Spring’s Anthem of Thirst


In losing myself and letting go of my historical pride
I am realizing a new frame of reference
One that does not require trust or hope
A new leaf on an old loving flute
Where the instrument does not disrupt the melody

Time is a dream of flexibility
We must bend and embrace the footsteps
That leads us on like the burning
Thirst for a deeper connection

I do not require a life-work to be great
Nor do I require love for validation
Friendship is my own definition
Of how I relate to a generous universe

Where we re-write what was once written
In our minds as the true language
But language is only an expression
Of how one object relates to another

Morality and history are put figments
Lovers and family are but temporary actors
Who we thought we were is not maybe so accurate

The human genuine is not our defining moment
Spring is a transpersonal sign of a further reach
For a horizon inside perception that turns inside-out
For giving and receiving are not the answers

I am not there, I do not sleep
I only pray for something like new beginnings
That energizes me before I go
To repeat the cycles that were pre-ordained

To hear the morning’s hush and the starlight breath
Of galaxies aching just like ours
Our bodies aging in the caress of skin
Drinking water to be whole again

Bathing in purity to be nothing again
A light transparency of spirit echoing in mind
Refining organs from within with
The hidden intelligence that unifies by design

I do not know how the diamonds glint in snow
But it has all melted and we must live who we are fully.

These Natural acts


The sun and its hammer
The light, bathes the Earth
Not unlike, how I enter you

Natural, visiting your gardens
Like an eclipse of our relationship
That is never ending

And will continue in countless
Females and males, two parts to the key
Of creation, vivacity of moments

We enter a drop of water
To form a precious bond
We transform from individuals

To couples, like a point of abandoning
The futility of being alone
This naked embraces celebrates that

The rain and its festivity
The flood, erases the messiness
Not unlike, how our sexual sharing

Eradicates poor romantic memories
Creating another layer
Of love to the feast of life

This spiral of hours leads to this
The world half-opened on the branch
Of spring, the you and me

That is so meaningful in the end
And salient to evolution
A muffled drum of the blood

The gift from our ancestors
We continue their rites like
Kissing or touching

With hardly a thought
We simply follow our nature.

Perhaps he saw Radha in her Peacock Form

Art by: https://www.facebook.com/Tharika
Please support our artists, please like this page.


Slashed earth, perfection
Into the finite
O’ my martyr! O’ my half-hour
Breeze and music of beauty
Black hair of resting on itself
Boddiswattva’s diamond body

In a woman, it’s been
So long since I could speak
Of extravagance
Though in the village of color
I am a mere stone figure

A lion sprawled prophet
In the cemetery of chaos
And society’s starving hide
Like the slums, of New Orleans
Slashed earth, hope for the future

Drum beats and jazz
Ceromonies in what time?
How many decades
Does humanity have left?
This ache in my soul, a disembodied
Entity, just giving each letter a gem

Just giving her memory a name
To pass on, in vivid swirls
Like the painting you hid
As Music
Like the wind embracing the water

Something invisible to the naked eye
I’ve sat and waited for inspiration
It gives me Chills!
To feel a bit of glitter
At the end of long day
These lonely streets have been begging
For shadows that did not feel
Like I was a naked animal

Like That Which Separates the Siren and the Song

Art by: https://www.facebook.com/Tharika
Please support our artists, please like this page.


We were like sea people
Last time my eyes
Discovered you, we spoke
In hushed tones and psychologically
Naked, we found a unity point

My inner eyes discovered
Your inner beauty, and that was key!
And I covered you
With a warm rain
Of glances, wet to the touch

Of your heart, like fluid belonging
And we lifted morning, like
A treasured limb, of our new
Discovery, that of each other
And it was pure, and it was beautiful

And all that I could contain
Was the hope that this would last!
I sifted light, searching for your laugh
Your voice, that trembling soul
Of what we had become together

It was more meaningful to me
Then, most everything
You were as a mermaid to me
Planted, in just the right foliage to me
And your wounds complemented mine

And your psychological touch
Was like a spoon of medicine and water
To my barren life, how I missed you!
Before we even met,
Your shriek of warm glances

Tharika the feather dancer
Thairka the floating artist
The branded mantras of what
Art had become to us…
The poetry to connect
To something distant and universal.

