Due Adultery!

Spotlight on! The morning sun
shines on her divinity,
as the child bearing hips
appeal in harmonic motion.
A white cloak hides her glow
yet reveals her bow,
years add the grace,
as two naughty eyes,
gyrate to a hypnotic tune.
Hooked? A circular
classical ritual follows,
for the art of playing the game
that bringeth a new life,
sustaining Adam's clan.

Entranced, my morning
liturgy left unfinished,
as paths change
to keep focus on her
shimmering flares and
for a friendly smile;
then a brunch,
with sips from The Copa.
But the dame, lost in her
musical notes,
fails to mark the pale pony with
his tails up, the Pheron
sweating with feverish eyes.
And pheromones mix into thin air!

Her bind, a social contract,
the chain golden; her beauty enslaved.
La Belle vanished behind
her urbanised, successful man;
a sorry specimen, lucky to enjoy
her warmth and bites,
till death do them apart,
or till the due adulterer's wand,
the latter I wish,
to break an ancient code,
the seventh command
that locks out love...
All just to taste her dew.
Snap; ye moral fool!

(The beautiful lady in white at the park. My morning walk is getting colourful by the day...)

Race Retainer!

Two chairs right beside
the centre of a Gothic cross;
laid down centuries back;
renovated, seems a few years.

Yoke, the law of nature,
at the flowered aisle
inside the wide fuselage
of this weekly flight to salvation.

High the pitch, feedback
as the wired mouths
get tuned to hum and usher
in a new life for the couple.

Love unites their desires,
vows join their lives;
an act to sustain the race,
or is it a race to quench the thirst...

... The dried lips of a traveller
caught in the shifting dunes,
tired of the mindless mirage,
finally kiss the spring of life.

(I reached way late at church today. Service over, only a few decorators remained and they were dressing up the place for a wedding. A big day for the couple involved . I sat and watched the men go about their work and did my bit...)

The Unfinished Song!

Four days and a bit;
over, the role of a
keen passive observer.
Amused by the glint of
recognition from beauties
in proximity;
and others - them cute,
unknown smiles.

This day, heartfelt comments
just flowed, patting the warrior,
a soft-spoken
boy from her land.
Oh, he smiled as I told
my tale with her.
Please do sit and recite,
the offered chair.

But my wish,
it remains unfulfilled;
a chance to feel that smile,
which caught me at the stands,
and pulled me to her lap,
where I lay
to write that song,
but unfinished! The angel flew.

And so will he,
lucky this young one,
he destined to be
so near that glow,
her hands of gold.
While I curse
my mortal arms,
take 'em and give me flight.

A fancy, nay a dream,
to touch her eyes,
and share a thought,
through the plain n honest
language of hearts,
and then to let her words
fill the blanks
of that unfinished song.

Orphan Age! Orphanage?

The meeting call on
a “fine afternoon”;
free of human and
inhuman Chennai traffic;
as the elite celebrate
a tradition with a new year.
Sugarcane and a pot full
of goodies for some,
food for thought for others.
It was time for beer!

And the men talk of
spoilt seconds with snobs.
Why waste time here?
For a heart, and yeah...
An eye for comrades lost in migration!
A flight towards set goals for some,
confused priorities for others;
as tummies bloat - with grains,
solid and fermented.
It was time for antibiotics!

And sleep... Lovers keep distance
and also keep me awake;
life flickering by the flared up
desires from bared breasts
as hearts open... My life!
Then a time for homeless birds,
perched atop a Casa; dinner
with spoons, knives, forks and jokes
as families keep foreigners away.
Orphan Age; or an Orphanage!

Jaded Sabbath!

The eerie dull glow,
a sudden change in tone
shouts out; for attention.
A divine attempt to pull
a cruel joke,
a show of reality,
to a man who was only there
to feel the glow.

No glow, just a cold,
metallic shade,
jaded silver; remember the
rotting fish at Kochi beach?
The murals playing mind games,
bringing forth strokes
of realism into a
romantic outing two days old.

Lost in the shifting lights
as covers get blown
to smithereens by
salted winds from the sea.
The way out, passing a man...
Aaah... With no legs,
a starving old lady,
and the homeless...

No charity left to share,
when you're confused,
angry and hungry.
This Your world,
or is it Your Sunday joke?
Sabbath is it?
As the drag began
riding a new found love.

(The landscape was dull and depressing... Church brought out a different colour this day)

Eclipse Bloom

She’s near, I feel
the tickle, her smile,
the breath on my chin,
as she whispers,
in an ancient tongue,
the flaming song.

