Sitting on the box of the clay floor
And harassing the emptiness of the DJ in my indoors
As the harangued messenger of newness and united joy
That employs me as a solitary Banjo player,
Alive with my kick and writing ploy.
Uneasy with the merriment of a new verse
That Hare Krishnas the arrival of a premature hearse,
I am happily lost with a Jesuit decree
That unearths a dirge with Lakshmi
For all that is now within me.
Money, the final Bronte burger:
Wiser than frustrations of the Herodotus Empire.
Those were the earnest pleas of a solemn vow before equanimous minds
And these are kisses on the rodeo show of a disobeying kind.
How were the hours desperate on the floor?
Where were the honesty buckets of bouquets in my court?
Spare any change, for a bummer and a Brahmana?…
Not in the least a dead salesman, reborn for her pink karma.
Essays,
Bad days
The only day
Was Christmas.
How was the end Mass
When the physics was karmic Turk?
Delight in me with the Milky Bar legacy
And we will both travel astrally
Back and forth over the cosmos
Celestially aware of the primal island
Of knowing the message of time.
What was for me was not for the city
Dweller in the open spanned office,
I can see! Now is the time for that.
Splat! Goes my dream, across the scream
That scans the stream for momentary consciousness
And bliss with a brother or fewer than a lost soul.
Give me a goal! Let me be where I used to be;
Stretching before the Yogi was complexity
In the UCAS womb of my heart.
What art was that?! To be so flat,
On an earth than knew no Shiva apart
From the blown discrepancy of lust and beverage in my heart.
Massages on the floor
Were unspoken with thighs far from the door
Wooden floors
And a half leotard awaiting karmic bliss.
What is this wrench?
And how do you henchmen,
Get so posed on the mat without lukewarm tea?
Ashtanga is then for me,
After the London city
And the Maya of the mayages and kouri
Letting me down gently from the balancing beam of my heart
That knows no sympathy for the unkempt Maharaja part.
Laughed, by the Buddha
And danced by the Gopis’ animals udder,
Light is not light until the morning has risen Naam.
Calm – and the day was done
Come – and the modernist had begun
When will the Messiah learn that Mahamantra is number one?
Actor, lecturer and horse rider extraordinaire
There is a fellow with less miracles than is fair.
His hollow is falling on the darkness of special comparisons
As the transcendental mellow ripens for the warmth of Gopala’s complexion.
Redirection
Intention
Malevolent respiration
Can an adder out pace the evolved darkness of Elizabethan erection?
Renegade
Artist
Artisan
Perfect being:-
What is the seeing that is dealing in the Poker of your heart?
Dark Maya and the imaginings of the retired classroom
Where the darkroom visitors memorise fault, chapter and verse.
Who is higher and who is lower when the woman is cowered in the snatch and terse
Logos of revisited melange
Intercultural victories
Histories of victims and merry sailors
Vain and surrounded with flags.
Clouds are so frequent in her dismayed guise
That the wise owl cannot shine
Amongst the I.T. lounges of departure boys
With toys and no ammunition for a revised curriculum,
And how the men will look down
On what the American has done.
Sheen across the ocean veil
Set sailed
Wild
Uncontrolled
Spontaneous
Impromptu success.
He was the King of Excess: When he conceived of ships for the ocean.
My motion is not familiar
For the Urili that is drunk wine with diarrhoea,
Hands raised
Drawbridges down
Tower of claims
And evening gowns…

… That is how it feels to lose New Orleans
When the jizz of the Mrs is so far in her in-betweens.
But when you ask of the Guru where he parks his Limo and BMW,
He cannot look at God before himself and say How Do You Do, You Become You.