this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong silent greens silently lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!

Sunlight played off
the limes & golds
& there were azures too.
And my oh my,
how the howlers howled,
as dew dripped down
from the canopy
above.
It was quite mystical,
those ancient stone faces
stared at something
even I couldn't see.
But you could feel it there.
Oh yes, you could feel it there,
between the vines & toucans,
something unspoken,
something unnatural,
like spirits
gathering
with angst
for the
clear-cutters.

Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow

I long to see you in the bloom of winter
where trees are withered and flowers float
in the noose of the nuke
inside the news of the hooks

I want to see you in the rays of the sun
where the leaves shine on a summer mood
in the music of the duke
within mews of the fountains

Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow

I see the rain washing the excrements
where tar and wire were bouncing
in the moving fires
within the encircling tires

I touch the blood on the palm of your hand
engrossed with the pain of trials
in the unresolved pastures
within the chaotic azures

Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow

We encountered a white-tiled wall whose
            purity lingered behind earthly browns,
           salmon, grass, lavender acrylic paint. And this frozen scene chilled like hot breath on winter
            glass, soil-mixed dividing stories of young, smiley-touched
            girls whose hair was flaxen hills in
            the country and whose
            eyes were opalescent azures whose opalescence
            was truly the only sign of thought beyond a
            glassy grin.

Porcelain doll made of giggles and bubbles.

She fanned her fingers in a glorious sky and leaf peacock-feathered exuberance and pawed at the dry, gritty scene of a sailboat floundering towards a sunset.

She sees this world feelingly – one touch, two touch
Her smile is prayer-folded hands extending across her own little world
A prayer for this textured caricature of a little girl,
            a happy puppet stuck until dark,
            like the form the woman she’ll soon become
            with her child-like fingers spidering across the stories she hopes to [but never will] tell.

Her dusty hands against the comforting tinge of a watermelon’s epicenter.
            So pink, so raw, so vulnerable with the valor of another brush’s turn.

Come in all you children and dance upon the sea. The coastline tides are dancing and gallivanting on the breeze. The elephant seals are floating in their carcasses, warm blood lakes thicken on the foam, dancing in the ripples the shivers of Leopard sharks party's throw. ***** slugs and combatants, early hours send cries through crustaceans of the spine, and glitter muscles entwined with porpoise to drink their brunches with new recipes of the brine. Fairy starling, aching heartache, shapes each coil of the coast, and tears apart the stardust of starfish sliding up the coast. Drinking from the salt licks that falling waters move, inside the bay the bluefins escape the hunters in their shoals.  The itsy bitsy great white, crept into the beaches cove, but orca and dolphin chased him back into the deepest azures where the fur seals pup and milk.

Warm sea breeze
embrace the embers
of sunset’s night.

Pebbled wash
laps gentle ashore
shadow seeps
into every indentation  
the sand that sinks beneath my feet
still cooling from before.

Eyes through leafy palms
they meet
wincing in the glare
of sun lit shimmer heat

Your bikini
magnifies my gaze
covers an ample *****.

Moments thought
the inquisitive mind
Lost in oceans
azures blue.

Stretch to the horizon
leave the world behind
To hold so tight
as if sharing skin
To mould to every curve
and cleft of you.

A raptures prelude
senses commotion
run for cover
monsoon rain.

Somewhere
there is only you
a far away ocean
crying for crested moments
and indulge a passion
in such freedoms refrain.

'Take your dream as far as you can'- tear up the 
roots of the dead flowers, grab the branches 
above you and swing into the unreal vision of 
reality, breathe the air of spaces unknown, 
carrying with you the experiences of pressing 
thoughts, the sudden surprises of youth, the 
views that, with a flash of excitement, open up 
great wide vistas, and magnetise your senses 
to fly into their psychedelic embrace. 

Float along on the streams of life, like the 
autumn leaf, after dipping and diving, 
as it finds the calm of a lake's edge 
and oscillates in the quiet breezes, 
gathering the last rays of the setting sun, 
before it sinks, to become new life. 

