This is a limerick beat I began writing in 2016, during my last round through Bombay meri jaan …


P  A  R  T    I 

My birth city now,
is a phat-wow atm.
Like you do plastic,
I insert myself.
And all my rage
against

the machine.
Survive.
Thrive.
And break on through to the other side.
Emerge flush.
Flash.
Yeah,
at least,
.. with some cash.

This is parkour.
Parkouring the matrix.

And ever so often,
there’s this glisten,
it’s wet,
and shining,
in between,
multiplicities
of simultaneous
interdimensions.
It’s fierce,
fast,
and the real payload,
way bigger than cash.

Sometimes I’m lucky,
the veils shred,
dimensions come undone,
like a playing card deck spread,
and I get..
the connect.

In all praise,
hands raised,
to the ever orgasming
OG
Goddess territory,
owned by the Dark Mother.
Its all yours,
anyway you like it,
sink or swim.
She’ll fuck you up,
nice and easy,
till you learn
to win.

So goes the life,
of the daughter,
of an ancient,
7 islands,
deep sea,
gypsy,
Mariner.


P  A  R  T    I  I


Platinum confidence,
a triumph of cool,
unveiled.
I’m the anomaly,
in your coldplayed,
narcissistic trajectory.
I’ve danced with mountains.
Raised the Sun.
Seated into
in too
intuiting.
Daughter surreptitious
brimful
knowing.

The Eternal One
I n I
playing Maya
playing me
as though we are three.
Or a myriad.

Warp time
Griot.
Sing song
Curandero.
Smoke spliff
Bruja.
Peace the pipe
Pantheon.

Matrix architectured exoskeletons,
we house the flesh of God.
Navigate this flux.
Just don’t forget,
to remember,
I’m emotionally unavailable.
Practically though,
I’m fully accessible.

Trainspotting madness?
Who me?
But can you discern in the crowd,
how many are ghosts?
And how many are just “whoa dude you’re toast”?!

Ash and blessings wa gwan?
Me gwan shriek.
Me gwan shrink,
like touched snail,
on some liminal brink.

I lost count at 1000 of my lotus petals.
Sure it’s achieved.
But it was never aspired.
When I got here?
I was just a globoindo,
culturally interventioning,
stungun for hire.

I kept resisting.
I’m not ready!
Yet..
yet..
resistance
populates
manifestation
in all it’s material mire.
And then you’re fucking forced
to regurgitate
your own creation,
while trade on the karmic stock exchange,
has got you LIT!
with your most epic “I got this!” kinda fire!

I came.
I saw.
I surrendered.
MumbaDevi you’re ALL THAT.
But now, mercy please, I tire.

Holy See,
the eternal witness Saakshi,
no identity,
looming,
scary,
.. wait ..
Is this divinity?
Again? Here?
In this nowhatness?

Look, here’s the score:
It’s the new world order.
This is a global port city.
This is your global port life.
These are ocean vessels,
and secret spaceship metals,
all who come to dock into,
this global port maximum-city hype.

Am I finally prepared?
Is my snake unfurling?
Am I pakaoed to ripe fullness?
For the picking,
and the serving,
of this life purpose?

dd