Kaleidoscopic Sights

The violent currents,
the cool sea breeze,
the slippery sands,
the remiscent waters,

a thought comes by,
while the birds fly,
sixty-six fifty,
du weti du weti chi.

watercolour marks,
a couple handful barks,
oil n brush stroke,
they ALL went broke.

the thoughts subside,
when the waves break their tide,
a tender colour the sky wears,
a fancy victim the water craves.

All out! Right now! Go, go, go!
the whistle blower blows an alarming row,
we rush for refuge in the first place we find,
a taxman taxes us over with words unkind.

Heading back out,
with a tea blue mouth,
the waves they simply mock,
while the people vainly talk.

previously posted in Strange, Very Strange...!


Ps: A big hello to everyone as a new member of As/Is.


i've grown weary of seeing
through your body i'll adopt
my next stranger awake close
to another road coughing virgin dust
ejaculating little blue halos



After a Disagreement

The day lies fractured
Splintered by words
As we lie, each within our malcontent
Sundered and conjoined in silences.
While the seconds drip
Through the pores of our wordlessness

© Arka Mukhopadhyay, 2006


Pea Soup

"But Matt, Nobius isn't real. He's only in your head."

-Pea Soup-

remains The question
all Poets tempt:
Am I...
well written?

had the feeling
(I'm going to die today.)

--Nobius Black

Dorian and me, the kitchen

mr dorian, i read your cliff's notes, your
pretty lips, face from a time when a
forehead was a brow and hair rippled, well
mine just grows and i'm right in front of you, mr
dorian, watch me, hands and tomatoes, breath and garlic,

six tomatoes, is how the poem starts,
see these hands in the kitchen
skinning tomatows on scalding water, their weeping
skinless the blood in my handskin a fury.
see these veins in these fingers, watch them
carry blood back to the best heart you'll
ever know, a heart beating for these hands
skinning tomoatoes
in the kitchen.

melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks

for those of you who are not buffalo poetics listserv junkies...

the other day i...sole editor...posted a call for submissions for a new electronic magazine i am putting together entitled melancholia's tremulous should be making its debut sometime soon...

mtd...for the most part...will be a journal of poetry...however i just accepted an one never knows what might rub me the right will be an irregulary yet frequently updated e-journal...

all fiction/non-fiction should be short short short...what does that mean you ask? war and peace-sized epic works on your underwear and that sort of thing...

poetry submissions should be sent as a .doc or in the body of an email (if formatting is not an issue) more or less than 4-8 works in one submission...if you've sent me two poems i won't even look at them...i need to taste a little bit of everything at the buffet...

send submissions to my primary email address:

a word of warning...ever hear of something called tripod dorothy?

melancholia's will not be the prettiest looking journal in the world considering the fact that like many poets i am dirt poor (ever live off ramen noodles?)...if you can get past the ads and dig into the good stuff this should not be a problem...a body's got to start somewhere...eventually i'll purchase a domain and all that jazz but for now the url will be clunky and there will be advertisements on the site for things i've never even heard of like mr. wonder's age-defying bodily excretions...


In the Sense of Hearing

You said you heard
God's mouth move
without speaking;

in all of my life,
I've not known
a mute-swan to sing

or my good father cry.

Here, in the white,
we heal hours
we've wounded- like

roads of the city,
salt between stars,
shadows of living,

imminent heaven-

and gasping
silence rings

in the ear
of our scars.


that you are

running past me
humility might

I feel
already plenty pure



My name is Woolie
da bully lovin sheep shaggar
fillin up dem shelves at da
muther fockin Asda mon

D'yers get me white boy?
D'yer's know where mon blood
from mon? From da Northside laah
where dem police and thieves
is nightly fightin in Bridge Street
by da mon Michael Hunters mon

'n in dem Nursery school mon
where me 'n my crew go wiv
the cider, suppin in dem wendy house
after army cadets on wednesday mon

where we keep our guns
'n shout about left right
left right left wheeel!!

coz wheeze is da stormtroopin
gettin bladdered on the park n composin

which don't take no time
coz I'm a witness of love lookin down from the top
froo the bottom of a pint pot laah.

