Monthly Archives: August 2012

A Cut From The Mad City Poet

English: Cows at Reclain. No worries in the world!

English: Cows at Reclain. No worries in the world! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Vanity upon vanity,
All is vanity!”
Says the poet.

Which is worse?
Growing up,
Or running stark raving mad?

At least,
The mad man could get so mad,
He feels little pain from his condition.

This unsurprisingly is the problem
With growing up –

Way earlier than you,
These Worries wake up healthy and strong,
So they can wake you up. Unfailingly.

They are there /crocodile tears/
When you look lovingly at your sick wife
Beside you on the bed.

They are there beside your 10-year old boy /mischievously grinning/
When he shamefully greets you
With wet pants.

They eat at YOUR dining table /merry gusto/
When there’s no electricity
To prepare a warm cup of coffee.

Now well-fed,
They step the game
They rush ahead to your vehicle /purposefully/
To quickly deflate one of your tires
And steal the spare away.

Meanwhile they petitioned /humbly/
God to fast-forward time.
See the headache banging walking late to work!

They then call on their relatives
Who patronize your sales depot
All day long.

You leave work late evening
A little glad a few dollar-carrying clients
Could squeeze in amongst the throng of Worries.

And worries have gone ahead
To tell the bus-driver
No other soul is coming.

This is where
They score the winning shot…
They cry back
To meet you;
Puppy-kittten looks and all

They tell you
They don’t know how to trek.
How can you ignore them?

And how did they sprain
Their spindly legs?
They did a rain dance!

A lonesome darkened life
Soaked through to the soul
Trekking through the downpour.

You remember
All you are going
To meet at home.

And all exhilarating feelings
Melt faster than chocolate
And paint you darker. In mockery.

A little worry
To season that junk cuisine
And your appetite is set for the night.

Warm under your blanket,
Those worries are yet to sleep.
They tip you over finally.

You shake your pounding head;
You rub your hard but slightly wet eyes;
You feel your shaky heart beating loudly.

Then as an act of mercy.
You find the strength.
To close your eyes and sleep.

Blame my cynicism on staring blind at the vanities on parade on this worldly stage, but I love this poem from a fellow blogger!

Murtaza Unplugged

It seems eons ago when I oozed with hope

When I never found myself tied to a rope

Long before the mundanities of life began to apply the choke

Alas, everything that I do now makes me soak!


There was a time when my life was mine

When I lived it to the fullest like some dream divine

Never really bothered to earn a nickel or dime

Everything seemed so sublime when my life was mine


Once ‘I’ was the beginning and also the end

When my nights and days followed no trend

Freedom and Frivolity were like my own brand

And the whole world seemed like my motherland


Everyday was once like a Sunday

Never knew a day that wasn’t a fun day

When nothing could ever come in my way

It felt like a rhythm divine when my days didn’t feel like a boring Monday

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Explained -The Mad Village Poet 11(End)

Jullunder: monkey drinking coca-cola

Please refer to my post @ for a background to the story.

Original(O) :The city was becoming crowded
With the less-hairy members of my species.
Explained(E): I am at it again, pretending as an ape. As an ape, I regard human beings as my relatives. At least, science has shown that they are the next to me. One little thing science has blundered in, is saying that they are AHEAD of me in the chain. But, I am waiting patiently for when their lesser intellligence will get the better of them; and they will wipe out themselves in their violent and selfish animalistic fevers. A nuclear war dance would be a good way to send them all reeling off the stage. And I’ll have my day.
O: They laugh at my afro;
I mourn for their baldness.
E: Naturally, these deluded humans think I have more hair than I need.
(Incidentally, as a human, I actually had quite a lot of hair on my head -the typical afro style. And people never seem to say enough about it.)
Some of them have discovered their nakedness, but unfortunately can never grow back their hair no matter how much hair-growth formulae they use.
O: At least they have carved out a new niche.
I shall call them humans.
E: I have, at least, given them what they want. They always seem to be obsessed with recognition and some sense of importance in itself. They always seem to be crazy about identity(irrespective of whatever bizarre thing/belief/ideology they really stand for), worth(even when they are not useful to the next man), carving out niches and being different(even if this new niche is a self-destructive, no-good niche). This identity-thingy or title seems to be a different drug of addiction in itself, to them. They want to be KNOWN for something. Anything!
O: Now, I hope none comes back
To interrupt my solitary forest meditation;
Begging for some hair-growth formula
When they can’t keep warm by being “on heat”;
E: Humans are so ashamed of themselves that they never seem to tire of finding new ways to alter their biological make-ups. Some want to live forever and would spend their lives to purchase an anti-aging cream even if the active ingredient of that cream is monkey soup. Some want to change the basic colours of their skins.
These humans claim they are free-thinking free-will beings. Yet they have become enslaved to doing as their mind pleases.
Little wonder they can’t keep warm by being “on heat”. Little wonder they get high and dry seeking pleasures and whatever else their FREE minds desire. It’s a freaky cycle of knowledge/enlightenment – thirst – search – acquisition/”satisfaction” – realisation of further desires. They get all and they get nothing in the end. Still left cold!
I’ll probably humour them and do them a favour: in my solitary forest meditation, I’ll cook up an afrodisiac that can keep them “on heat” for as long!
O: And are desperate for some meaning,
Which is to be found only in monkey soup.
E: And, after all their search, they will realize that none of what they got made any real, lasting sense.
Maybe, they will at last come bow at my feet and I’ll teach them -the fulfilment in simplicity and realising one’s place as a creature.
O: It is midnight again-
My period of peak activity;
Ears stretched taut, hairs standing alert,
Nostrils flared, lips set,
Eyes unblinking, fingers feverishly working.
E: Just as written -my nocturnal self!
O: The mad village poet goes to sleep on his laid egg;
Hoping it would hatch by morning into the mad city poet!
E: Yeah! The eggs is hatching already. This being the last of the Mad Village Poet’s rants, The Mad City Poet is coming out of the shell soon. I can feel the baby kicking in my tommy now.
Thank you.
Couples hanging out on Friday night,
A transaction that comes with a “minimum wage” agreement.
Pity if either one is an economist;
Then the other will be a charitable social worker!
Epilogue(Explained): It’s Friday night, and the mating ritual of the humans reaches a climax. It needn’t be said that: even the so-called romantic love is still a two-way thing. It’s a kind of business transaction. It’s not as pure and selfless as they make it out to be.
Shame! Considering that in our ape kingdom, you needn’t be a father to the fruits of your royal oats sown! You don’t even have to give the she a banana to buy her butts!
The sad part of OUR people’s animalism!