I sang along in free verse,
with dew, a trickle down my cheek,
the kiss I felt in the rush;
I was missed, heart crossed,
the tired spirit’s haiku notes
were cherished? Am I dreaming?

I fly, under the shy
man in the sky this day.
Hiding behind his lovers wail,
Eclipsed? Nay he drinks
wine from his girl's bosom,
and smiles naughty coming out.

His glowing aphrodisiac
- the glorious rays show
the way out from a partially
eclipsed heart, towards love.
The path of gold,
where my senses warm...

... To her bloom, she’s here.
Long the journey,
but, oh... she a fairy,
here and here do stay...
Stay for more - the songs,
and love here and there.

(Solar Eclipse, a once in a lifetime occasion, occurred today. Where was I? I was there alright. But was floating or rather flying too. She! She gave me wings...)

Naturalised Security

Search for her,
for that touch, softness;
signs for not being in the
wild yet; not yet.

The insecure kid ran,
awake to a setting sun, for her;
whose breasts made him
the man who can bleed.

The insecure man,
lost in a water world
of sarcasm, did turn;
but to nowhere?

In the days of second chances,
he had a womb.
Now, in nights of corrigenda,
he cries and runs, a static flight.

That summer his tears,
wiped by the Donna
in the room across,
she was cooking stew.

This winter he called,
answered by an angel
in the cellular grid across town,
she was brewing love.

The caress, a naturalised sibling;
a sign - the cliched half full glass.
He's in a new city, not in the
wild yet; not yet.

Hit & Limp case

A resolute vow,
of playing the soft lover,
through cheeky words
the day they met.
Four long months since
the first dance in the wet;
and then the wait,
for the joyride now.
Fun! Till a test of luck,
lasting mere seconds;
but the stress-fatigue,
looks set to last the life...

-------------------------

Miles many yet to float,
down the snaking,
placid river of tar;
under a winter sun
- mild for this land,
yet harsh enough to
burn every inch of
my throttle hand.

Sedate drift downstream,
the order of the day,
till the rapid stretch;
urged by her soft voice and
the quest for the sunset port;
rushing me into a trance.
The trees blur as I
pushed her for the first time.

Then, a sudden shift in beat;
and a call; made not by choice,
but the hand of the unknown;
or perhaps the hymns by the
good souls at Hope church;
as I stood yards away
from a wail; the spot where
blackness crossed my path.

He, scenting his bitch,
tip-toed towards fast love;
hesitant till a final dart, across;
after his nosy psyche caught
her pheromones in the air and...
... It was late, for me,
an helpless bang, the shudder,
and a left shift; the moment's over.

Silence, with a slight shiver,
shattered by the lament,
of a life broken by a bolt unknown.
A cruel twist to his tale of love;
ah... the sin in it all,
the selfish bastard me,
not easing the gas,
banking on some percentage law.

But a sharp burn
the swell near the tibia,
- my sentence quick,
for the rush of blood,
as the howl maddens,
and eyes stare;
I mount for the run after the hit:
Limping; my leg and her fork.

(It was just sheer luck, or maybe divine intervention which kept me from falling and possibly getting crippled after running over a dog at nearly 90km/hr while riding from Kochi to Chennai. The dog lost its legs, sad! I sprained mine, lucky! While the bike stood firm with minor sprains of its own, as thoughts of God and prayers rushed into the grey matter between my two ears.)

Bypass!

Fresh start, the morning ride,
leaving a pal and his
concerned tones with
the warmth of a friendship
- thicker, yes; way firmer than
his bedroom's two-feet wall.

The hum from her heart,
my ride, whole of a third of a litre;
her Cubic Will pushing me on
till the junction where
once I told bedtime stories
to a sibling, forgotten.

Aye, the morning crowd
in the small, sleepy town;
acts crazy and more,
waving to catch my eye.
I dare not look left!
I can't, lest I see her eyes.
What if I do?
I'll stop, can't help...

... And carry her,
singing that old lullaby...

The hum was steady,
and the hypnotic,
asphalt gradient kept me
from breathing a while;
stopped me from turning left,
towards a little love...

... I bypassed a town
and the long lost peace...

(Holiday over, Christmas at home was fun. This time I had a post-holiday incentive too. I rode my new bike from Kochi, my home town, to Chennai. It was an 800-odd km long ride. Lot of sights, stories and yeah, while bypassing a small town en route, this flood of memories...)

