Even for lack of spell,
A kiss is as dry as an udder-like-well.

Call this profound,
Shakespeare just hung a noose,
This crap is as sublime
As ‘Abhi’s “Ammachi”‘*.
* which is a reference to an old FEP “Mallu-bashing” peacock dance.

Wow, now the audiences are asking for a sequel!
What say we vamose? Schnell!

A mad rush of competition,
Jealousy, envy, I get there before you,
or else.

And yet, change the view.
Mountain high rises like the boulder of fever, strong;
There, in that temple yon above,
A peacock flutters its tail, prance.
I know,
beyond them steps a many that lead above,
There be aesth, and yet, secrets… hmm…

Folks a begin,
Buses a roll,
Jeeps and autos follow toll.
Dust arise, and the sun gets hot,
People begin their mostly uncharmed jobs.
Unhelpful, with disrespect writ,
Most of them fancies you as a twit.

Spake they a tongue not nice not harsh,
But made malign in the tones they lash;
This looks like a people lost,
Lost, lost, lost,
No self, no aim,
For between the beauty and economy they be tain.

And yet some, with advent at heart,
Smile and belong, welcome us at heart,
Them towards the beauty’s face turned,
They live.

And yet, birds, lizards, peacocks and goats,
Pigs, and cows, and camels and flies,
Treat all like one big pie.

Water here lies in earthern pots,
Not yours, not mine, our all, got.
And yet, in the same potten shop be
Rows of columns of Pepsis, Cokes, and Slice.

This is a land, lost lost for I don’t know what,
Betwixt beauty, and economy tain.

As the peacock, its last mew-caw lain,
Flutters a hop,
The sun is hot,
Sweaty, dusty, dirty, with a lost soul, torn heart,-
With want for energy,-
Here I come.
See what you can do with me,
Guddha Gorji…

As the telephone bells, it rings;
As the lullaby begins, it rings;
As the sleepyhead slowly awakens, and looks towards, it rings;
As the screen lightens, it rings;
As the opera begins, it rings;

As plane touches off,
As bridges three kilometres long,
As jellyfish quiver and prance,
As the night sky fill and dance,
As tampon powered hot-air balloons trance,
As cyclops of power wind melancholically, sturdily, proudly across the eternal blueness,
As blades cut, bloods spills,
As Uganda, Nicaragua, Somalia rage;

As the leaf sprouts,
As the newborn arrives,
As yellow-brown leaves leave,
As the office becomes air conditioned,
As subjectivity becomes the keyword,
As lies cover the honest to make it the same, like the image becomes the real,
As life lies in a crossover melody,
As the tinybug perilously precariously climbs up the FabIndia pajama;

As with the weed, Swede, and the souvenir,
As with expensive electronics, brand war,
As the butterfly fights, loses, the wind,
As flowers bloom, as lights blink,
As pencils write;
As write, the life…

As lips form the word sweetheart
As  tones change
As people change
And as it rings again
As leaves roll
As winds wind
As lifes entwine,

it rings.
it binds.
change.

A button clicks. The sound stops. The “I” blow. The tinybug flies away.                                                                                              change. “i” wrote.

Little yellow flowers border the introspecting brown iron fence.
Little pinks join them; to witness the crawling snakes, day a day, night a night.
I have no words to say, no speak to thought,
To capture this sleeping elephant rock,
This great spectacle
Seeming, in its bliss stupor to,
Cling on to another elephant peak;
Which in turn to an other,
And an other, settling to swim.

Suddenly, hidden by plumes of coconuts,
mangoes, and such other valley thriving crop…
Oy. paddy and sugar cane too?!

Its hot. A beary hay silo passes by.
Yup, eating his way through grass,
and probably children’s mothers in their desperate hopes to teach her children more words, to keep them from a brawling troll.

Words. words. words.
“Words are all I have, to take your heart away”
Really?
I cannot describe this land
In ease wit this Anglo Germanic tongue
As easily as once I did with the rivulets of Europa;
(with this same orange pencil, same white book)
I know I cannot hope to capture the lime fluorescent greenness of the juvenile paddy a pass;
There is something beyond in this stark bright illuminating suns rays playing hide ‘n seek with trainly windows
(that which has obfuscated logic thus far, and stings my curiosity.)
Yes, true.
But mean that, that I am structured of
phones, syns, and morphs?
["kvool draynks... vaateir..."
Ha! Describe that.]

The tog is almost empty.
And we soon pass the last terra firmatic elephant.
Hey! Suddenly it appears that the three (los tres)
are desperate in support of the drowning un.
Oi oi oi…
(Framed in aweificance by thick white plumes of cotton soft clods, and the oceany blue sky.
Where’s the jellyfish now?)

Hark! What is that which burns?

But wait, my orange friend,
Was that my tongue, or an other, I saw?
Am I already in embrace of my linguistic claw?
Namaskaram Kerala!
As I breathe into Kanjikode,
Where is my welcoming monsoon queen’s klem?
The sun just still shines…
(Tchaaayeee… Tchai tchayeee)

And so, I enter my region state,
A familiarity no doubt, they say,
Configured by the language mine.
Nay.
You jest.

For my land is mine for its greenness,
The countless chlorophylls that breathe air in my state,
And for its earth,
That gives rise to them green.
My land is mine for its water,
Flowing health from the mountains of blue dreams,
Illuminating, strengthening, and killing.
My land is mine for the butterfly’s smile,
For the coconut silhouettes in brown paddy aquadigms,
For the krrr krrrs of Cicadas singing at night,
For these mountains like elephants,
For elephants like loving mountains,
For the people, the thought,
For love,
In short, in a coconut shell,
For this lands energy.
["Tweet tweet, tweet tweet... Es em esss..." Palakkad Jn...]

