poverty on the sleeve
and a $1.19 greasy hot dog
on the other that reveals
the $ poverty to aggrieve.

whine

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 14:29:00 +0000

the bluebird flies above
      my head
                        just
      like everything else
does.

ennui ennui

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 01:33:00 +0000

i am waiting for toothpicks to replace the toothbrush refinements

i am hoping for sunsets to wash away the sisyphean dawn

i am wishing for this odour to go away and ricochet off a giant sized iron box

i am seething with anger for a far away thought collision

i am rooting with snot in my nose for an electric eels reunion

(despite them having forgotten their giant sized trucks)

i sit here with a foul mouth and an era old jacket
i sit here bewitched by harry partch
i sit here dancing with my two forefingers

i sit here to proceed smooth with my rebirth

i sit here expecting i'd be rewarded for this blasphemy.

killing routine

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 04:27:00 +0000

begin the new days with crimson legs
glistening from scratching too much
and i am free - free to survive, whisper, run away
from the outside that drips beer, cocktails
and champagne to kill one on good days
and coffee to sustain on others
underwear burns from friction
scars to remind me of existence
stench to be forgiven and trampled
we need reminders, e-mails, bills, phone calls
happy occasions, brevity, and levity
at least until the sun wakes up
to tax you in a straight line.

monkey my name

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 01:05:00 +0000

she swings from the tree like one gypsy monkey
that i tie to the lamppost to spend nickels at the gumball machine
losing coins, gaining patience and getting sunshine
while she dictates one-way treason
that i try to get to the bottom of
as i blow bubbles into thin air and "we are psychic warriors..."
claims my swollen head as i throw away life
waiting for its turn to share.

adolescent change

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 00:10:00 +0000

"But I believe in this, it's been tested by research
He who fucks nuns will later join the church." - The Clash, Death or Glory

joe strummer's ghost bored me to death
while I was spinning some atonal fuck-up
bored me to whirl the goddamned archies at 16 rpm
which speed was only peddled by lemmy
so i got right and so did steve ignorant
bad-mouthing the clash as crap. he sure was crass.
and my hair was spiked. nose snotty. and looking
like jesus huddled between the speakers whenceforth
a message came -subliminal:

"happy new ear!"

a vignette from the gay science

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 02:28:00 +0000

Higher Men

He should be praised for climbing; yet
The other man comes always from a height
And lives where praise can never get —
Beyond your sight.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Merry Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Ramakrishnan Parthasarathy) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 17:25:00 +0000

Merry Christmas to the prisoners at bay
Merry Christmas to the anchorites who walk
Merry Christmas for the Christmas afternoon
Merry Christmas to the absent gifts for the homeless
Merry Christmas to the creators of said absence
Merry Christmas to the concept of gifts
Merry Christmas to the Santa Claus who's at Walmart
Merry Christmas to the closed church on the day
Merry Christmas for the "No Ministers" sign
Merry Christmas for the trains that run
Merry Christmas for equal conditions
Merry Christmas for democratic tears
Merry Christmas to all closed shops
Merry Christmas to the open gas station
Merry Christmas to the feeling of eating something after 24 hours
Merry Christmas for accepting debit cards.