Foetal Curl!

The wake up call,

from age-old morning tweets.

Yes, the chirp choir,

not the bird-brains,

in wifi networks.

Earth's mother here, still!

But I ain't ready

to begin my day.

The soft cushions

and December chill,

keep me home, near her;

my mom; she's still in bed.

A good morning gets better,

as twenty nine years of poison

by corrupt electromagnetism,

becomes null and void,

under her grace,

as I snuggle into the foetal curl.

Her perfume from the heavens,

a mix of manna and love.

The lullaby all so familiar,

beat from the heart of gold.

Safe and sound I doze,

back to the womb, this morning.

(by my mother's side)

THE SILVER LINING!

Whitish fluorescence,

it's divine - de lux;

the walls of this pyramid.

Yeah, right here,

near my home.

What? Out of place?

It's right here, outside my doors;

but close to our hearts.

Indeed, far from the land

where Pharaohs built 'em first

- larger than life; them all now

just mere sand dunes.

But here, my home here,

they glow and it's bright,

the steps shimmering,

an incline to the spire

of Santa Cruz, the Basilica sizzles,

this, the Fort Church.

The buzz, my home here,

it's louder than loud

- the festive karma, parties,

wine flows with every smile,

friends, family n tourists,

all welcome, the party's on; forever!

A Christmas town, my home here,

in full spirits, hearts to the brim

with love n small fermented sips,

good old Fort Cochin.

All chaired by the big man,

at the centre where it begins, a gay parade.

To him the minds drift, glances shift,

- the collage of neon

with a risen subdued star - the topping.

Stands tall this Tree of Gifts,

as babies smile, boys jump,

and girls sing a forgotten tune.

Then a little bit of fun,

long-maned boys club, drunk!

Bikes zoom down the boulevard wide,

gliding under the smiling cloud

- a sponsored silver lining

for the 'retro surfer' in us all.

Cochin, my home town, sure knows how to dress up for Christmas. A drive down Fifty Feet Road towards the beach kinda gives you the feeling that you're in an avenue in Las Vegas - all lit up on both sides with stars and a ceiling of silver 'glowing decor'. This 'boulevard with the silver lining' begins at Veli Ground, the place where the Cochin Carnival Rally starts and a couple of kilometres later ends by the beach... Right next to the harbour mouth, near Santa Cruz Basilica - the fairest of 'em all!

Lift of faith

He called out,
to his best man.
Perched high n dry on
his fleeting self-made ride;
the Iron between
a man-made beach
and a concrete bond
- his big bro, the badminton pro.

He smiled, no fear here,
the gentle lift is near.
Certain is his road to bliss
where awaits his glass of milk,
breakfast and holiday songs.
Not the prodigal type,
he did follow the bigger steps,
till the higher stop.

Racquets thrown down,
the senior senor opens
his arms for the loving hug and
a gentle pull with all the might,
a sibling in labour.
Muscles stretched but
who minds? The loner did!
He stopped, smiled and... A trickle...

(It happened this morning at the park. Two kids are going home after their morning revelry at the enclosed playground within the joggers' pathway. The younger one climbs the three-feet Iron grill but finds it too huge a hurdle. Help is at hand though; his big bro, five inch or so taller than the cute one. But he is there; there for his brother...)

Fast Forward!

Lunch at a semi-spheric cave,
a floor above the bank tellers.
The furnished circle
cut in two - the table;
with a two-inch radial canyon,
letting eyes drool at the long legs,
crossed far n beyond in display.
The glow and scents draw men
away from his destined date
- the seasoned mass,
built with steroids by
'em silly genetic engineers.

The manicured orange stumps,
a rain-stained wide-screen tele show,
and graphs - strokes by a modernist,
the psycho-analytic architect,
and his bloody attempt to make tourists,
aliens and the time-starved,
hungry corporate sharks at home.
This, with the chained melodies,
form the urban watering hole.
A place to hunt, meet mates,
make mating calls,
quick love and of course,
some fast food for thought!
Is it? The fast-forwarded evolution.

(A fast food joint in Chennai)

IDES OF DECEMBER

The fifteenth, the Ides
but in December here.
With rains and signs
of the ominous;
indeed, the old soothsayer;
true he has always been.

The man's words forged
during a wild fire within.
It's not the starved acidic gut,
but from the quilt,
woven out of thy neighbour's follies;
talked in the net, in hushed tones.

His words stopped me
for months here, till
laughter took over
from the lay-out chats,
touche, toast and the vibe,
after the afternoon swipe.

