deepundergroundpoetry.com
Of The Monsoonal Twinges, Of Melancholy & Ecstasy
the rain~ precursory black ‘godman’ ants... running
graphic in lightning fast angular streak~ ways in a cast spell
of magic to the unbelieving eyes... now here in a sudden sighted
miracle, an auspiciousness in occurrence in the opened centre
page of Pasolini’s book of Poetry..
..alongside the deep~ drawing in
pressed riot.. in a nostrilly craving ~ flexuous forestry… the mixed
crop~ bumper page…with the GI tagged 'Madurai Gundu Malli'-
the sambac Jasmines... & the mazy~ mysterious perfumery of
the Pandanus screwpines,
which when in their dense
bushy wild habitats.. adorns their mystical cyano~ glaucous leaves & their
crowning heavenly... the trancedly~ seducing-a heartstopping flowery
aroma .. those that are the holy templing dens of the worshipped Naga~
the hissing Cobras… & of
the aesthetical
freeflow strips of a silken chiffony georgette streaming saree
fabric..in thighly tightly tying.. sways a wavy flag in revealing
bodily contours .. in the roughened hands of the monsoon currents
in random cyclonic strides of Arabian Sea’s ‘Nisarga’… in fenugreeky~
yellow pleated ribbory, the unconventional~ artsy petallous beauty
champaka...
the nearby Paala mountains
are why? inching in magnifyingly closer today... in a precision set
optimal sunlight contrasts..neither scorchy nor eclipsing.. her raw green
stiffening stretches of vegetative curliness covers are in sparsley spotty
condensates.. shows off her amply stripping naked red~ skin patches…
in a lucid aching need
a papery~ micellar skins of casein, I
afloat atop in the prone skies.. in an iridescent dreaminess..waking
up to the nascent~ UV piercing astronomical dawns.. I enfold them
back in collective coagulative shrinkage.. of a thickening ‘One’ness, in
temporally~ shelving dissociations, an almost disposal.. in the humming
inner haunting complex songs of the mending hard humpback whales.. a
killer melancholy for the needed little, or sizeable self burials then & there..
a creative destruction in the soul~
humbling
the mishmashy marring random
vastly white heady clouds & the thinning poverty black cloudy strands..
are in a perfect duet with the gibbous waxing voluptuous moon of a
maturing golden age complexion, in the triple nacreous guarded layers-
the rainbowed ringing jewellery.. over her slender ankles to the elusive
whorling in epicentriv naval~ hip... raising to the elusive swanneck.. in
a voraciously invitational
dracular~ biting...
& a simply smooth home~ coming.. an
eventual full circle.. the familiar hungering goodness aroma of
a motherly touch.. the sesame~oily spinkled papery'thin roasted
pancaky 'dosas' of mom’s night kitchen recipe.. hits the open
terrace through the robustly pulling in tireless exhausts.. & wafts
gently homogenous as pervasive misty micronic warmth of a
gheeing in nostalgia.. foamy frothy bubbling entropy.. in the
daily denting~ dying humanistic workshop of pain & longingness
& vulnerability.. in the eternal gravitating demand
& need of them...
of Love, flowing in an uproarious silence
of the Seven Seas of Infinity.. the melting~ molten
untranslatably tiding in
tears..
#45 #ERULGCT
Published 3rd Jun 2020
Author's Note
#45 #ERULGCT .. a simplistic stream of consciousness, a spiritual journey of a heartmindbodysoul.. inspired by the monsoonal bursts, by Nature.. all for~in~of Love. you know, Robonoid, Love you & Du xx
Pic: Web. 'Moonlight, Wood Island Light', 1894 Painting, by Winslow Homer.
Pic: Web. 'Moonlight, Wood Island Light', 1894 Painting, by Winslow Homer.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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3rd Jun 2020 11:18pm
Never experienced a monsoon love. Sometimes, you simply take my breath away. Love whale head xx
Reading, mouth falls a little open and the fan blows in, mouth goes dry, go and make coffee, that's better. Back to reading.
Holy hell. Your opening stanza sets the stage for the book of poetry opening and the savage divine world spilling out. The richness of the forest, sea, sky. It reminds me of the ecstacy that must have been God's as she birthed the world into being, days so dryly counted on fingers in the Bible. You are writing a history of beingness that is orgasmic and alive, is my perspective on it.
Holy hell. Your opening stanza sets the stage for the book of poetry opening and the savage divine world spilling out. The richness of the forest, sea, sky. It reminds me of the ecstacy that must have been God's as she birthed the world into being, days so dryly counted on fingers in the Bible. You are writing a history of beingness that is orgasmic and alive, is my perspective on it.
