January 4, 2018

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY -SONNET 30

O hardihood,may my silos and vats overflow with thy treasure troves and wine,Why would they nag in their wilderness,another adonis own soiddissant fleece,whose bossom is not endear'd to them by heart?And sometime weep foul of the long lost fortune since forlorn palter,for palmy days abode to paper over the cracks.Now, adophobia by its prejudicial panorama,panopli'd at hazy storm their panjandrum,Moan not empiricism when thou embark thy plangent plantation,on tortuous journey,so plaguey still canst not brawn,Tis thougrievances,presences of absences grieve greedily fornlorn sail as forgone raid,Is hardihood so priceless,a plaything that thou mayest not itch at its yonder hills' opalescence and glory?Of the nearest and dearest gladiators,not say a dicky bird,even with voice like a foghorn,at the riverbank,relish assays to yonder shores,The posture of ladylike behind their ladyship,languour and lacuna,not for once lament'd,But behold with pedagogue,trumping minnows,hardihood can salivate and leapfrog thee.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY-SONNETS 29

My latch shall not me flex to jettisson,So long as bibliocrazy and those its kindred in my bossom lay and date,Butthen in thee sevile,time's frivolities i abhor,Then gaze i in quietus,its lusty vertex should deplete,For all that aesthetics,that dost thee huggermugger,hue and cry,Is but a huffily huff of adophobia,overtly and covertly pronounc'd,Which in thy fathom,doth abide as mine erstwhilegroove;How can i then be overzealous,than these howls of howling wilderness,like that mammoththat throngs on hungermarch,I therefore admonish, adophobiac be of thyself,thy hovel so wary,Gliding in windy sail which i willbedesecrable nor in my bossom lies,As atender bud,my hollow bearing from overbearing mirth,far'd not headlong,Presume not on thy howlings,when mine fowling piece unlike thy blunderbuss andbarneys,tearjerker'd,whereas preys galore,migratory birds shot i they beneath,She gavest her whole bag of tricks at their apotheosis,O hardihood thou gavest thyself to that appoged my vertex,and all treasures trove mine

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- SONNET-28

That mug's game,fully known too well to be antiquat'd,And lo! the muddlehead'd mugwump in that trailblazer of lifelong trenches hibernates,O sinecure thou art no good o sinecure,They palpitate,still throng still palpitate,In detest of flying colours whereon the wobbling feet by sinecure plies,But since they prickly with windy verdict,That stampede,that for a force majeure,as an fait accompli,a tenthfoot pole pingpong plays,Mine own keystone beyond this masquerade flagellates,To kibbosh this vulgar trudge of valeditudinarians,and of misfire,And the kidgloves'ranting of the loung lizards,So is it that heaven's moisture flees,Who laser itself for emboss and bespokes doth latch, And every unfair roses,who trods landmines,with its foulplays,doth this lassitude and rehearse still bickers,To what thou art given thyself as slave,to that prissy,lay a squandarer,thy heirloom sticks greedily.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- SONNET 27

Winces.A wight's winces with naturewit's own cleavages of pendulous pleas,Mine being incongruous with that wit's end,And loop with the sinecure,whereon to shun the streets,where the lion trods,Hast thouthe lucky dip mastery of my malinger,o that adophobiac wraith!A shrinking violets'sheepish clothing,Who lives in the fig of imagination,Rather than the headlong saddle prowl plunges,To bring home the bacon right the lion's den,With the unsteadi'd pendulum worn as robe as is falsity of a filial-like-piety,Basking infalse pretences,with adophobia much more bloody than its rolling moss,Will that riffl'd barrel be shot,with its machinegun nest?Oh no,a riffle varnish'd by adophobia,canst no go beyond its rifflerange and trigger naive of riffleshot,let alone a trajectory above the rift valley,Be in dexterity or in ropey plain,that mortifying rosebud of an adophobiac,cannot by transmogrify endears,And then mountainbank,muggins take solace beneath rift valley,To loop for a relief to the golden fleece,that mug's game...