The Other Side: Evening Flows…

“Hello! Who’s home?”
“I am home.
Hold on a minute;
While I crawl out of my shell!”

(Slouching here bemoaning my current state.
How often I crash into the well?
Whilst driving on the road carved out for me,
Out of hell.)

Then without warning,
The Spirit snatches me out of my shell already
He threw me on his broad back
And we left all behind

I don’t know which I enjoy better –
The ride with Him,
Or Him on the ride;
And we sail across to the other side,

Where the unseen can be touched;
The unheard beats loudly;
Where even the Illuminated One can’t stand;
Where reality as we know it is buried.

Welcome, living immortality.

Been waiting…

Explained -The Mad Village Poet 10

Monkey in Bali, Indonesia

Please refer to my post @ for a background to the story.

Original(O): You can call the frog cute
Just so he can help rid you of mosquitoes.
Explained(E): Just as you can call the cow pretty just so she gives you milk. This is about ass-kissing -pardon the use of the term “ass”. When we think about ass-kissing or foot-licking, we usually think of pleasing those “above” us. But, besides royal(and gorgeous) asses, what about that “low-life” or “social misfit” of a person whom we don’t really feel the slightest admiration for as a fellow HUMAN; whom we just keep around us for the things we stand to gain from them. Worse still, we keep them believing they matter to us. Such pitiful, scary emotional vampires some of us make! I can’t imagine what thoughts will run through the mind of that young man when he learns that his “girlfriend” is just keeping him “around her ankles” for some bizarre reason remotely far from attraction.
O: A long road ends in heartbreaks
When your heart grows sick from longing.
E: Some will claim distance breeds longing! Indeed, I’d like to know the definition of that distance -one year, across one continent? Not that there are no EXCEPTIONS. I’d like also to know the meaning of EXCEPTIONS. I know of a friend of mine -distance of about 6 time zones and 3 years. It appeared he wasn’t an exception.
O: Though one may prove brave and strong
By walking the length of it,
Is the journey any more fun?
In the end, anyway
You will earn the Purple Heart for boredom.
E: I would applaud such a friend, for instance; but, they are no more together today. And such a man he was! Such a man!
O: How fast time flies
When its wings are unclipped by the pen.
E: Sometimes, I would start writing around the stroke of midnight, and get lost till it’s around 2am. Writing has such great pull on one.
O: Life turns up great
When played by the book.
E: And where is such a book?
The only one that’s given my life any semblance of sanity is the Bible.
O: But spare me the throes of reading music.
E: A just-by-the-way comment. But, if there’s any reader here who can also read music, my respectful bow. How is it that reading something so liberating and wonderful be so seemingly boring?!
O: I’d rather be just another croaky-frog writer,
Who sings his words with a bang
Even though he plagiarized.
E: And I can’t count the number of them. Writers who photocopy others’ ideas and words. With no originality on their own part. And they blow their own trumpets loud with it.
Anyway, let’s acknowledge some creativity there. They remixed another’s song and made best-sellers with it.
O: Then what advantage does free-styling have,
When the monkey also has his stunts?
E: I would give more credit though, to some fledgling writer who shows some personality/originality.
What then makes anyone earn the title of a “writer” when just anybody can freestyle.
NB: I do not mean to sound derogatory or insulting by using the word “monkey”. From my past writings in this series, you will see more clearly how I have used the term to refer to human beings in a poetic way.
O: But, can we all be poet laureates?
E: The answer would be a banging-croaky “No”!
O: You don’t need wisdom to choose which to be.
You only need monkey soup.
E: By saying monkey soup now, keeping in mind past usages of the word “monkey”, I am referring to creativity/ingenuity.
O: And don’t even begin to think
You know the choice I made.
Humour me if you can
Not forgetting that you’d still the monkey soup,
So we can speak the same lingua.
So long, fellas!
We shall meet in the jungle.

Thank you!