Grey silhouetted; Grey scavengers
Pouncing in at close quarters
I lay still in my close
Anticipating requests of tumbling twattlers

But they’re perfect and far too many
Years of practice, and shame gone awry
They bug, they pest and smell of gutters
Plummeting souls of Prolific Bunker Hunters

Perhaps they all are not Grey
Minstrels and Mistresses caught in a disarray
Helping or heaping just might pay off
Laughter, skin or sanity aloft

One likes it here on the other side though
Not a hunter with furrowing brows
It takes an effort you see, setters?
To not to be among the Prolific Bunker Hunters

May the donkeys never type a comment and keep on smiling like goons in front of an equally dumb screen.
(OFFENCE MEANT TO THE INTENDED IN ITS ENTIRE ENTIRETY)

# 3 IMPORTANT questions and a note:
• How do the bastards fly without a plane?
• How do the young learn to speak?
• How do the old forget how to speak?

PORTHOS was the dog of celebrated playwright James Matthew Barrie, Who, according to him, dreamt of being a bear one day. If you read Peter Pan, his most famous work, you’ll realize that dogs in that particular play, behave particularly oddly.


The Legend of Juice and Gore: A Half Moon Investigation on duality.

How can we be so different
And yet be so much alike?
Is it an unusual display of Pedantry
Or a Fool’s shame that sets us apart?

Just a silver of Blue Grass
And the closeness of the Noon Star
PORTHOS dreams of being a bear one day
And here I thwart his unreal dream.

May we ruin the wool?
And hoist silken flags
Linen draped vassals
In a ghetto of stark naked bodies.

What makes the protagonist shiver?
Nah; not fear, I know it.
What turns him into a ferocious beast?
Naught of anger, nor pain of flesh.

Madness is a tad unnecessary;
We are immortal in this mad cycle.
What remains to be judged however,
Is a chaos of the fleeting past.

Shouts of steel dreams
Guns of dog fights
Gore for the living
And Juice for the living dead.