Trolls Hide In Poetic Piles

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Trolls Hide In Poetic Piles

 

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by Dudealoo Das A. Hrue, who administers the Test o' St. Erone

 

Hollow everyone, I wanted to say,

but must use this pen, on this fine sunny day

for some reason, only poetry, which may have it's faults,

allows me free outer expression of my secrets still in vaults

 

the one in which, I cannot twitch, but hide I can, it's like

a can

tight and narrow, a metal barrel, a shaft of ink, blue, with

a stink

 

so here's todays news, mainly i'm not in the blues

so far at 8 it's a good morning, we'll see what rings bring

incoming

 

Firstly, surely, I promise, no more shall I say,

of Prabhupada, his movement, his way

 

For all I have 'good', can be traced back to him,

and I thought I said that, but, did it not get in?

 

Anyway, more importantly, since love him I do,

and he knows thus, as does the guru varga, mine en-trance

they bluss

 

The focus on self produces nothing of size

as the pleasure seeking entity finds nothing inside

but things which do not match it's lofty dreams

of sun never ending, bananas, ice creams

 

so it attacks itself, as well as all others,

as nothing is right, nothing quite meets their druthers

 

Such are the possibilities of the inner desire,

unless you can witness even that with retire.

 

My faults, and yours, and others, and hers,

do we really have say so, should we really think that way mo?

 

Seems unconditional love, with all of it's fears,

seems better, loftier, lasting more years.

 

Ultimately, I mean, since everything changes, tis better to

love now, fully somehow,

so perhaps "unconditional" is the solution medicinal.

 

These young ones, with their awareness, mostly placed on

their bareness,

they use their stinky kitten, to hold you in their mitten.

 

The love you seek does not from there - flow - ,

rather from every little thing, the other person does, say

and - - show - - -

 

Now the young one, stays away, excuses galore,

the crone, comes close, loves lonliness more

 

Trolls hide in poetic piles, burial mounds of loves past glance

where dreams of love end up in skulls, bathed in the shit of

passing gulls

 

 

 

I guess I am a f)(*)(* poet, I don't even think and the

words just floeth

 

 

a lovemaking wordsmith, contemplation embued with

 

 

 

 

 

copy, right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Das Goravani

 

dude!