Simulation of a Dream


In the middle of the night
Hush like centuries
With each other
Only to know that we were not fixed
But changed, in the silence
Where nothing moves and everything
Flowers and exchanges
Reincarnates in place
It’s the quantum structure
Of how mutations occur
Like syllables on the vacation
Of the summer, that was
The rest of our lives
The hour grows and falls over us
Luminous, like the moonlit window
Clouds full of sunsets behind them
Surround us with poetic insomnia
I hear an anthem in them
That could be a teleportation of history
In the middle of the night
Where revelations occur
With each other
Tomorrow, the hours will be larger
Than ever and pregnant with something
Other that what I was today or ever was
I am here, at my beginning
Free in the will of the invisible
Where we are all algorithms.

Artist: Agnes Cecile (http://www.eyesonwalls.com/products/this-thing-called-art-is-really-dangerous-fine-art-print)

After a Thousand Poets


To dream myself, to be dreampt
By other eyes, on other worlds
That was the prophecy of
The written word, to be fluid

Like a medium, to pastel the words
Into new forms, to climb
The towers together of meaning
And visit the citadels of angels

To explore rooms, walk streets
Of singing combinations never
Before experienced, like surrealism
In a bright sunlit room, and art

With trends and sublime gulfs
Where only a few artists can reach
And cities of culture’s inheritance
Where philosophers must tread

To dream myself, being more
Than just idle dreams, to weave
Looking out into new enchanted sentences
That come alive in their own way

That can speak to sense and soul
Moulding kaleidoscopic clouds
As easy as the fountains of day
And water of enormous glimpses

Of prosperity, the light of the future
Golden mornings, youth transformed
Some transparent shimmer
Of alphabets that can suffice the
Difficult diamond thirst.

Art & Transience


Art & Transience

As the sweet sweat
Of roses does conspire
To give delight unto the noon
I fall idle in the routine

Of mystic admiration
I stalk slenderly the years
That pass without lament
I kiss the cherished months

One by one, in sweet succession
For a life is nothing much
But the comparisons of beauty
That art and life is everywhere

Even in the chaotic society
As the sweet breath
Of a warming sun does pretend
It knows the secrets of other stars

I fall into the embrace of
Reverent sacrifice, what else –
For there are no wounds left
To search, there are no scars

In transience, all memories
Fade like rainbow dust
In the wreaths that were the plots
Of our little love-lives and

The imagination that we were
Wronged or lucky or fortunate
We all had our due, variables
In a quantum field of evolution.

As New Rivers school Old Oceans


As New Rivers school Old Oceans

I’m in the waiting room
Called life
Between one world
And the next
It’s empty here
And quiet right down

To my bones, they are light
My mind is water
My breath is an appointment
With time, my body
Is a fragrance of the forest
All around me

These walls are not life
The cities do not grow
The skies blink with airplanes
Those birds haven’t left
In what direction
Is the waiting room?

From here to there
From outside to inside?
Babies too shy to stop
Clinging to a breast
They haven’t yet studied
Faces, but that’s soon

I’m in the waiting room
Called life
I don’t plan to stay forever
I won’t be called upon
The metaphor of surprise
Is nearly old to me

I might have been embarrassed
If I wasn’t the only one here
We are symbols to ourselves
And non-existent to reality
I’m in the waiting room
Between something and nothing

A dual mirror or voice
The echo of sanity or madness
Catching a thread in the
Silence, to remember that
I can be separate from
The fabric of the universe

If required, when ego is necessary
Like for movement or work or mating
It doesn’t seem important
I’m in the waiting room
For a lifetime of
Observation, studious observation.

The idea of order as a myth

We were crossing bridges
At every moment, like symbolic
Journeys made and left behind
Half-man, half-star

Just creatures half-aware
Through time, judging
With our sense of duality
How time and space and energy

Could interact in transience
Fate only lasted after all
Until we died, until moments
Became memories and acts

When the wind stops and the
Heart no longer beats, maybe then
We can say with some finality
That it is over, life was but a dream

A myth we perpetuated, like identity
Useful in its ability to give us
A sense of security and conformity
But somewhat misguided, calling

For pomp and drama at every turn
The ego was an incapable master
Of force, and full of fiction
Like the death of a soldier who was

Somebody’s pawn, it was all
Like a simulation, absurdity
Witness at the public square
The office room politics

And the stage, where we were
Like actors, unaware of our lines
Barren, regretful and hopelessly idealistic.

