Aneesh Sathe

The toothpick of propriety From this sandwich shall fall After the teeth of age Have gnawed at bits And Life digested The bread away Then layers Unravel Squishy bits Return to clay Child-like drawing-me

The rain has fallen. Giving way to the shoots of memories, Strewn along the tar roads, years deep The sky takes on a peculiar character, With the clouds quite unwilling to retire, But ushered out nonetheless Between the arms Of the sensuous purple sky, And the slow breeze Which takes care to weave itself, Between every, strand of her hair. The past has manifested as a mood Not only on our small window to the universe

Pick pick Dear Mind, Pick pick. Tonight’s Nightmare Pick pick Shall it be the day’s proceedings, And the world’s rejections? Or will the dark locked trunks, Come avisiting, Carrying within Burned moral objections? Pick pick Dear Mind, Pick pick. Tonight’s nightmare Pick pick. Shall your heart be embraced By mismatched arms? Or should the skeletons rise From friendship farms? Pick pick Dear Mind pick pick Eyes closed The inside is out

Purple Monsters, With UV spears stand guard, Pleasures in a plastic card Sparkling glasses Strange cut sights On the right meet the lights, Smoke without fire, Mr. Tyndall hanging on to the light spire Throbbing bodies Smoky eyes, Questionable motives, Screaming lies. A little numbing of the nerves, Low frequency beats, To the inner cultures, Front row seats

These walls shall be filled with words With emotions these rooms overflow For a thousand years I shall live And in their minds forever grow