With the longest known insect life cycle , the cicadas spend 17 years in the ground and emerge to live only four to six weeks to mate fertilize and lay eggs for the cycle to go on.
Does anybody care? Of course the poet looking for a nature theme grabs the detail fast enough to make his daily prose.
Thought of apples and cheeks. On a sad note, how everything lapses like the Apples in trucks rotting for want of assurances.
Adonis’ apples are Adam Apples going up and down.
We now import Italian apples as our Adams apples go up and down . Our own Himalayan apples rot in trucks.
The poet aunty has made it her art of losing and leafing through her poems we have lost her. What good artists we are, what joy.
Like her, we lose an entire continent and it drifts away in a massive techtonic shift and now we have our cold mountain risen.
We keep losing our mothers to trees and the bird chicks lose theirs to the sky and feathers glide smoothly in strange new landscapes.
What great losers we are, what joy. In our final act of losing we would not know What consummate artists we were, what joy.
Because female X chromosomes ,twice male ones, proudly strut in their green RNA coating, antibodies attack them often taking them for virus or some other foe.
They are a kind of a fanatical zealots organising a battle against the innocent cells and the result is untold suffering to the organism.
These are traitors and antisocial.
After Beckett Fosse is the most absurd writer that ever took birth in this absurd world, where we are found waiting for the man who never arrives.
Absurd as we all are , sometimes we prefer to sit embedded in earth mounds for nothing .There we can’t even read a newspaper some distance away.
At other times we are giant insects that think they are humans. Occasionally an absurd corpse grows out of our bedroom spilling into the streets.
What is our Beckett list? Endgame -to read and to despair.Happy Times to watch at play and perchance to dream.
In your inside life occupied with the Internet and mostly looking into the phone you lost your outside , says this insider.
The trouble with your inside is many times what you came looking for is not found due to error 404. Perhaps you can go back to the home page and see if you can find what you came looking for.
This is just an insight from an insider.
A horse is now masked to ride little children for small money. We are not yet unmasked although we believe corona has fatigued and gone.
The third wave seems so far away and who knows may not come.
Why can’t that girl go to school unless a non milking she buffalo dies some where parting with her horn to yield a bone or two for her hair comb?
After all ,you have to keep the girl hair kempt under a shaft of sunlight at a poet’s dawn.
Her mom has to keep her hair free of lice she plucks to squash them dead.
Just like the mom monkey delousing baby clinging to her flying-undersides.
You have to die to get the fucking world going. They all die by turns to get it going.
The poet Housman, man already unhoused, is a much lived man in his poetry. He would sit down to watch the pageant of the living through the streets filing past.
I am an also- liver on the 4th floor of this high rise to watch down the lady sweepers returning home in red uniforms to stay alive in their houses of dust. They sweep the earth off the dust of living and loving, into an empty sky.
After they, who will sweep the dust of living ,under the shuffling feet?
There is a phone call from a girl from the wired world at other end. A girl’s mitral valve has to be changed for air to pass,saving the poor girl.
Recall there were many earlier girls for whom someone touched your twoppence. Here “mitral valves “ are used changeably with moral values in QWERT.
Was the phone girl real or a phoney at the center of the broken valves? What if another heart stops to beat with real valves at other end?
Living moments 