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Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

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New Orleans, LA, US

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Keeping the Darkness

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Keep the darkness for yourself;
Collect it altogether.
Seen it budding and growing the hair,
hide the gloomliness in your harden pockets.
Peck and sickle all doubling dark-chickens.
Seive the dirt, wash and hug the residue.
Desert the morose hirsute-oasis.
At the orgasm of your touchy mesmerism,
let the dusky shadow totally wither.
needed a warm hobby of prosecuting,
save a little darkness in shake.
Let myself stay here,
and walk yourself forward.
On the sidewalks,
waits my duty of
planting tiny seeds of sundrops.


Travelling in opposite directions

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

I am pretty old to be romantic and virile-
to my wife,
unlike a male version of a luring queen bee
in a newly settled honeycomb.

To my mother, I am
a laterally crawling young crab-
yet not fitting in this world
to get rid of a black nipple-pair.

I,
the rustic rubble rousing phrase-rambler,
in my path,
walk on and over the middle of a rusty knife edge.

Che and Buddha are no more
for witnessing a roaring blind rower and follower
hopping on and off of two ol' holed boats
travelling in the opposite directions.

a verse tearing overgrown baby
seen by the friends
scribbling and spraying graffiti and batiks
on the shadowy walls of its own passionate past-time domain.

Resting at the bottom-shores of the abysmal brain pores,
a rear word searcher and dry phrase compiler
in me always aiming
beyond a scribble board triple score saver.

Wriggling in my thoughts,
a restless spider, the octo-heavy metal rocker,
spitting on and around its own body
with the hoarded old thoughts of all sorts.

Here lies the professional,
a washed out style-breaker of prose
gone and turned into a hip bender
of small time underworld rhythmically frigid poems.

As a whole,
from being an accepted refuse-collector and sediment drainer,
I metamorphosed into a waste treater
with the recycling final touch.

Dig and find in me anything,
but a pathetic pseudo prophet
professing a series of doom's day and
tracking behind the tail twigging shooting stars
in search of prosperity and would-be-prophets.
Being so the facets of this little tramp's hectic life in the skeptic-septic pool,
I wonder in this yonder heat with the trembling irregular heartbeats,
where comes the satanic dirt in the midst of ozonic serenity!


Faith

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

A post-storm dusk;
Heavy strokes and a thorough search
for a single flower
opened with nectar.

What a world wonder,
this little butterfly!


My weekends...

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

These lonely Friday evenings,
my neck-hanging death ropes.

Beyond the mountain silhouette goes the hot sun,
expecting a raunchy midnight orgy.
After blowing a Good bye twinkle,
stuck in the yesterday's emptiness
my oneway memory lane of the day.

I see myself
impeded alone in the virtual world
as another perpetual number grinding silican machine.

Together dense agony,
melts the erotic tears,
hot and tiny rolling spheres.

Vigorously dancing and bumping on
the lazy brain cell walls
are untamed jungle elephants.

A pair of sagging air filled lungs;
In the midst,
got pressed and dizzed the heart.

Outside the murky window,
in the dusty dusk,
a young thin bird striking alone
in the windward direction.

Intermittent dull strokes
crow and convey its burden to me,
its only interpreter.

At this point,
I burst into words.....
the sole drainage.

Bird's bulging burden breaks into little bundle
travelling outward high in the space,
leaving me with the prose and poetry.


Analyzing Voices

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Burdened pilgrimages through
the country of the woven voices.
Peckings and spittings of nervy-tongues.
Every whine of a voice is
a wavy-journey to register its self.
Never ending ripples in the process
of demanding own identification.
In the midst of the peer noises,
yours is mine, and whose is mine.
Ultimate absence of differentiation

Vocal code hanging voice tassels;
only environs damaging silly sound plaits.
Non-stopping ubiquitous call of
"Accept me! Accept, only me."
In such collective tunes of strings,
Which is yours? Which is mine?

Hurried restless voices
never wait for their turns.
Pitiless noisy existence
massacres the uniqueness.

Worn the words,
"One at a time."