How can you say it is for the langue?
You call that intellect?
Or is that insolence?
[and is this a discourse of knowing, or desperation? or of hate?]
A. K. Hamza sells chips, chips, more chips,
and of course, halwa, halwa, halwa…
(among other dirty imperialising bites…)

Kakas bite water drops off dripping manual taps,
And people smile on talking, ordering.
I might be hugged by the sweet melody of mine tongue,
Now enveloping like the first monsoon rains…
(“Kerala, Kerala, Kerala lottery tické, pooja tické, win-win lottery…”)
And political dialogues in seats a couple front
may enigmatically critique in powerful speaks…
But did the langue come first, or first the chicken?
I think the chicken;
(and that the langueists should get a life)

Black pipe on a yellow balustrade,
Carries the life of water,
As our snake slowly etches forward
Inscribing change in our universe.

And in my realm now, as slowly as this train moves,
I shall begin to settle to other affections of my selv
My addiction of the word, now satisfied.

Oh A and A for whom I this dedicate,
May love be with you,
And let this land’s energy too.

Drip drip drip drip
Coconut thatches that build this energy’s intellectocracy, fairocracy,
And small boys a playing cricket,
Whilst woman bent over love’s labour ploughing nature,
Red beats promising exercise,
Whilst the sun shine, this train and rivulets move,
the wind caressing my hair…
Peace out.

- neo garfield

^glimpses
BUT NOW CALLED

Warm Snow, Dark Lights, and the Coffee Machine

Like Snakes over icing water
They glide,
North-easterly winds their master
(Just for the way, master have they none),
Over the ocean hat created them,
Without Who they shall not be.
Snakes.

*

Eye in the sky
Behold the majesty afront
Vast big life mirror of Love.
Sheen ice beaches like pearls.
Pride rock, humble ocean.
Warning lights. Human hazard. Slam, sash.
Beauty again. She’s back =)
Dragons, suddenly for company. Crap.

*

People bustle.
An aptly named airport in Hell.
Sjokolade behind moi, artificial addiction.
Red seats, large windows.
Warm. Cold white snow in the out.
“Its all warm, not a thing to fear.”
Nothing beyond us
Psychologic brain wash.
Hiss. There’s a long sleek bridge,
Snow melting trudging a ladder into the snow on ice river below.

*

Yellow lonely swing amidst all white/gray/dark,
Innocence in hostility.
The universal story of Love against tide.

*

Sickness. Human viruses eating beauty.
Creepy crawly mankind.
Ugliness.

*

Canoeing water in the ice.
Crowning majesty with all Her trees
Rise genially. Air of grandeur.
Red house. Green trees. White snow.
Lone traveller’s single light slides.

*

Trees announce Her Mother’s stread
Princess stream jovially meanders by.
Humble.

*

Sleep. He hands on my eyelids.
Like weights on a pendulum -
hangs me down.
!
Spot on!
African inspired, West influenced East Indian music shoots up the metabolic barometer.
Car lights on the cliff wall.
Artsy, spooky.
Is Nature minus humankind ever scary?

*

Retardation. Snow sculptures on
free floating little ice glaciers.
Sigh. Influenced poetry.

*

Trees with iced necks.
Bowing. Albino giraffes!
Ravines. Deep breath;
Cold dark deep mystifying ruts on the ground.

*

Blueness. Slow darkness.
Thoughts, ideas.
Child, running, free.
Not for long;
society caught him, dragged him, raped him.
Artificiality smiled at him.
The beginning, And then,
The beginning of the end.

*

Python carrier swaying elephant like.
Gently rocking us, her babies, to a beautiful tour.
Santa clumps on dry Christmas trees.
Light in a sole-house window.
Where’s your soul?

–

an experiment by neo garfield, whilst on a train from Trondheim (Norway) to Östersund (Sweden). Thank you NSB/Veolia Transport. Dedicated to Mother Earth (Amma), and someone who has her birthday today.

A village with a soul of truimphant serene;
Calmly quelling sapien worries in its green;
As the ducks silently quack, and get away,
And trees gently dance, to the wind’s sway…

I wish,
I were out in the rain in Fredrikstad.
In Fredrikstad, in Fredrikstad, out in the rain in Fredrikstad.

Because of change, I am afraid,
And that which I had dread, has in my path fate laid.
Because I am simply away,
And others, with them, might have their say.
And I am jealous…

I wish,
Out in the rain in Fredrikstad, I were,
The rain, the rain, out in the rain, in Fredrikstad.

A village oh beauty’s name,
A life, oh those cobblestone lanes!
Oh lovely Fredrikstad…

I wish,
I were out on your streets, as it gently rained,
I wish I were out in the rain in Fredrikstad.
And those drops of change, might wash away,
And make me one with Mother Nature again.
And in oneness, might I find myself perhaps,
And run my yearned for laps…
I wish,
I were out in the rain in Fredrikstad,
Out in the streets of Fredrikstad.

Let myself be carried away,
As She loves and cares, and makes my day,
And worries – they no longer make their say!
But… The feeling but remains…

I wish.
The rain, out in Fredrikstad,
Well, I wish I were out in it…
Out in the rain in Fredrikstad.
Oh love, oh beauty, out in the rain in Fredrikstad.

-

Neo Garfield
Wednesday, 26 August, 2009, 4:11AM.

The day after the day after the land.