Bourbon Dreams

After loosing plethora of times betting on love

I stake a claim on life with a shot of Bourbon intake

and readily she comes laughing as if it is caramel

made on the straw corn as the hay under the sun

And I make my day sipping over the smooth jazz –Bourbon dreams

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The Mind Uncaged

This is the world of ideas you form when the world itself dissolves

into nothingness and in the idea of nothing the total time elapsing

till you stop on a sunny day and watch the shadows forming on dust

of memories when thought over again and again while sipping gin

and from within the orbs the loveless fragrance enchanting the tongue

with bitter-sweet taste of the gin as many suns form around the orbs

a many-glided universes for the soul to emerge and begin to dance

The aesthetic combat

The aesthetic combat with the starry nights

as if praising the night was a ritual of fights

with the all and sundry who flip coins into air

the bold statement made by my city to coiffure

the hair backwards, a hat and a goggles to support

but hardly any consolation came for the aesthetic combat

that lasted in my mind upwards of every dime

that I could gather but refuse to admit time

It crushingly appoints its own ministers who deign

with the leaflets celebrate the freedom kids feign

and my opponent in the combat is the mirror tonight

The inconsolable

The basic thought that sways the mind too is boggling with wine on dark night

when the moon is half awake and half in stride of phantoms riding the night

there sits the mount of Venus as proud as the heydays of a poet in adoration

and as waver as the waters riding the current on the river about to sink into ocean

there to put out a paper boat to ride on to the choppy waters is a mere thought

of a man mad about wine after having been ditched by a woman who loves wine,

and is inconsolable.

Little rainy impressions

The rain had rundown like sunshine on the Picasso

hardly leaving a memory of the foreshore in dusk

Then she sang a song of piety as a passionless star

could glimpse from within the yellow light in the ember

which turned white as white as her scarf that billowed

loose in the falling rain droplets and i measuring her thighs

resigned to reading a snoop from Life magazine then she turned away

through the rain as if she would bid adieu but she didn’t but whispered through the rain

nothing not even an impression of anyone but the dusk under the lamppost

the rain fell for the last time I hope as if Picasso has retired to the noon