Classification and the search for the individuality,
a dual aim lost shots in the world of unfiltered noises.

In a chatterbox globe,
whenever enters, vanished are the voices.


Yearning a goodnight sleep

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Seems a fire in a far place;
the vehicles criss-cross the road skin;
disturbed is the deep sleep of the night wind.
No thirsty in mind;
despite I drink some glasses of water.
Next to do, I have nothing left.

It is not wise kissing a sleeping wife
for the fifth time within a half an hour.

Like the speedy cars in a highway,
me too start to walk inside the room
along the imaginary lines I draw in my mind;
the usual patterns on a splitted room floor
to be unknowingly cleaned by a dutiful wife,
on the very next day;
Not anymore, I think.

What to do till the time
the sun comes up to burn
the toes through the window?

She rolls once more; a smooth finger crab-crawling search for my bare chest;
A mild shock at the bed vaccum; followed a demanding utter,
"Somehow compel yourself into sleep";
she reactivates her interupted four O' clock dream
from where she has left;
an early dream always comes to reality, she knows,
as her mother told more than once.

I start to touch the tips of my thumbs with the index fingers;
a time passing tiptoe game of my lousy hands,
a neat construction of an imaginary
three dimentional chain in the space.

In the dense darkness,
the lines on the floor, and
a chain in the space;
I am incarcerated inside a geometrically barbed jail.

Somewhere below my shaky feet,
I am able to feel the agonizing voices
that the randomly thrown Guernican
noses, eyes and ears try to make;
may be a fading illusive echo-tone of my own.

In the monotone of the dullness,
breaks the spatial dancing chain of fingers.

The eyes have drowned into drowsiness;
I have kissed her for the fifth time then,
and slipped into the cozy cotton quilt.

Only then I have come to hear it;

It seems a fire in a far place; and,
the vehicles have started to criss-cross
the road skin, and hurting.


What I could have been!

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

With my iterative writings
within a rolling ring,
Overly I explored,
exposed,
exploited,
emptied a weak fluid-part of mine.
The unwritten stuff,
my private in-situ dry chaff.

What I could have been,
if hadn't written
anything of my own!
Could I be just an
unjust rediculer of someone
who literarily wrote
of myself
and my silly feelings
with a hounding claim
that such were
surrounding him?


A dead man's last night-letter

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Dear mother,

I can visualize your sadness
in seeing this undated short-letter.

However,
also hoping you know well
of a young political refugee's
angular speeds and living patterns;
the insensitive tap dances of the days.
His dates never guide his life.

Like my previous letters,
words are still crawling
in the bleached paper,
in speed and pain,
limping like a stoned dog
for the last two weeks.

Disposed so the status,
which date could I choose
as the buzzing letter keyword?

As usual,
the life is in a circle.

Hopping within
its own prison square
is the mind.

I am an equilateral triangle,
a straight line connecting parted apices of
Body
Feeling World

Forgetting these,
moving beyond,
arising a scribbling possibility
for one or two insipid lines,
of flying crows in the empty sky,
of sitting eagles in the flying flags.
That's the maximum.....
yet, the pair weeks of the past
that I tired to push to exhaust
not enough to those phrases.

Dragging the thought-burden,
clothing with colorful words
-nowadays
has gone a task of an impotent.

Asking you for the news over there,
I heard you saying ten pages
on how a bottle got broken in the kitchen;
an act of walking a knife edge;
Indirectly forcing me
believe in your wellbeing
in an earthy heaven
you pushed me escape.
Your little expectation,
what a dryness-bug got bitten
pond of imagination!

Expectations;
Like his mother,
a son has too
in his pockets of brain cells.

Trust me;
living in his little green oasis,
your son dictating
glow-worm plaits
are these words.

"Here,
crows are flying in the empty space;
an eagle resides in the national flag;
for the rest, read again;
as usual, I am keeping fine."

Don't worry for my shaky hand-writings.
In this country,
any ink filled cheap pen signs bad;
When I say bad, it's really very bad.
That's all; nothing to worry.