A Self-Help Poem

To love life, a gift from Creation
Is a duty we too easily forget
Misunderstood is the wonder
Lost in suffering, is the gratitude

But friendship with life, is so
Essential to finding beauty
Learning like a child, so fundamental
In our ability to appreciate circumstance

And paramount, in the capacity
Of limited creatures to choose free-will
And exercise their soul, in blossoms
Of experience, in honest affections

In pure becoming, that’s the philosophy
No trials can censure love out
There are these holy attractors
These metaphysical magnets of bliss

They are quantum fuel for the sensitive
Not only to be sensitive to suffering
But sensitive to virtue, open to kindness
Giving and receiving, without judgement

Participating in harmony spontaneously
God knows you are apt to enjoy suffering
But to make it a habit would be an absurdity
Make love the habit you base your life upon

To walk a golden path with a smile
To find your dreams on a sunlit assertion
That your life is what you believe it can be:
Life is a perception of how you reinforce the positive.

Ebola as a Black Plague of our times?


[Kevin Spacey, in the 1995 movie Outbreak]

They had the plastic coffins ready
Before the panic hit, Ebola was a planned
Population reduction project

A good distraction from Economic collapse
Governments always divert your attention
At critical moments in history
The elite wish to keep their control
Ebola had no trouble infecting

Medical professionals, but they assured us
It’s not airborne, it’s only an exchange
Of fluids, so cover up your eyes

Ebola carries with it the heat of Africa
Able to make your blood boil form the inside
A post-colonial bioweapon specifically designed
To make you fear, to make you a follower
I think my stomach can feel it spreading

Around the world, in months, years
You cannot contain something like this
By simple quarantine? Even the medical staff

Don’t want any part in it, so cover your eyes
The black plague drips sinister News
In our times, the mainstream media (MSM)
Consumes with its grip, like Ebola
It has the power to consume, a portable
Killing-machine, enough to linger about doom?

Ebola is an outbreak, taken more seriously
The closer it hits to home, what is home
On a planet of billions of travelling people?


Additional Reading:
1. http://aegisacademy.com/community/ebola/

Life as an unfinished page


Memory is indeed
the mind’s own theater
we imagine what is real
To us like momentary savor

but the truth is
our mouth and mind
are citadels of cells
who enjoy to err a bit

for miraculous first bread
and ravishing ornament to sense
meetings and departures stick out
like unsteady castles of subjectivity

and meaning is never easily found
in a fallen debris of time’s broken words
symbols, images, and words
they cannot ripen, cannot finally fulfill?

existence then becomes simulation
living a routine of choice and not-choice
I’m moving through my own corridors
of self and do the same thing

only to maintain a sense of security
but the truth is, I am scared
anger is my fears externalized
fear is my anger internalized

and I don’t mean to be a
chemical resurrection, but what if
biology is all I am today?
a mineral celebration of survival

who can only thrive truly
in this theater I create.

Ebola, the 60% protocol

Ebola then turns the insides of its host into jelly: you begin to vomit black junk which is basically your dissolved liver and internal organs.”
― Andrew Cormier


Fear too is an epidemic, it stretches out like
An incubation period for a kind of doom
Population control, whispered a silent elite
Who engineer our wallets, our GMO food, our futures

Ebola was a convenient way, of making us fear
Who we once were again, black as a Nigerian
We died alone in deathbeds, isolated plastic containers
For who we once were, our organs giving out

Infection was a spider hand, MSM gave us
False positives, but could the main-stream-media
Be trusted any longer? Wasn’t this just a matter
Of time, an algorithm set loose upon the billions?

Fear is that place, where people go in adversity
It’s hypnotic like an audience at a concert
It’s contagious how the will for self-preservation can spread
Fight of flee, but where to run, out of the cities?

