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Posted on 09/10/2004 7:18:09 AM PDT by mggandhi
Planet in Peril is the poet’s lament on the frantic stockpiling of nuclear weapons imperilling all life on this planet of ours. Unlike modern day Neros who are seen fluting with sadistic ecstasy when all-engulfing flames are threatening to turn this only habitat of ours into a burning inferno, the poet’s soul weeps in mournful numbers when he reflects over the impending disaster.
(Excerpt) Read more at gevf.exactpages.com ...
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I'd rather endure that than your poetry. Woof!
Say hello to Dr. Gandhi, dear.
;D
Leni
ALL-DESERTED
The earth hit by thunderbolt, seas by radiation space by pollution.
Where to go this night? All-deserted, no light.
They have blinded my sun, they have denuded my earth.
They have deluded your brain. You seem to have no qualms about dancing the 'epileptic court jester' without a fig-leaf of talent to moderate your shame and ignominy.
THE PRECIPICE
My brother stands before me ready to kill.
Believe me, he ain't the only one.
To embrace the stab of hate and be killed or to dismount his proud head. In a fix I press the button.
The chaos let loose, the bloodhounds set free upon the children of one mother who shared bread and broth in one kitchen, basked in the fire of the same hearth, slept under the same roof and together played hide-and-seek.
How to retrace from the precipice, avert the headlong fall.
Mother is lacerated by each wound her children inflict upon one another. The irreparable loss is hers, the tragedy and suffering is hers. To her never shall it be the same again.
Spreading her cloth, she wails: Come home my children, come, there are forces who will not let us live, they have planted bombs all over my bosom. I can bear the shock of their explosion but not of another forty-seven.
Please throw away this gun, hurt not your mother’s womb. I pray for the life of all my children, may peace on the earth prevail.
First off, how many "children of one monther" and an unknown number of fathers grew up in your squalid shanty?She sounds like she's the sort to be "bearing" like a bowling alley return rack; has she got bionic ovaries? And secondly, you sure your mom is just spreading her 'cloth', Oedipus? You seem to awfully fixated on her bosoms. And why can she only bear the shock of another forty-seven? So we're fine with forty-six? Anyway, tell her it'd be easier to read the price-list tattoo if she'd shave her back.
That last line is sappier than Vermont in April. It really is unique in that it's at once a paean to snivelling cowardice and bellicose self-delusion. This one is just a slaughterhouse of abortive pseudo-prosaic mewling and inexecrable topicality: that is to say, it sucks.
A FROZEN MOMENT
Hey there Maharishi, nice to talk to you. What inspires you to write curdled mewling odes to base fear and ignorance?
Every time I sip
Alky, huh. Figures. What is your predominant theme?
my sadness,
Self-absorbed, yes most poets are... but so are most panhandling street bums. Why don't you sit on a corner in Delhi and recite for a few rupees instead?
it sticks in my throat; my stare gets cranky and I look like a jinn unloosening the lid.
Well, we sure don't want that. You look covered in feces as it is.
Am I
'Fraid so. Did you smell like this yesterday?
the same
So what are your plans for this book release tomorrow?
Nothing before or after.
Thank God for that.
LOL! Though it's better in the original Vogon. Kindly remover your Babel fish.
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