"As I said, as usual,
your son is keeping himself very well.
See me here;
crows are circling me in the empty sky;
further,
an eagle has stopped living in a nation flag,
hastily reaching me down,
to its feasting plate."


Wisdom for a Weaver

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Long time ago,
he was a fresh weaver
With a new needle.

With the texture of his thoughts,
he tried to twine the thread gave.

Ended up with something different
from what in their picture of thought,
condemned a weaver-in-marred.

Withdrawn himself
into a thick jungle of thought
in a deep search for better fiber.

Initial drops of
his drizzled time,
evaporated and
lost in mind-space.

Surfaced out of the self-imposed
search for a super code,
has started the weaver’s own mill;
colorful, silky, strong and showy
-the features of fine
texture making threads.

Soared the quality,
So do the quantity and sales;
swing and swift
conquered the caustic winds
on the other conventional bank.

They claimed,
the weaver was their own;
past grillers have become
the claimed guardians.
Some said
he was their discovery;
rest reputed
him as their invention.
Polished was
the old rusted needle
that he used and lost
with his ex-job.
A must is his mass-appeal,
As they have mustered
by their own.

Such was the situation that suggesting
the surrounding weather in a simple weaver’s
scheduled working day.

"Nauseating,"
said he to himself,
"I should have sit in the forest I set
with my twinkling texture and thread-rolls;
lost was my patience, and
so does my peace mill."

With my lingering wisdom,
my dear weaver,
what could I say ?

The art is much of the weaver,
not of the thread nor of the needle.


A lost child of time

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

I am a lost child of the yet-to-be-met age.
In the medieval past of shadows,
while my peers were peeling clay stained boiled potatoes
for the romantic cloudy suppers of the emperors' fat bellies
and their harem dwelling fleshy breast concubines' balloon- blooming -process,
found myself wandering in the present forests.

I was a lost kid of the stars and nebulae,
a time bug bitten dipsomaniac,
suffering with the intermittent seizures of lava dispersing images.
Time impeded smothered daydreams fail the classical co-ordinate geometry.
My skinny body's awkward skeleton movement,
a time induced function of a dense blackhole sucked tiny proton;
stuck and stopped in space as a half burnt dead timber log.

In my abandoned pilgrimages,
I saw the rulers begging for the ancient wisdom;
I saw the philosophies bud and crawl,
only to metamorphose into religions to
howl and kill the wisdom, souls of the sciences,
and above all, in hard times, self rooted conscience.
Yet, I was a time traveler, who could vision and listen,
but not permitted to act in my own in the logged space of the coming era.

Now, I was pushed to present with the old body to fit the current situation.
Alas! I have been travelling with my thoughts
and fought a lot of battles that would be settled in future.
Ahead of time! Is it my bless or curse?

You said that I am a lost soul of the earth that you dwell.
I agree; time whispers to me with a very convincing speech,
"Walk with me and leave this compacting space,
the three dimensional rain-soaked cardboard box
left in the junk yard of the universe."

We may happen to meet at the end of the hollow
that fell in the fishing net of time Vs. space;
or, our fates may chipped into pieces
like the potato skins we peeled in the past.

Accept it, my darling.
My space is woven with the colorful threads of time.
Dali tried and failed to capture my Persistence of Memory in his Triangular Hour.
I am a time traveler, made of and concentrated with concrete e=mc^2,
and lost in the series of dusty packages of nano seconds.
Agreed to keep my space, and fitted my body into the vacuum I will make here,
I'll slip into the shadowy silent time-pockets of the far universe.

I am a lost child like many of the screwed up scientists,
who was shadowed by the never saturating everlasting poetic curse of the time injected mind.
I will
fly in time, eat the ever-growing fast light rays whenever hungry touches my neural nets,
swordbuckle the shrewd sound waves, regardless the super and sub clusterings of speed.

