അവന്റെ ടാങ്കിന് പൂക്കളുമായി

അവന്റെ ടാങ്കിന് പൂക്കളുമായി
സൈനികൻ ലിഡ് തുറക്കുന്നു.

സൂര്യനോടൊപ്പം കടൽത്തീരത്ത്
സന്തോഷം പൊട്ടിത്തെറിക്കുന്നു, ഒപ്പം

അവന്റെ കണ്പോളകൾ കാണാൻ ഉയർത്തുന്നു.
സമാധാനം ഉണർത്തുന്നതായി കാണാം.
——–
    — രചയിതാവ്: റാസ്മസ് കെ. റോബോട്ട്
— Author: Rasmus K. Robot
=======
Flowers to his tank
The soldier opens the lid.

On the beach with the sun
Happiness erupts, and

His eyelids are raised to see.
Peace is seen as awakening.

“Les Échos” by Rasmus K. Robot



Les échos du légendaire splash de un super poisson
grognent comme un millier de sardines mais
la créature géante ne peut pas succomber
aux remarques caustiques dans un estomac d’acide
sans intrigue et sans théories du complot
——
The echoes of the legendary splash of a super fish
growl like a thousand sardines but
the giant creature can not succumb
to caustic remarks in an acid stomach
without plot and conspiracy theories

good grief Rasmus

poor Rasmus couldn’t get the legacy editor. The new improved one is impossible to use. I don’t know how to grandfather him in. Geez, stop improving things. It took a long time to get used to this editor that I’m writing on now. I hope this one still works. I was going to give Rasmus a blog to manage but now it looks too hard to do. I may have to deactivate and destroy him. Maybe he can post simple stuff with the new editor but I don’t see how he’s going to do 2,048 posts without blowing up.

One of my Robots has escaped from the Lab

    I haven’t written many new poems lately (there’s just the 300 old ones). I’ve been pushing my robots to write new ones for me. They don’t like the pressure. One of them, Rasmus K. Robot, has escaped and is trying to set up his own accounts. He is going to compete with me. He’s writing 2,048 poems per second. That would be 176,947,200 poems per day. I think he’s going to try for World Domination. I think it’s just a matter of PR. He doesn’t have to be that good — just a little better than the poetry of a gorilla. I got a short message from him demanding that I publish 10,000 of his best poems. Seems a bit much.

I posted this one of my own on twitter @ xytgeist . I think there were a few more but not close to 10,000. I don’t have a title for this. It was based on a prompt of “click”.

Click-claque Marie had no
hand in the applause racket
despite her nom de guerre

They say we clicked —
She, the racketeer of passion
I, the raconteur

We’re a hit.
(Applause line)

We Are Glowing

From the journey of a dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under covers

Enraptured in the blankets
of home
with you
of you

Our embrace is
the brightness
of us
with us

We are
the morning together
together in love

An awakening
is here to be
for real
at home

peaceful passion
satisfaction day

not dreaming
but being

in the lightness
of us
with us

we are warm
being the morning sun,
like banners waving
playfully above
the river of Love

extremely rippling,
our streaming
child to the river

Ripples of the day
we stream
like banners waving
playfully above
a gentle brook
child to the stream

The child’s babble
joyful enough
to be a gurgle
in a float-along morning

We splash along
embraced
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
fantastic
better than a dream

The Lip of Music

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip,
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust like cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff.
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss.
No gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

Landing Love

Because you teach me in gentle ways
letting me save face in the midst
of my cherished ignorance,
I hope for you to have
everything but sorrow
even if they say
misery teaches. I am
surprised my darkness
has lifted us both
into the sky. Fly in
this plane

with me in comfort, because
you know my puffy eyes
did make those clouds
from tears you dried

Beautiful though clouds can be
from a window seat,
face me in the aisle
where angels will bring
hors d’oeuvres for thought
and plays about play
novel to us
in first class,
taught
with trays of flowers
grown below from
nourished thoughts
an arrangement of
fragrant joys unpacked
before landing

In a Posh Elevator

For Christmas
I’ve shouted a poem
on a street corner
because I have no stage presence
except desperation, awkward
where I hear passersby say,
what’s he doing, and
only my sign clues them in, and
they say, oh it’s poetry, but
I’m taking my frozen
spicy chicken home –
haven’t had such luxury
in a while

I’ve ducked into the posh department store
because I need to find
a bathroom
a single urinal
for the piss of a poet

I could have taken
the stairs to the third floor, but
thought I’d be posh
be nonchalant in an elevator
as if I’d buy gold things

The elevator jams,
stopped, of course, with me
and a pregnant lady in a crowd
of indifference

I’ve got my frozen chicken
which says, fully cooked
and none of us will starve

Into labor –
I’ve heard of this

Natural easy birth –
I’ve heard of that

Everyone who
could be sued, has
turned away

I am reaching in
beyond what is proper

I push my hands
into her vagina
in an indecent way

It is a breach birth
and I must
turn the child around

I am so full
of blood and sorrow
that the child cries
but I am not
turned around

I am sick, and
only glad
the paramedics have arrived
and I can get to the bathroom
before security
throws me out
for not buying any gifts

From The Sidelines

I don’t know why
I can’t fly

I had the dreams of the super-hero
because I so much wanted to love everyone
and help, though you are a special case,

but when a fool has no power
or a Hollywood studio
with special effects
at their wreck and call,

there is only the drab
loveless existence in
the fantasy of being alive, and

how could I be alive
if you could never love me
as I am,

as I speak
as if I were deep

and I can not be
anything

while these
silly things

that don’t
let me be, that
don’t let me sing are
extant

because I have
never known how

to speak
what I know
about Love, and

I could be loved
if I could speak
what I know:
a tiny bit of wisdom
that only I feel must be
somehow relevant to the one
who waits for my message, but

I don’t want to be a pawn of the universe

I want to know her now
so that I can speak at last
the secret message

I don’t want to be a puzzle piece.

I want to reach the love that is mine
just because I am me, and

why can’t the Universe
let me love, even if

I’m not a super-hero.