I rock the mic with the wrong
bodies bein seasick 'n teasin the family Houston like wot's on the
Robbie records I got for me birthday, before I got in trouble wiv the police for shootin me grandad for his pension muffa focker
so spread dem wings and fall apart wiv the heart of a dead end bar outline.
Flicker it naggard,

coz I'm da nigga goan blow you way mon.


to say to glass pointillistically i will yours be

presently seduced moaning panting feel and magical expanse
insanely fuck you start into electro engulfed beauty job
when a penis is as delicate as gasoline sparks make transcendent
my scope knows pursues you o heat salty love velvet parts
body is way tied in moment most speckled lids embrace stamps
bursting lovers all following signals geography in that just kindred go
when my speckled history verses finger gingerly horizons
horizontally everywhere dear absolute absorbed secret other
nervous long femininity eyes mix crave oscillations
with ravelike intoxicate love for it would seem longingly present
and this cherish ring of moans of smoke of flesh spin
strokes red flashlights lit strolling together dynamite shitfaced purity
we could potentially end as bodies intertwined we insane stoned
why gladly i heart this hold that so perfumed
overwhelms sweet trembling
along on body drugshattering qualities
to say to glass pointillistically i will yours be
omnipotent touch blindfolded joining hands

google poem

lift me up mix make love fornicate
war feat public enemy mercy the sky
my beautiful blue sky electro
my weakness now let it go
when the kite goes for cheap vodka
lets fuck it fuck it fuck
finger paintings of the insane
why is the other end
of this telephone cord
tied securely to your penis
just ring the fucking bell
to find out some fucking horrible truth
the most consistent symbolism in blue velvet
brain is trying to lick gasoline i admire your purity
i crave crab i'll dynamite a creek for the bastards
neckbone on a rope indeed


thread of town plastic hearts
moan of glass sigh cat
city o city
you're in my scope
in my eye i paint you
all over white sphinx cradle
trembling like lovers all six arms
whipping about madly
sadly gladly immensely
like cursive like a spire
a sphere gone higher
build pursue
wild-eyed red-eyed
o long nervous fingers


uberaware tracing the city 'round about midnight following
a shepherd's hook along the river giant postindustrial red flashlights
lit up ravelike beaming signals postage stamps strolling by the bank
that long ago lowered its sleepy drunken lids shuttered its doors
the crimson oscillations intoxicate me the skeleton
of a huge somewhere statue brush strokes of air
the impressionistic qualities of being shitfaced
air all perfumed embrace yes
curling around my body joining parts yes
cold wind beating my face yes yes yes
dear wisconsinite
this reality of the city as a drug
shattering your veins into tiny green shards
growing immense in a oneness of two
wandering wondering terrified
like a child aware of some blessed union
when hand crashes down on hand
and my eyes unfold upon a marvelous
nomad melancholy geography a strange plane
paint a black night so pointillistically beautiful
stars speckled everywhere love busting horizons
horizontally like a windshield a headon collision
long fingernails hair in pursuit of atmosphere
absorbed in beauty ceiling of clouds falling
in warmth of fusion delusion and rope pulled taut
magic act stuttering knowing one true cattyeyed thing
allpowerful omnipotent dissolving broken down battered in wanting
and wanting moaning panting out into the deck of cards universe
great expanse lay me down joker that i am spin me around
deal me as whatever you'd admire or adore

Desperate Beautiful

You have lost
the tendency

to be
sensible, useful-

desperate beautiful.

Not what you wrote
(on a grain of sand)

that mimicked God
but what was missing-

are we more beautiful
when we're searching?

With opened eyes
all your words
are leafless

and I saw
a solitary
cloud dissolve

in a bodiless sky.



Even tone exquisite.

--Nobius Black


Hi Art

art sits by power
art reflects upon art web ring
art is gilded with in the code
art sinks into love murals and fine art in the bay area
art raises for everyone
art whines to life index
art falls to ok
art is drowning in jazz
art controls stamps
art connects with fun
art stops at still a mystery
art loses magical " "
art covers as good as it gets





I recognise speech mirrors silence
and words rise like bricks
from unknown pools when instinct
builds a bridge that shines
upon the hidden outline
of their mind reflecting its
flawed form for all to read.


Their brain
draws waves from reality's canvas
and their willpower moves mine
like hands at an oracle
prodding a lump of knowledge
to stir my first alertness of the other world
in a language which kindles a tune to flame
from the internal universe ticking my clockwork
song in a unique time truthful to their genius


They are understanding givers
who divine what dream
in a cloud above stars
will breathe in light and make reality
sing of life's return to a slumbered weave
of painted silence with the memory of
one slipped bottle dropped
from a toddler's fingers
the morning milk struck land
and grounded outside a door
to shatter in a puff of broken glass

smashing itself into the mind
by sheer force of will as a first
remembered act of childhood
revealed behind the door of sleep
I make believe my soundless unseen
wave like ripple
lapping on their screen of thought
can open.