You will hear me in the hot Helium bubbles of
a cooling sun impeded in another galaxy;
you may even see me in the shunning collision resulted pieces of
the speeches left behind a raging comet's wagging tail.
One will see me through the deft ears, and listen me through her blind eyes,
when she wants me walking in her evening walk in an urban park.
This skinny restless child of the future,
an unwanted running refugee of the shivering time dominating earthy space,
will whisper the dropping words of oozing future,
whenever the rays of an already dead star is faintly spotted
blinking in the Hubble focus reign.

Let me lost in abysmal time for this moment,
If you wish and can, hold me preserved in unleveled space and mind-cells.
Perhaps I may perpendicularly cross your path again from west to east,
and one more time from the north;
and, once again there is a possibility for the last strike from sky to soil.
My journey is a high-floater in the riddling bathtub ripples of time.

I may cross, or I may rest; but for now,
I am soulfully off in the time frame of your 21 inch monitor's DOS mode cursor.
I am a scribbling wanderer in time and
a non-stop juggler of stardust words soaked in red planet soil.


Revived Images of a Poorly Saved Dawn-Dream

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

With the following statements, here starts
a silly attempt to document a dawn collection of
Ultraviolet noisy spreamy stain spotted naked images,
Unfiltered withdrawn aroma of a not-previously tasted dish,
And some faintests of faint echoes of spicy signals colored with disturbing circumstances.

"Lost are the reasons and linear logical functions,
but a not-given up attempt of learning process of
my semi-conscious mimic-acts and monologue echoes of the past"

The dawn-dreams, a set of broken beer bottle pieces making kaleidoscopic imagery patterns,
well ordered, yet --illusive and escaping explanations, scientific definitions, and proper nomenclature.

I am the daily collector and ardent courtroom compiler
for the royal archives of my own reigning fascination and self-indulging narcissism.

Turbulent streams of porno memory dust impeded respiration flowing
from the perpetual random thought copulations in the hot brain cells' unleveled carburetors;
precipitation, collection, saturation, evaporation, and sublimation,
an ultimate wild cyclic process charred with chaos.

I touched her face under silky wind braking veil.
From her invisible eyes flows a geometric series of turmeric moon paste,
grated and then ground to be smooth and sticky.
The paste scoured by the ripples of two pond nipples wounded by the hurricane wind and deadly storm.

Pushing and pulling my left leg in between her slippery-smooth thick thighs
dissipated an unceasing delicately perfumed energy of long wave lengths;
I believe, it is a spontaneous automatic molecular kite-flying process of a never-decoded,
endlessly chained aromatic organic compound.

At some blind and deaf orgasmic junction,
shattered the Venetian blind
hanging between the left over reality-scales and the popping aerosols of my dawn-dream-cream.

Totally shackled in the dream chain reaction,
simply vanished my surging reasons for roaming a rational animal.

I'm liberated and floated like a tiny bird
having its first flight beyond the resting nest towards the raging sun.
For such a sense-dead second,
even the radius lost sky is not a measuring limit, but a mere lowest datum for my starting wing strokes.
Hastily eaten was the gravitational pull, by the bouncy forces of an undefined invisible gaseous substance.

The lost in this domain was salvaged in another dimension.


Masquerade

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Everyone tries to twist everything,
the face of his mom and the nature of her dad,
mine & divine's, hold phases & told phrases,
then comes the number games,
.......middle aged credit cards and teenage broken hearts.
Even with every outgoing tiny mail-byte
attached a Thor's hammer
or -in times- an Aussie aborigine's boomerang;
it strikes the vulnerable credibility
that you claim you have and others don't,
brutally blows the underlying face
imminently today or on a coming slow day.
Burst as a buffoon's balloon was a face
................or was it another mask?

None is born with a tag,
and it is tied on one's neck
under a heavy drunken festive mood
as a die hard ol' ritual task.
You bask of it, boast of it,
every drop of the time you find
even in the cavity of your fingernails,
-until someone bites it with his canine teeth, and
tears in a hasty harsh job of a chicken eating hungry wolf.

Of course, hurt is your heart, it may be oozed into your thoughts too.
X might have farted or it could have been Z,
and ,Y wanted to try X hard for his (or her?) fart.
In the world of masking lords, there is no such thing
that talks for you and takes only on others, which
you might conveniently want to call, the moral code.
Y lost in the battle, and was told not to act as a pervert;
declared X as the Hero, even if the proof for it is near zero.

