Photo credits: pxhere.com

THE PLANET AT THE TAILOR’S

Flowers, trees, grass, yes indeed.
They bring out my browns so beautifully in spring.
Birds, fishes, and ooh...shiny snakes?
Stich them all over me, I say!

And how about some colour?
Ocean blue, azure blue, volcanic red.
I'd even burn a forest or two for that fiery orange.

Oh yes, I like some texture.
My fingers, they feel the sand of the desert, the folds of the mountains,
the soothing squelching of a marsh all in a single fabric.

Dinosaurs?
No, they are so Jurassic, so passé.

Hmm...humans, eh?
I don't know.
They look so coarse, so garish, especially the men.
They never suited me, you know.

Oh well, maybe I'll decide in a second fitting.


MANTRA PUSHPAM

Memory is the flower of water.
He who knows this is blessed with
love, pain, doubt, and fear.

The basin is the source of water.
From the basin flows spit.
Spit becomes water.
He who knows this becomes
aware of his spit.

The toilet bowl is the source of water.
From the bowl flow piss and shit.
Piss and shit becomes water.
He who knows this becomes
aware of his shit and piss.

The kitchen sink is the source of water.
From the sink flows dishwater.
Dishwater itself becomes water.
He who knows this becomes
aware of his own dishwater.

The shower is the source of water.
From the shower flows sweat and grime.
Sweat and grime become water.
He who knows this becomes
aware of his sweat and grime.

Man is the source of water.
His deeds make water bloom with memory.
He who knows this garden of memory
is blessed with
love, pain, doubt, and fear.
He makes a scythe out of
love, pain, doubt, and fear
and weeds the garden tirelessly.

Kings of Kings,
frogs, snakes, and worms of the ponds,
helpless amenable citizens of water, of memory
we praise thee.
Bless with me guilt, to not fulfil all my desires,
with fear and hope, to truthfully take my part in the future.
Bless me with angst for basins, toilets, sinks, showers,
frogs, snakes, worms, and
men
so I may strive.

Go! Labour! Labour! Labour now!