The Gum and I are One

The silken packet crackles underneath coarse fingers
The taut end gives way and the unzip takes course
My cartridge of spear~ "chicklies" lies...awaiting...
Mentholization
Unload a bullet and slip it between my incisors
Channelising it immediately to my molars
One pinch..the shell cracks..the chicle releases flavour
Camphor swoon
The chew..the gnaw...the petting of the resin...
The vehement consumating orgasm of pepper~ verve
Arctic ice immortalised in sugar-free
Plosion
The chew - but a mere evidence of swagger
The freshness - minified to a sticky pulp
The flavour - undiminished
The Gum and I are now One

Next up: Deodorization - A whiff of camel pussy and Uranal matter for dummies

Hound for Viles

Stuttering the credo of heresy
I live here, calm and disposed of all chance
Denizen to a sepia incarceration - splintered knee-caps
Renunciation for the causality of stigma
Malefactor, barbed to stone
I am truth in its most sinister manifestation
The hound - theophany to the greatest deity,
Together, we embody urth with the yoke of despair
Such is the plight, marry I will not, fear
Wrenched to the mortar of the executioner
I will envision the coming of great disaster and smile...
For it is the demi that will prophesy my failure
Whimper to none - Spartan to denial
It will force-feed lesson and render it efficacious by grace...


Three ticks too tardy...

Costly Candles and Cheap Cake

Birthdays are absolutely fantasmically Wyrd. I love the sheer lunacy of reviving the birth affair per annum. All year long everyone makes an accented effort to make you feel imbecilic, moronic, nitwitted, obtuse, and slow.

Then along comes a day in the year when all of a sudden a semi-forseen alteration happens in humanity. You begin to feel like God.

I have a friend who's forever declaiming the banality of my lamentable humor, claims my Sunday Best is as modish as 2Pac Shakur covered in lamb fleece and ended up waking me up at 7 am (the gall(bladder)) to hand me my birthday present. She insists its a shirt, but I don't compromise on its uncanny resemblance to my mom's bedspread.

Yet on another occasion I had to attend a call from a 'long lost lover' who claimed that I had deviated from my sexual orientation and had turned out effiminately homo. She revealed herself with a dirty word at the end of the gag. Aunty Angel, sorry to admit, but you are screamingly nutty.

The sops are unending and often singularly amusing. My favorite would be the poster of Mamta Kulkarni striking a pose close to that of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar.

Another birthday, another year closer to the tombstone and I'm forced to treat the chums. If that isn't insane then I think I just celebrated calloused feet, Alzheimer's, urinary sugar, crabby days and a sagging ball sac.

Can't wait till I die!

Ennui ~ Ho...humm...

Here I sit in my cubicle, reading through destructive literature.

Counting the minutes tick away until 2 dongs and I don't have to think about that interview anymore for the day. Feel the stripes of sunlight on my hand tempting me to warmth, in this staged sub-zero chamber.

Pulled up the blinds to wash myself in tepidity. And what do I see? Cracks of the golfer's paradise enshrouded by bamboos.

Ever wonder how lots of bamboo in sunlight tend to resemble a large patch of marijuana?

Copious amounts of ganja waiting to be consumed and here I sit in my cubicle reading through destructive material.