Then, you see,
Starts the metamorphism of a colored butterfly into hiding moth.
Though not a musky smell surrounds you,
you inhale and enjoy the filthy air.
Ha! What an aroma!!
Could be a rotten egg, could be a weather-withered rose,
but it is still an egg and who said it,
"What's in the state of a Rose!"
May be none before; but who cares!
make it as your own motto
- if possible, tag it your logo too.

Sad! but spit it to me and accept it true;
your good ol' olfactory sense adapted
to the expected nasty nature of the nasal system
and nowadays you have no nausea.

Here begins the risky task of the nasty faces.
you adopt some of your own masks,
nurture them, grow them under dark shadow.
One day you are an adept,
who could change ten tight masks
with a professionalism of an expert-juggler
riding on a single wheeler
in a known corner of an unknown village fair.
Then what is lost,
who is lost.......... or
whose cause on which cost?

Now none knows who writes what of what,
and what the truth that crawls and lies
under any lying number layers of lies is

Welcome to the weird world of masking the faces.
I'm in the party -though not carrying a membership card -
and you will also be like your friend, whom I often see here lately.

Now you see, my friend,
..........or don't know....
..............tell me, are you -in anyway- my foe?
We live in the cruelty glorifying globe of mask-growers,
the Cyber, ciphered with texts & pics,
next to put your own face to rest.
I travel in the highway very fast,
and you too do it there -at last- to last.
Pardon me my sultry tongue, but
Who doesn't want a lengthy orgasm?
Who touched the near goal post first,
got the winning trophy in this match of masks.

Again welcome to the world of mask-wearers.
And, start working in a weird day of masking
in the wide wired web world of Masquerade.


Yearning a goodnight sleep

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

Seems a fire in a far place;
the vehicles criss-cross the road skin;
disturbed is the deep sleep of the night wind.
No thirsty in mind;
despite I drink some glasses of water.
Next to do, I have nothing left.

It is not wise kissing a sleeping wife
for the fifth time within a half an hour.

Like the speedy cars in a highway,
me too start to walk inside the room
along the imaginary lines I draw in my mind;
the usual patterns on a splitted room floor
to be unknowingly cleaned by a dutiful wife,
on the very next day;
Not anymore, I think.

What to do till the time
the sun comes up to burn
the toes through the window?

She rolls once more; a smooth finger crab-crawling search for my bare chest;
A mild shock at the bed vaccum; followed a demanding utter,
"Somehow compel yourself into sleep";
she reactivates her interupted four O' clock dream
from where she has left;
an early dream always comes to reality, she knows,
as her mother told more than once.

I start to touch the tips of my thumbs with the index fingers;
a time passing tiptoe game of my lousy hands,
a neat construction of an imaginary
three dimentional chain in the space.

In the dense darkness,
the lines on the floor, and
a chain in the space;
I am incarcerated inside a geometrically barbed jail.

Somewhere below my shaky feet,
I am able to feel the agonizing voices
that the randomly thrown Guernican
noses, eyes and ears try to make;
may be a fading illusive echo-tone of my own.

In the monotone of the dullness,
breaks the spatial dancing chain of fingers.

The eyes have drowned into drowsiness;
I have kissed her for the fifth time then,
and slipped into the cozy cotton quilt.

Only then I have come to hear it;

It seems a fire in a far place; and,
the vehicles have started to criss-cross
the road skin, and hurting.


invisible

by

Siddhartha 'Che' Guevara

not another fight i can't take it
the door slams the room goes cold you've left
i sit in the dark cold cupboard waiting for the smell of the toxic poison to walk through my front door.
you get home about 3 and sleep with me then role over and sleep i'm only invisible i'm there when you want me but morrow you'll get a sock when i'm not there the first thing that will come acrooss you're mind is she's run away check the cupboard and ther is a pool of blood leaking out the dood i killed myself and i knew you would laugh