I was asked today "what
are you really into?"
while I was walking to film
class.

He had changed direction
with a flair of drama
and was walking along,
interrogating me.

I had to think.

I wondered how
I would answer his
question, were it posed
by someone I was interested in.

"I like the smell of hormones
colliding, omnipotent in their
decision to do so and in doing
it."

Could I say that?

"I like to feel like a hormone,"
or
"I like being a hormone."
Were these answers?

"I like patting my contracted
******* against the *****
majora of my partner."

"I like sewing," I might say.

That is, the idea
that if I push
and she opens
both testicles
and ******* may pop inside.

Like a **** needle pulling
a ***** thread
through a tight weave.

I laugh, imagining what the little man
would say, but
he doesn't know why.

"Stitch her up, Doctor!"

I'm
laughing.

He just says "you know, I'm into
chemistry, biology. Just tell me what
you're into."

I've been silent.
Is he still walking with me?

All I think to say is
"music" pointing to the earbuds
dangling over my chest, song
interrupted
by his pedantry.

He says "you've always liked music"
as if we've had this conversation before.
As if we know each other.
And it seems like he will follow me
to class.
And sit by me.
And talk about chemistry
and biology
while we discuss Singin' in the Rain.

Hormones, sewing and music.

oli  alolalia, alloilaalia llia
my voice complies to echo
distant emblems of a theory of all fate,
destined  with a syntax  of a mainly nonsense  pedantry
..paling.. beside a string of random words--
whether nature's bare effect,
or some intentional array--
ailololalieae, aellolalia la aolilolalia, allollia allali lllla, alloalia alllaia, allolalia*
--bearing ologies of whim and isms without ambit,
a farce within a sham in a sham in a sham
waiting there atop an abstract, ancient hill
gloriously stale, and always having been to be
what only poor Laplace could see.
the comely resignation siren sings,
her hair of timely strands agleam
and waving as she wails before a wall of necessary moans
aelloliaolia llali, alilaolaloiaa. Lllaa oali, aallolalia, lli ll ol, llolalia lllalia, aallaoloaloia
in dagger tongues of old and new, even divination ends--
anti-grammar soothsaid by the stars,
pointless thanks for all respite
and fortunes womb to womb
in tones of equal portions,
loving and malicious lies
invested blindly in a causalistic chain
compelling freely all to learn
another hyle verse refraining on,
"sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea."
allolalia.        
allolalia of the soul, for certain.
of what is romanticized as soul. the Incy would know,                         
chosen in fantastic leaps a chorus strips
to vocal altivolant cries
rebounding buttress heights
with savored dionysian sin
the gods descended to revise--
listen, in abandon, an amatorculist's ictus speaks:
allolalia a allaia. Alloolalia allolalia alaloolaleioa
resounding deep beneath the waters, ecstatic envelope of tides
in which the stars reflect the spiral of my inner gaze
chiaster noemes tipping pleasure over domes,
verdant crotches rooted by ephemera of lights
and hazes floated over eyelash swoons
from piercings into satisfaction's desert end,
where sternums drip with scoured lusts
and wide-eyed recollections of the moment's selfhood sight
betray the freedom in the heart, and sacral pride.
***** imagined ease of future tropes
conjoined with inner plights to balance
what the furrowed brow concerns,
and widened visions offer further depths
to penetrate the interweavement of all times--
alone i'm here again, recognizant of wills
familiar as the flaming star i contour shadows from
to reminisce on mentor's sayings,
"exact description of inner and outer reality"
Alelaoolaliai alololialiia, aallolaleia
experiment of worlds, archer of the proper noun
allolalia... beloved allolalia...















.

MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me -- no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale's true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again --
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.

Paper ***** flew around the classroom

masquerading  as a cricket ball

Hit as hard but managing to hardly go anywhere

The chaos in the class would soon end,

as the diminutive figure will walk in, book in one hand

Prying eyes trying to catch the laggards

shuffling back to their seat and

pretend to be very obedient and behaved lot.

The pinch, the hit on the arm with ruler, or the words

will bring about absolute silence,

masking the transient pain and shame,

that will soon followed by snickering comments and giggles

from those who escaped this time by their agility or luck.



The pencil boxes will soon start to play multiple roles,

like the actors in a play on a tight budget,

Transporting bits of papers with probable clues to the

questions put forth, the wrong answer to which,

could lead to repercussions of varying degree..

Like standing outside like a flagpole,

but failing to act as a deterrent to us incorrigible lot.



Lunch time will be  like an oasis in the day of claustrophobic pedantry  

where the darwinian principles will be set to test,

hands drawn towards the most delicious tiffin boxes,

the rightful owner of which will be lucky to even find a morsel

But however mundane and monochromatic sometimes those time may be

Looking back its was all worth it

when we could pick after 3 decades later where we all left off

and engage in hours of debating, leg-pulling, sarcasm, enlightenment

not withstanding the boundaries of time, space and temperament.