Beware of the Ides,
not just of March.
For their straight mane
is crooked enough,
to twist your tale
during the judgement days.

The Lunar Circle

The bright lady in the middle,
of a static ring, concentric,
luminous, it's magical,
the half-shy moon tonight.
But bold enough her show
the truth through her smile.
Behold this lovely circle,
of music, wine and
a small band of friends.
In a roof-top huddle,
the kicks, smiles and sighs,
till morning's reality show...

Ah, the Good times; the beach, terrace; the moon and of course - Sid and our gang...

I saw his face in the mirror. The features clear enough though slightly distorted from the drops of condensed water rolling down.

He was standing on my right side, holding my shoulder and assuring me everything’s fine. But he wanted me to trust him and walk out with him. I was reluctant. “Why should I? I asked myself. “I feel safe here”, in front of the wash inside the men’s rest room of Park Sheraton Hotel, Chennai.

If I walk out, I was afraid I would pass out or worse, I may make a mess on the dance floor and thrash the party, which was, by the way, the celebration of the launch of The Times of India, Chennai edition.

It was the summer of 2008 and there I was; one too many Patiala pegs later, in a big mess, and that too in front of all the big shots of the organization I would be working for God knows how many years.

And the man holding my shoulder, trying to drag me out of my ‘toilet nest’ - Mr Siddharth Saxena; my then new boss!

Well Siddharth is a ‘strong’ man, but he would have to be stronger than ‘strong’ to make me release the grip I had on the wash basin. Being a former wrestler, I do have my strengths and in my stubborn mode it is worse. But he did coerce me out, his assurances moving me to the lobby and a sofa there. Now, I’m not sure whether it was a sofa or the floor but I was sitting and he was wiping my face with a tissue and asking me to drink a glass of water and I was constantly blabbering the ‘S’ word.

“Sorry boss,” I kept saying, to which he replied, perhaps his first so-called Gyan (read: advice) to me. “Arrey, why are you saying sorry? You drink to get drunk. Good fun man!”

One and a half years and a couple of months later, yesterday, I felt an even firmer hug across my shoulder from Sid. Oh yeah, “boss” and “Siddharth” slowly but surely transformed to “Sid” and Sid was leaving for Delhi and yesterday, the 8th of December, was his last in Chennai office and in between handshakes and parting pleasantries, he hugged me.

He hugged me with the same strength with which he rescued me when I was down for the count in a hotel toilet half way between consciousness and sleep, the kind of alcohol-induced sleepwalk that we all have experienced a couple of time at least in our lives.

Then I saw his face on the glass once again or rather through the glass this time. He had swiped out one final time from Chennai office and looked back and waved through the glass door. His face, like in the Park Sheraton mirror, was visible through the semi-opaque grated lines on the glass.

Then he disappeared down the steps. I know I would meet him again but I wanted reassurance and so I messaged him. Asking him to take care and telling him, “I’ll see you around boss”. To which he replied: “Sure, keep your chins up guys.”

Keeping our chins up!

How can we not be proud and be without keeping our chins up boss? I wanted to ask. That’s how he moulded this team.

I was the second member of his team here, the first being Hari, my Indian Express boss. And I got on board with a mental handicap. I was not that confident about my reporting skills as in Express I was a desk guy and was good with pages, very good. But in reporting, though I had good writing skills, I was kind of unsure whether I would be able to deliver.

During my job-interview, I put up my best persona, fighting the good-reporter case as Sid measured me. Knowing Sid, I’m sure he would have seen through the facade, but from his later words, I figured he had felt I was a good guy.

With the same strength, not with arms like in the Sheraton wash-room, but with words, he gave me opportunity after opportunity and in no time, I was writing with flair and the only problem I faced now is that I can’t write “small copies”. That’s how confident I became in a few months' time.

What about the rest of the team? Well, Dwaipayan, cricket writer of Chennai, shifted from his hometown Kolkata to be here and the reason was only Sid. I can bet my lost ‘Target Variable Pay’ that there was no other reason. And he is very upset Sid is leaving, but “Dwai Da will be fine, we all will be fine”, Sid had smiled during our farewell beer-lunch.

The man believed a team lunch is never complete without beer. “A proper adult lunch,” he used to say.

Sarath, Krishnakant, Pavitra, Hardy, designer Kannan, Hari, me, the team was made to believe it was the best and we became the best. We were asked not to compromise with quality or ethics and that’s what we did. Of course, arrogance came with it too, a tinge. And at times we did screw up, as Sid puts it “the shit-nesses”. But it’s all in the game and luckily no big mess-ups happened and he was the kind of guy who would watch our back. So nothing could bring us down.