The new normal is a kind of paranoia
While we watch the situation very closely
Every hour there is underground news about
Another case in another country, Ebola isn’t

Your grandmother that only likes good climates
She’s an engineered hypothesis of how mobility
Causes any true pandemic to become a flamboyant outbreak
The comet that signals black plagues has been seen

Fear too is a weapon, when you can’t stop the world
Because it’s too costly to do so, and you can’t
Tell the world not to fly because we’re too free
We left Africa a long time ago, but who among us
Would stand 20 meters from their open graves?

Aftermath in Realtime:

1. http://healthmap.org/ebola/
2. http://healthmap.org/en/

1. What city in Europe has the greatest chance of being the first major outbreak area?

That would be Paris, France.

2. What Country has the greatest chance of losing the most lives in the next 3 months?

That would be India.

Related VIDEOS:

1. August 8th, 2014


Related Articles:

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2014_West_Africa_Ebola_outbreak
2. http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message2611902/pg1
3. http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message2615364/pg1
Spread Rate of 1.86
4. http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message2612635/pg1

Reached Nigeria 27th July, 2014.

August 9th List of Infected Countries:

3.Sierra Leone
6. (Even as I wrote this) Senegal and Ghana likely have cases too now.

August 10th:

People are being tested in the following places. [not confirmed cases]
1. Bucharest (Romania)
2. Hong Kong(Hong Kong)
3. Chennai (India)
4. Brampton (Canada) patient was Negative for Ebola.
5. Hamburg (Germany)

Scarcity Scenario:

1. http://www.godlikeproductions.com/forum1/message2615340/pg1

The Death of Roses, 玫瑰之死


It’s July, and the world smells like roses
The Sunshine is powdered goal
My gladness can carry you
Don’t you know my sentimentality by now?

Crimson and sensual, likes splashes of blood
I shall end my life in Rose petals
The months you tended me
Your hands grew roses from my body

And I became, someone beautiful
In your expectations of tasting
Sweetness in everything
It’s July, and the world is good near you

Like a woman with untidy hair
The bouquet that was our affection had
Become messy, passionate with a fragrance
For an obsession at the garden

Of growing hidden buds, that might at any moment
Bloom, ready to die, is there anything as
Romantic as roses on a grave?

The point is you can turn my grief into love
You, like the rose are helping me find grace.



If I confess your body is
The only civilization besides Roses
I long to experience, do not say

Do not say that I only adore blooming things
A Rose at any stage of life is gracious
Moist petalled or dropping wearily

The rain on her lips is like butter-music
If men, were created before women
It is only to appreciate their fullest creation

Like the beauty of the rose whose temptation
Is somehow feminine, a scent spinning
Into oblivion, as flesh seeking to born out living flesh

In blessed and blushing confessions
Or the redness of the weight of the body
The Rose that has told in one simplicity

That never life relinquishes a bloom
But to bestow an ancient confidence:
A man gives a woman a Rose

This symbolic gesture mimics evolution
Women are not roses, they are not
Oceans or stars, I would like to tell her

But I think she already knows.
As a misty dream, our path emerges
Like days of wine and roses, celebration.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/where-the-wild-roses-grow-131859161



Soft desires I can trace
Back to the lap of Roses who
Sing away with secret smiles
For whispers of their softest limbs
Whimpering for petals that say

Touch my cheek, pet my soul
When thy little heart doth wake
For this light shall break
On this womb, this womb that makes
A Rose as sweet, Red like the Lioness

Red like the sacred flesh
Soft desires fragrant like the whole
The Rose that sets love on fire
From a hungry gorge, the pit, the abyss
Terror of the divine form embraced

The Rose’s thorns, furnace sealed
A hungry Rose that lingers secretly
For the touch of a woman’s hand
The rose is not fair without the beloved’s face
Lips that like to sugar, grace like a flower
That sways, in the breeze, for mirth and feast.