Fashioned by grace amazing and mercy
Divine. Wrought by his unparalleled Passion:
His suffering, death and resurrection--
The cross of Christ in Calvary
Is the lone bridge, the only ladder
That reconnects man to his Maker.

No one who has traversed
That Golgotha-link hath ever
Fall'n into the deep r'ver
Of hell 'neath, nor by damnation
Touched in Satan's condemnation.

"Hey, what about so-and-so prophet,"
Said one, "and such-and-such sect?"

I do not, sir, over religion quibble.
Compare to grave matters--trifle.
Get books and the Bible. It's futile,
Argument, making a sage an imbecile.

And why lose friends to gain foes,
Multiplying instead one's woes?

God doth not any man in life compel.
Each soul chooses 'tween heaven and hell.
Yet his love daily he whispers to you
And i. College cobber, that is true.

"Oh, you are just a pedestrian
Writer, without wits and sans brain,
Like an *Onitsha-market author."

"Thou art also a paltry poet, a bad bard.
Folks should simply thy collections discard.
For i can nought make of thy poetry ethos.
Your works wherefore are but bathos."

Hallelujah!!
Praise i Jehovah!

"Hell. Away now thou pedantry."

Thanks for your commentary--
It's heavenly--erudite Professor.

Faith ferments finer than wine.
Thy decision it is with whom to dine.

The self-righteous, the holier-than-
Thou art, who prefers to leap
Over to God on his on major merit
Will always go under the heap--

Thinking he can close the chasm
Created by sin,
And cover the gulf caused by transgression
By ritualistic rules and doctrinal devotion,
But ends up in some bedlam--
In Sheol's loony bin.

Broad are the twain heaven's arms
Filled with warmth and soothing balm
Often open to embrace prodigal souls.

Pardon please my pedantry,
But I espied sir that in your rhapsody
You sometimes overlook crossing all your “t’s.”
If a point should be taken, then please let it be
That these consequential “t’s” should not be jotted down so flippantly.

Where are those honours, IDA! once your own,
When Probus fill’d your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail’d a Barbarian in her Cæsar’s place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,
Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway’d,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne’er before enforc’d in schools.)
Mistaking pedantry for learning’s laws,
He governs, sanction’d but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o’erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.

Would you be angry if I howled?
You awaken sleeping fires inside me
more primal than modern words can express.
You look as if you are dressed in the moon
with Orion around your wrist and Leo on your neck.
Such pendants chase the pedantry of speech from my mind.
There are no steps in your stride.
You move about teasing laws of inertia,
kissing gravity on the cheek
as if to acknowledge his feeble attempt.
I have searched all of time and space for you
and you have found me speechless.

Would you be angry if I howled?
Threw my head back and let loose my lungs?
There is a wind in your eyes that stirs my soul.
Sentences that made sense not two minutes ago read:
is the moon you pretty as not as... what?
letters strewn across my tongue fall into my throat
you are a category 5 lunar storm
coating my eyes in moon dust and shine.
There is no man in me so eloquent
as to answer the ancient beauty I have seen in you.
All I have found is a cartoon wolf
with his heart popping out of his overalls
and his eyes on fire with the moon.

true submitting to demands of neurosis curves to the sound of the force of the force fed horizontal forced impressionable for back ache for mystic soliloquies or morsels of black fungi distilled fat and oils silver obsidian dragons dust agony panoply of **** feeding axis and disturbed screaming mosquito

ledges crumbling arts dissolving back arching needle spine spinning hovering roaring crackling cumulus demands
ideal reduced form mountain shivering clapping breaths maximum fulfilled broken bones and shattered psyche forced unconscious patterns in vicious tongues in absolution watered and paint plucking ******* abbreviating one in out and rage deciding or stumbling into oblivion some decisions or preternatural prophecies fueling dueling serpents arrange pedantry forced entry excessive force forcing logic skewering shaming wailing panting wasps

The cursing from behind the curtain
Footsteps loom - soon the gloom
Is fading, soon a light blooms –
Illuminating the edging
of this room’s draping
Do you dare draw back my curtain? -
Fore my heart harbors hatred, it only worsens
when you appear to divulge my death diligently.
For my love of life, simply spread extensively
so - lo and behold - you hold aloe in your ecstasy.
You left my life in brevity, akin a living enemy,
pedantry and jealousy torn ye heart asunder,
Solely at the thought of your loving maiden’s wonders.
So, you had the magic of Fra Pandolf,
you ask him to trap me on a mantle.
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.” I bawl
and sob, - so frightened - as you recall the night when
Fra Pandolf’s drawing caught my likeness.
I am now caught inside it, you hold court before me
Talk of passion, power and –and of course- our sordid story
I saw you order sell-swords to execute me  
Peasants pulled me to the roof, whence they threw me
Now you see me cursed with wrath
When you pull this curtain back
Not a word is heard, Alas
‘Till this castle burns to ash