We will have our chins up I guess, there is no other choice.

The day before yesterday, I was riding with Kannan after work, taking an all-so-familiar route, a little down the East Coast Road to Palavakkam and Siddharth’s home. We were having our last team party there. When I turned to the entrance of his colony, right at the beach, I said to Kannan: “Man, we’ll sure miss this place.”

Kannan’s answer was a philosophical affirmative and so began the final terrace party at Sid’s beach house.

Our Skipper brought the “best rum in the world” - Captain Morgan - as we settled down at familiar positions on the terrace. The moon was half bright or there about, the night was chilly and then Kannan pointed out something.

“Look, there is a ring around the moon.” Indeed there was. A circle, just like this circle of friends - Sid’s band of brothers with a ‘sister concern’ (Pavitra), bonded by common spirits and a common vision on how to have a good time.

Now Sid had to get his camera out for this. And as usual he got busy clicking slow-shutter snaps of us, the moon, the night and the beach. He has done this umpteen times before and I have to say, each time a different colour comes out, a different perspective of the place and its ambience.

Be it the picture of the only non-drinker in the group - James Hardy - standing near an half-empty bottle of booze or be it Sid’s friend Mr Anshuman Roy, glowing in the dark. The pictures told the story, of fun, and of the long talks which would end when the dark rum in our glasses begin to glow crimson red with the sun's rays from the east.

Yesterday night was no different. The clicks continued while I stretched myself after a couple of pegs and was listening to the rather animated talk between Siddharth, Sarath, Hardy Kannan, Krishnakant and the occasional high-pitched contribution of Pavitra. The topic varied from Chennai to movies to music and back to movies and...

Well, I dozed off only to wake up five minutes later. I sat up, took few more sips and again faded, Siddharth's take on some movie being my lullaby. I repeated this routine three more times I think before I heard Sid's voice call out.

No, not wake up Sid, but: “Wake up Leslie. We will go down and eat.”

To which, I jumped up saying: “I'm here”, as if to tell him I never slept off during his farewell party. But doze off I did and peacefully too. It is a luxury I enjoyed only at his place. I even had my own bedroom there where I used to crash after a night of gulps, music and football.

Time for the “Last Supper”, Said our host. The gang had their fill while I decided to take it easy with just occasional bites of chicken. That's when Sid asked me, “You holding with me right.” That was his way of asking whether I was good for a couple more drinks.

“Yes,” I said. And the drinks were poured, our talks given a musical backdrop by Dwai Da's high-pitched snoring. He was taking his morning nap on the floor next to the dining table you see.

Time was around six in the morning when the guys decided to call it a night or rather a day. Ah, time for the cliché... Good things never...yes, they never last!

The saturated morning air with an overwhelming scent of dew made us, for a brief period; forget the fact that this is the end of a lovely chapter in our lives.

“Get lost and let me sleep,” was Sid's answer to the question whether he will miss us.

“End of a chapter in our lives,” I told my squash-reporting partner Hardy as I walked down the gravel lane towards the main road, looking back once and there he was, clicking with his camera...

I shall not introspect as to what it meant working with Sid. We all know what we gained from it and he knows what it meant being with us. Some things are better left out of blogs.

As friends, me and Sid went for swimming lessons, almost went to the gym together, went for a cycling trip, for movies, drank and philosophized on life, went shopping to buy Diwali crackers and woke up his neighbours at three in the morning bursting them. And in between all that hard work, found enough time to make a few hundred pages.

Not bad for one and a half years, I guess!

Transfer Season

Fall winter the year before,
a happy bunch sweats out,
at a fresh, red newsroom,
and later chills out,
at silky-moon terrace discs.
It was December,
time for the hot n mild,
the loved-by-all Chennai season
when local sweaters come out;
yes, "coldest" time of the year.

With transfer tales, the open window
at distant jersey-lands,
the higher leagues where millions count
- the Euro soccer songs and goals,
filling up packaged spaces
- our work in the day,
our passion in the night;
led by the player himself,
the one with the camera.
No! No flashes,
just the changing ISOs,
and shutter speeds,
and clicks lasting minutes.
His subjects, drowned in rum and waves
- music and Quality food;
pose with effortless ease,
for pictures, stories;
yes, the team of the year.