The ultimate Realist realizes there is nothing factual
We imagine what we believe that we see
Economy is a figment of the human imagination

Time is an abstract concept to explain change 64
The world is a movie of what everything is
Made of the same stuff as neurons, particles, quarks

There is no punishment but the choices we make
With consequences that are self-prophetic
As we conform each to our particular pattern

Of thought-energy, we write our own Supreme Reality
And live it happily, and die when we must –
God, the never-lived, the never-was, in only

The most powerful imaginations
We are all creative spirits, and our destinies
What name shall we give it which hath no name?

The common eternal matter of the mind?
Everything speaks, and everything remains silent
The lesson was taught long ago on other worlds

Where prophets and Gods remain inverted
In the collective history of a million species
There is an ecstasy in subjectivity

All things but come to go, holy forms unmanifest
The secret God-grin remains etched in our subliminal parts
Stare deep into imaginary things, until
You find no personal separation in it.

新品種 (new breed)



I heard your voice today again
In a Minor Key, speaking about how
Autumn disinforms the past
What’s realistic fantasy?
Rust. August. Musts…
Summer still invades my body
With an angry sun filled


To the brim with mangoes and cherries
Caught in a feeling of immense
Tenderness, at the dawn of the longest day
Vocalizing forbidden syllables
To the Ever young, the youth whose


Sensual materialism is a caress
Of how my body cells revolve in unison
With the whole universe
I heard your voice today again
In a foreign language, who knew it
Would become my bilingualism


When time and space cease to exist
For me, our bodies in time will sleep
Side by side, for a year that felt like a century
-This flash is all we know, it happened
Taking on surreal forms of mysticism.


鯨魚之歌 (Whale Songs)


You, we, I – were actors
You drew up narratives so you could
Tell yourself there was a Pattern
I was in that story, vulnerable muzzled
Like the Night on the coast
I’d walk into your purposeful longings

I knew I was a temporary comfort
You, whose eyes and hands I loved
And mouth, whose foreigness I wished
You, whose words and mind
Was dull, my name held too much compassion

For the role given, too wasted
By the irresponsible human stranger
I was declared obsolete by another
Or like an ancestor that gave no profit
Outcast, abandoned, made to flee the story

Aching for years after the city
Was but a memory, after your child had grown up
I cried sick days alone, in that terror
My heart reincarnated in grief
Your whale-songs were contagious.




My portion for the day
Is defeat, a taste of poverty
Paler luck I guess than Victory
Whatever that means, whatever
Will be, will be; only love keeps me going
Slower than, so many years ago


I live for scraps of prayers
And napkins for an invisible muse
Nicknamed ‘soul’ by God
I’ll give up God for Eternity
For quiet hope has fewer bells
And faith must realize the self
In whatever circumstance one finds it


My portion of the day
Is empathy’s brief appointment
Before everyone disappears
To follow their respective fates
An altitude of change, goodbyes, death
Never mind repose, it meets you at the door.




Lovers are like children lost in the garden
Caught in trust and fear and something else
Discovery two by two, mounting into blue
Negotiating a secret fringe of desire
And how the fountains bubble bright and clear


And the world goes on, careless of her
Labelled afflictions, it’s life just so you know
Bright black and blue, exploration made difficult
By the mind’s apprehension, and caution
That strangles us to the bones, this monotony
Of Evolution’s tick-tack-toes against the


Rising wind of our youth’s carelessness
Lovers you are so pragmatic, hardly even platonic
Chasing every last and wayward power
Because you don’t know what you want


Getting older against an independence raw
Guilty of regrets you do not talk about
Love, it’s getting old that you were once wronged
Love is a holiday from the past, and if you can’t
Do it, this sunlit juice well, it won’t last.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Heal-them-453231010



To his house the dreamers
Come to barter endlessly
He builds his mask of Utopia
Waiting for a better world
For right conditions, for images
Of Light and Air, something
To substantiate claims of the existence
Of Divinity, more than Angels
Or the world’s eclipse of signs
To his mind he summons
The Fortunes of Faith, however
They may be, Points of Eden
Towards a Dawn in those eyes
Whose color is of the future
A soldier of life who would not fight
But create, make art, thrive on
Invisible food fostered by simplicity.



