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of fullmoons and tsunamis…

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images (23)1443049353..jpg

your made-up crunched numbers will never crash
but where’s even the traces of a soulbank presence
for those surreal churned out only-supertide hits
or eyes at the least for glimpsing the everdawning
bland artificialities you procreated hard from poor
imaginations; but, all what

they have

is absolutely nothing to lose, just an endlessly
indelible soulshore still still in crudely roaring
ebb n tide destiny plays
taking in some tsunamis n bridal fullmoons often

 

pic: web

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…and I just smile in awe at the most illuminating emotions shed like rarest pearls from these hearts loaded with doubts! ..and I believe that’s what each one have in their very core..the insecurity!! whatever worldly logic & riches one attain. May I say, late blooms have unique experiential/emotional wordy essence than many early winners who may carry arrogance?!

Reading. Writing. Spying.

“The brains of writers aren’t filled with only yet-to-be-penned stories. They’re loaded with insecurities, doubts, and uncertainties. These can range from the minor to the more melodramatic (My writing is a mere shack to Faulkner’s pa . Why bother?)

And I won’t even dwell on the disheartening contemporary literary landscape. Snooki is a New York Times bestselling author. How’s that for soul-crushing?

It’s easy to become defeatist and even disillusioned when rejections roll in and when the unexplainable, unjust literary success of dimwitted celebs destroys our faith in the American public’s ability to appreciate good work.

In the face of rejection and dismay, from where can we draw encouragement?

Famous Writers Show: Rejection and late bloomers abound.Laura Ingalls Wilder didn’t begin writing until she was 44. She published the first of the Little House books when she was 64 years old. While Charles Bukowski’s first story was published when he was 24 years old…

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clues

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http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/58048-clues/

Floating tiny clues
left in chance encounters,
invisible rays of cross-flowing currents,
filling insipid space with an air of mystical
languages craving to be decoded by you,
released not in any showy act of deliberation, truth
overflows to its draining ocean in some definite course,
Sense those indelible signs falling in place,
..Splattered clusters of reaching
globules touching your waiting
radar of absorbent receptacles,
those  sublime speaking circular surface
aglow alive with randomly expressed
emotional tentacles, as if in dire need
to sit inside your each matching cubicle.
.

Fitting in sync beyond any known calculations,
a worthy grassy pasture kissed with starry buds,
like diamond dewdrops of sparkling symmetry,
reflects a new geometry in each integral facet.

Blowing fibres of fertile winds, firmly
ensemble blossomed flower to a married
fragrance of unified garland, in a garden of permanence,
Carving out a sturdy peninsula studded in your succulent life- bay,
Vivisecting rivers of your passionate infiltration in a playful say.
Chaotic child of your unrepressed indulgence gets an ordered stay,
One among the rarest naturally expressive beings, a challenge though!

rudra

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http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/57730-rudra/

 

an integral thread of well
knit garment crosses norms
out of a daring passion spurt
naming it a community’s culprit

hangs out from his hand segment
tapping tunes of a wavy dancing
note on his numbed skin-drapes
never sun-screened darkened elbows

peeps on each pores raring to feel
him more still in an exploring sway
seems unaware of its loosened stand
scrapping weave discipline as a whole

his rudra in stormy roaring ragas
blows unplanned from arrhythmic
rages that every being’s  a slave
life staggers in an angered hand pull

very master of its prema in a tensile
stretch as insanity fires its fineness
creepy sharp knife edges bleed him in mild
scream before curled in an orphaned death

lots ans lots of plus

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http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/57658-lots-and-lots-of-plus/

 

 

seeds of the skies
sown on their
happy selves

covers grieving
earth in revamped
layer of wetness,
immersing in a log
of flowing freshness,
a bed to sow splashing
beads of raindrops,
interface reflecting
feathery  side-wings,
a vertical depth of fall
against the upper drops..

Yes ,it is..lots and lots
of plus seen on surface..

Minds irrigated to breathing
areoles fissuring bitter blocks,
flowering from each pores
stalks of dew-drop red rose

the feel of life

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http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/57645-the-feel-of-life/

 

 

What it takes in making a feel come fully alive?
Premeditated self of fidelity towards a purpose
rises in tiny rivulets of attempts,
unlocks to free little by little,
that tied-up hugeness of inner slave,
shows up in a release of air, raring to fly unbound,
an air attached with tiny
floats of aloof island-pieces of feel ions,

some touch upon,even hit hard to throw
out a tremble of sweaty fear,
a sweet-digging strangeness flow,
a caved-in life-giving hotness,
or just a sprinkle of goose pimples even.
Chemistry is a two-way try,
fused threads of one and the other in an exchange,
a release of newly felt feel,
simply clusters the islands to a landmass chunk for a happy walk,
though bleeds of pain too is not uncommon sooner or later.
Other multiple transfers is a lucky lame duck,
more than two seems to be a rare sight in any case.

Guinea Pig

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http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/56509-guinea-pig/

 

 

 

Vicious knife ran over the animal, caged
yet not docile as it meant to be,
a surprise of a wild incompletion
of true free-verses seeking passion.

The researcher never had been frank
to seek his
self-objectives.

Experimental tantrums in wicked
sparkles on those set of neatly laid-out
various Vaughan Abscess knives,

His robotic tasks gleaming in plastic smiles,
wooing his prey in a stylish romantic ease ,
a perfect one-night stand on this guinea pig,
to bleed out its breathing plasmatic truth.

Life spilled in termination in his love-dipped
mask of strangulation moves ,
walls splashed in merriment of crimson inks

Cruel hands cleansed sooner of any memories of last seen
innocence on those eager eyes,

Just coming of the age, in the dying moment
for that rare-virtued existence now made extinct,
about flashy deceptive aprons worn in convenience.

Silence of a saint now grips
the  serial killer , after a clinical release.
Eyes now search for a gerbil, a hamster
or even a fruit fly to uphold his workplace sanity.