A year down, the time;
a new transfer window.
The family's back,
he, never crest-fallen,
returns to the thick,
holding the reins
of the red-ride, his wheels;
down the capital lanes,
to his love and life.
He leaves in a day;
dreams taking a northern shift,
the captain's off,
to a light-green splash;
yes, the deal of the year.

(These lines are for a good friend, Siddharth Saxena. It was part of a poster we guys at the sports desk designed for him, our boss for one and a half years. As a boss (Sports Editor), we were his first team, and I would say, he was lucky to have the best around. But then, he was the best boss around so naturally we had to give something back to match that right?)

MAD DOG

The harmonic shift;
from a saxophone,
the smooth calm sea;
to the sparks n flashes,
the tropical thunder shower
from a powered six-string.

The tones belong to me,
like or hate, Blues or Rock;
kiss or piss, red bud or black metal.

Yeah, it is from the dishevelled,
lonely cyclist on a mission,
through dark humid alleys.

A mad dog among the many
sane, socialising canines.
Of course, they bark - a vicious choir;
at me, the alien intruder;
the rabid one, the loner,
while I snarl at the Chord. Sorry!

FALL 2009!

Feet stretched near the grate,
covered in a chequered kiln, she sits.
The splintered wood and soaked coal,
no source of comfort,
for her tired, numb veins.
The struggle to keep warm
her fading copa, the life brew.
Rubbing toes for friction heat,
her last dice in the game.
Fortnights just a few,
till her death celebration,
with spirits far and near.

Seems day before - a drunken bliss,
they called out her name,
the new born; the toast
of the town for a week.
Resolutions after baptism,
all forgotten in earthly haste.
Her life's spring bloom,
left deflowered, bleeding;
raped by the Market Man,
the dark days, Recession!
Tears, the cross she bore,
till her grave in December hail.

Mid-life, her lonely days;
at a far-east sweatshop.
Breaking back for cents,
wail unheard, the loud Kalashnikovs;
and louder applause as the world hailed,
the Son from the Cotton Fields,
with Peace Prize and a crown.
Alas! They all wear tuxedos,
shields from the modern slave.
She coughed into the final days,
dengue and swine-flu scars,
and an arthritic ego from another life.

Her high-school love, prom date,
the men in her life,
the flirts and the romance,
these endless flashes haunting,
an unhappy life hanging,
as the countdown begins.
For Santa Claus,
and a big bag of goodies.
For the Messiah, the season of love,
and the birth of a girl,
another virgin, another year.

(The year 2009 is coming to an end. Here, the year is pictured as an old lady, sitting numb near her fireplace, awaiting death, which we all will celebrate on December 31.
Looking back into the 365 days, her life, the predominant emotion is sadness and struggle, which started with the Recession.
Her cries and troubles were largely unheard because the world was focused, among other things, on the 'war on terrorism' and of course the celebrated ascend into office of US President Barrack Obama.
Hope remain, with her death and the birth of a new year, 'another virgin'.)

Brand Canyon

Deep red canyon walls,
waist high but big enough,
to hold up the smoky screen,
opaque; keeping the Gods within
- the immortals of the newsroom.
The other world, us branded mortals.

Zeus resides south of all,
withered car but a supple back.
Ruling from his cabin mount,
packaging every grime in town.

Goddesses, queens of bloated worlds,
with castles made of brittle psyche.

One; mighty patron of the city expanse,
with huge burden up and down.
Featureless angels a li'l beyond,
dancing to a brainless tune;
with vacuumed skulls, straightened hair,
fashioned visage yet shallow hearts.

The silent monk and a lover,
his aphrodisiac - the sugar-free tea,
and half-baked tales of singers old,
seducing with no class nor taste.

Then 'em crowd, the supreme jesters;
blow-job artistes to a distant court.
King arrives with deadline calls,
burnt from those response goons.

A mortal band of sporting pals;
this side of the great divide.
Happy at the earthly boons,
least we ain't living a lie.

Volumetry Genius!

Session's on, the standing committee;
presided by the watering chief,
flamed by nation's 'turn-to' man,
with laughing nod from the lead tenor.
Lab to open past the hour of dead,
volumetric mixes in quest of cheers,
between weekend titrations,
chemists and their bedroom tales.

Studded chief turns happy master,
a bottle here - four pegs full.
No burette or measuring jar,
just bureau talks and college wisdom.
Fermented science soothe tired men,
Genuine genius in the math of life.
Bottoms up, the outsider bet,
no mystery there, just plain old booze.