I’d like to make Amends with the Night
Who sheltered me with my tears
Laying my cheek I held her alone

In Moonlight’s picking at small stones
I was there, with sand-and-gravel hope
To find the civilization of tomorrow

Past the smallness of our fate
I’d like to make Amends
With the Day, strong and tender

Were our flowing days, our
Mornings with our hunger for clarity
Our marigold youth of never-ending longing

Nothing is finally necessary
In how the cities we live in are occupied
In how our beds are unoccupied

We have to touch life through our ribs
And hear the beating of our hearts in what we do….



Let your burdens, and our blind mischances
Rest, this is the luckiest to know
That we are not unique, the kindest truth
And that our souls may freely come and go

We must at least renounce breath
And the musky annointment of tired lungs
The certain tang in an off-beaten heart
The weary weight of years in bones

It is not for us to say, what were the fruit
Of blooming wisdom or peace that stepping back
To loving simplicity, the omens of
What comes next, that we have not always

The time to say goodbye, because we live
By instinct, and follow particular bearings
From the source, no backward glances then
No ceremony, for irregular events that fit together

In the story of our time, whose full dimensions
Remain unknown, or without prescident.

Sugar is a Necessary Prey

Hourly the lamp headed-nymphs Whisper to me through The lily root of my subconscious There is little shelter From the flutes of language Fish-mouthed mantras of poetry They flame in me frog-hoped The reebit of time’s fugitive Unfaithfulness to the … Continue reading

Sad Eyed Lyricist

I’ve spotted it with tears (I pronounced to all my living verse) Your infant faces are proof of it ! The crumbled years, the kissed cheeks White as snow, red as apples The harmonics of a life enriched By syllables … Continue reading

Utopia of Perfectness of Subjectivity


Heaven is the deepest Mind
When all is dissolved
Galactic center, site-of-the-Architect

There I may recover
There I may be reborn
It is not for me to say if we are

Of Spiritual capacity, we all possess
A soul, something akin to a spirit
With or without adequate desire

Subliminal and Superconscient spark!
So look no further, than inside
That wish-well of subjectivity

Maker of eternal myths, reincarnated
From some collective-mind, again!
Heaven is a quantum space

Where we are all connected
Unity beyond nerve, intelligence behind cell
Purest posture of steady love

That Never bends, but bends all!
So let your soul seesaw, like a Dove
Through the invisible door, it does not

Want Oxygen, does not need wealth there
Its blood is comic, its empathy is perfect
So give yourself a soul, consummated
Let it bloom, for once in your life.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-Accident-428701863

That They are Beautiful –


By Chivalries as tiny
With kindnesses so glum
And whistles of heart

Invisible as blossoms
In the dark, I bid thee
The traffic of fools

As errors make us laugh
And give life her charm
Do not be afraid

To make a mess
For Paradise requires sacrifice
A moat of pearls, to risk

The ironies full-speed
Fairer than fading
In mute withdrawal!

By chivalries so tiny
Of passions as free
Teasing the glittering

Of another day reborn
Give your eyes to others
With an unbidden smile
And electric of the heart
Shiny as the rarest buds.

By Night, I Love language


In Night travel I go back to verse
The poesy behind sleep
at the root of subconscious origins
the purest motion of evolution
some constancy of sharing

That beats in my chest
when I was just a fish –
In Night travel I go back to the word
The poesy behind rapture
at the root of superconscient bliss
with starry questions as a single key

To sunlight infinity, there I will beg
The one voice to spread through
all creatures until I feel her eyes

staring back at me from all sides
that sleep might answer, all the sky’s
lovely shadows and queries:
By Night I travel back to the dawn.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/night-165133165

Symphony of Silence


I am in need of music that would flower
like salvation for my fretful moments
my fingers tips to be the trembling melodies
of the deep, clear, liquid, universal voice
that is not my own voice, but all voices
for the healing swaying, old and low

i am in need of some song sweet
that echoes the trance of silence’s source
i am in need of peace, after quiet breath
of heart made still, after high blood pressure
i am in need of music that showers forth
crushing all obstacles in rhythm and sleep

for notes transport us into frequency
and everything boils down to frequency and light
balls of light that dance in space-time
a music of freedom, so i am reincarnate
into another form, on another world.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Music-115768965

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