Calliope Nerve

Calliope Nerve will highlight great poets and writers in an ongoing microzine format by submission and invite. Spaces are still left for our debut issue. Subject matter is irrelevant however we do focus on experimental and off the beaten path type pieces. Email nobius at Also, our last poetry collaboration microzine Reno Shot is free and still available via snail mail.

Calliope Nerve: name your Muse!

Verse 34

all the more
that it hurts
to cling
in mortality

all the more
wasting truth
on belief

all the more
in the fallen

all the more
in lazarus

billy jno hope

Plenary F/acts

Prime Numb-
erstwhile sing-
ular endow the
let us prep

for our dynastic
craft druthers
able whist
to ring-loan law
ns of chaste
new cover l-
airs of prim-
e prompt
niches in our
furtive sleep


Apology to Father

On other grassy planets
things could be different;

we were never made
for this one.


Reciting Doves

She became a type of stone,
soft-hewn and simple, an egg

whose embryo is sleeping.

Imagine a silent language
like water, like spider,

what birds "say" each morning;

her eyes reciting doves (nesting)
in the brume of a steepled city...

her slippered skin, a verse

I write in the palm of a page,
a single metrical line- of stone,

of stillness, of grace.


BFM: 1920-2002

years ago
today she left


Rush Hour

Remove mouth, roses

slash roses kindle

gross lens pink


In unison, shave

tin soldier television

cries rubber. cries

dayvision voodoo

Adrift, frisbee

criss-cross criss-wake

cross jugular lemon

jaw kilowatt hour

Simple, nexus.

s akhtar 2006


The Carnival

it ended with a killing
youth on youth
blood for blood
their madness outstripped my rantings
at 7pm i had already stumbled
out of the emancipation party
where we forgot to breath.

Billy Jno Hope



So it comes again
like a hand
beneath the skirt-

tender, pointless

or freshcut grass
severed at the head

flat and toothless.

Deeper down,
blistered waters

ripple in the well.



The act of noticing becomes a brush with God.


Synonyms for soldiers rumored to be fodder.

(fair/not fair)

Choice. Repeat after me.

(tension turns unbearable)

His life, a frugal page out of a witness book.

(a witness block)


(surprise me once in your incriminating)

Tacit pressure made to wait.

(my body is so full of this)

Have you been unaccountable.

(premises, these I mean, so what about them)

Furnishings to make this place we live

(are living here)

Winter, Turn Home

We've walked too far, December-
sharp air clicking around us,

a blind man's stick
seeking an edge; tap, tap

a nickel hammer percussing
a large frozen bell.

The city is sleeping, December;
white smoke from our lips,

the stacks of brick chimneys,
nostrils of brown carriage-horses.

These are prayers to be said
in cold, darkened alleys where

shadows creep over snow
like silent black wolves

and yellow-lit windows
(square shaped moons)

detach from their stone.
We've walked far, December,

the city is sleeping,
we finally turn home.


madonna gay baby talk

Compiled 3/2/2006 12/29/1899 11:50:50 PM GMT

No baby
talk as Gwynie launches scent campaign ... Hollywood 'old-fashioned' on
gay actors - McKellen ... Madonna considers showbiz career for children ...
Madonna went back to where it all began tonight, with a one-off gig for fans.
... No baby
talk as Gwynie launches scent campaign ...
Baby the Cat has turned her back, literally, on Bruce, and is licking her ...
If anhy of ya'll know Fergie, tell her to read my blog because I talk about ...
Here comes the bride. aol music gay
music madonna
... And a place to talk about
it -- amongst ourselves. Is there an artist you think should be featured ...
Butterfly kisses and kiss from a rose with gay
kiss!! ... You Love me to Hate
You mp3 Talk To Me music · Anything For My Baby mp3 Got To Choose mp3 ...
Peter (watching Cricket on British TV): What the hell is he talking about? ...
I believe two year old gay
boys will listen to gay
Baby Einstein CDs. ...
road.jpg WARNED: Gay group Soulforce will be arrested should it step within ...
Ok, when we start resorting to baby-talk, then its definately time for me to ...
Asked what she thought of the three-way tonsil tennis between Madonna, ...
recently signed black, gay
rapper Caushun to her Baby Phat record label. ...
Madonna Grammy Groin Whammy: We admit it: We sometimes find Madonna's music painful.
... Talks the baby
talk in People interview, Brangelina Brangelina ...
As the gayby boom leads to baby
envy, some gay
men are hearing a “biological
clock” tick ... (Think of the world's biggest stars, from Gwyneth to Madonna, ...
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