Dance to the sound of the song bird, 
the drip of the rain, the swirl of the clouds 
and the dramatic movement in an opera when 
all voices join, and sound their messages 
out to the universe of stars and planets. 

Feel with your hands the shape of the future, 
smoothed and polished, slippery and textured, 
bumpy and sharp; become a new form of 
yourself, create something out of your own 
arsenal, using your whole being.
 
Touch the page with the tip of the brush, the 
full wash across the hand made paper, the 
colours of all nature, the scarlets, the azures, 
the emeralds, the golds, in hallucinations that 
are real, mysteries that metaphorically express 
the quick of your spirit, and are seen to be art.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th October 2012.

Written the same day... On my way home the dry Autumn leaves dancing cart-wheels past me, and did tap dancing on the tarmac, it was quite loudly they rattled past and flew away ahead of me as if like a flock of chattering children, rust brown and ochre colours doing their kind of wind dance, how wonderful all these percussion-like noises nature makes; just like the ice on the lake where the children were throwing blocks onto the hard surface, the sounding - box of the lake itself making that eerie kind of clang of sound that at first I thought might be some strange bird. I took up a video on my iPhone, but **** it, having fingers that were near frozen they didn't manage to push the tiny lever over from pure photography, so, to my great disappointment I when I got back there were only photos of it. Such is life!!!

A jaded tree I held,
felt the rough bark
between my fingers,
my hand
cupped the texture,
smooth & uneven,
glazed hues of
malachite,
azures & cobalt
titillated my senses.

I was intoxicated
by the aroma of mint,
tasted the raw honey
that warmed my heart
& produced an inner glow,
traces of Marrakesh
linger yet.

I saw the world upside
today,
tethered
to steel,
zipping on a different plane,
higher than a soaring kite,
I did not fight the speed.

I saw malachites & cobalts,
jades & azures,
a screaming stream,
brilliant
switling
turned-up
leafy-canopies
& a few busted toes.

Don't you know.
Heaven sees us like this....
kissing the sky.

O Dear Lord,
I need to feed
my adrenalin monkey,
who's hanging on my back,
'bout to break me.

Sometimes I don't really remember people
by their specifics or
characteristics.
Their hair,
their eyes,
their body,
sometimes even minds and personalities
become a blur

cuz
I remember people
by the feelings that which they leave me.
I am painfully aware of their
swift entrances and
immediate exits,
leaving me bewildered
as to how and why they
came to be

But for some reason,
I can recall
(almost) every detail
about you.
I remember
gleaming azures
and head-topped sandy blonde.
I remember
macrame, leather jackets
a confident voice
and a six-string gizmo.
I remember
your body: long and lean
secure
Electric

But mostly,
I remember
the multitude of feelings that which you left me.
Curiosity.
Understanding.
Euphoria.
And finally, disappointment.
Not with you, though.
With my naivety.

My impressionable soul
clings to the people who
captivate me,
and you sir,
were riddle and enchantment.
The ideal.
And you still are
in the way that mysteries tend to be;
unforgettable stories
of pure bliss.

Colours merge into one
Then shoot off into the sky
Azures, raspberry and cherry clouds
mind their business floating by.
There does not seem to be a *** of gold
Or treasure or anything else for that matter
Just leaves gathered neatly in a pile
with no inclination to scatter.
Just stillness, a calm, a sense of well being
Even the river running alongside has a gentle flow.
No raindrop dripping on my head, no sun to shine
just peace and quiet at the foot of the rainbow.

Day hums his favourite tune
An octave of perfect rhyme
Oh but closely do listen
A cacophony of azures
Or even a shade of white
Or black
Like a fringe of lace on a firm shore, although cold
Like a blaring orb, glaring
Yet ignored
And yet burning into souls

Oh but around do look
Whites and blacks have greys too.