January 3, 2018

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- SONNET-26

O that you were briskier,not to sow on badlands,to kick up a shindy,with mushrooming dividend, A babel in backwaters,that barely reproof to bring home the bacon,Beyond sweet compare shouldst not like a bagatelle flimsy badger nor its bailliwick ballyhoo'd, And your barracks,barage and barney's subconscious bask,baubl'd with bated breath,So should that thy beachcomber,which you fret in vain,Belicose under siege that you werebestir'd alongside its vulgar path of the vulgarians,Yourself betide bickers,billious binges,with blackmagic that dost theblackguards as the dickens,blanch'd,When blighters' pout,your blimey's expectant shouldst crease,Who let so much pang of mischiefs in the air,Which stormy winds beyond consort,not bleeding that maketh a mockery of its ballyhoos,In castrate of this blindspot,that so greedily cringest, O nothing but the thrifts from this blindfold of blindman's buff,be told and not blithe,What bogstandard and that meanness can not persuade a bolthole to him salvage,O you had not a moult.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 25

As fast as thou shalt go,sofast thou growest esquely plow,When i do lustre the blue funk that hoodoos the bounties of time,And melts and erodes the palmy days projectile instinct,mir'd in starry night engravure,When in i behold the shrinking violets'holocaust of hoohas and bilous hoopla,not past its sullen prime,And tender'st churls all sinew'd over mirth of mortal heels;When lofty trees,in the forest of blue funk,i benign not,hoop'd and hoodd'd withdeciduous trees, Which ersatz fromappalling did its tentacle,canopy suffuse,And summer's greenand evergreen fields defi'd,in theirturgid colours of rainbow,went up in smoke,Borne on a caisson and oasis hanging with pulsating hilly beans,and briskier escapade so naive to sofrosty in the jungleof vicious eremite of escutcheon'd ergs,Then of thy moult do i froward lather,That thou among the prodigals of time,might tentatively persist, Since vices upon vicesmusculatur'd by vices in bucaneerof farago of vices do themselves not forsaken,then contend'st speak nothingness

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS DIARY-SONNET 24

Not A Valedictory To Moult.Unlock'd the diet,unlessthou at a tangled knot tangential,get a moult,For Funkyfrith thou bear'st saliva and marrowto douse its storm,Who for thyselfpays greedily art so string'd to boomtown,not amply leverag'd,Unleash thy art,if thou wilt,for thou art more ambidextrous than the throng's headlong saddle crumple to condescence tis folly of this tarnishing stigma,But that thou so alabaster purblind,that none moult is necessity,Having been purloined by this byzanthinous monster, That'gainst thyself moult as moult bold'st ride and ridicul'd,Valeditory bode that contemptuous roof thatch'd,still bash'd to crumble,Which to blushing sands of renege,shouldst be the emblem of lutarious lusty vertex,O funky frith,no blue funk thy blue funk,that in the flight of rash ego,i may fortune still my blinding kismet,Shalt beingunfairer,ramshakled with bad graces,than a good sailor,Maketh thee halt in disrepute,for the time's impetuous blue funk rigmarole is no excuse,to fortune,for crave of hardihood

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 23

Apocalypse.To be blue funk,cock crow's conquest,that maketh a norm of the living earnmorning sail and triumphant hills far away refrain,Lo! in the cosmopolitan junkets,when gracious palms alight with its booverboots,Burning under wiseacr'd physiogonomy,not creas'd,Doth homage paysto the seer of the apocalypse,Notgrand amputee of the apocalypse,that karma bone's infection canst not salve,O timely apocalypse saveth thee adophobia,the cleft of time's fury and the intergrity of time, Of the fainthearted simpletons,servile in their inglorious majesty,Melifluous cymbals dainty tohear and harmony to dance its tympanum balls,And owlish eyes withits goblet,not motheaten,clamouring triumphant hills,Plays the apalling chess into thy salvation trottle,Let it be shown thee its shovels with the wreckages of times in its adorn, Like contagious eyes,they frittered away,tentacles of glorious herald,Its hideous pilgrimage the fainthearted loungelizard,indifferent to vanishing point plows,Let in apocalypse of the old greybeard

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 22

Moult Thy Cross.Then let not contagion's rugged but pennorth gangrene,deflower'd even its hilly beans,In thee thy windy storm,ere thou be distill'd,Make thee beyond sweet compare;whose treasure some bibliocractic throng flocking,With ken's treasure;ere it be still self-sequestrat'd,That inferential inference for the fatuous infantrymen and the lay is a profound treasure trove,Not forlorn usury,which amortis'd usury with which darts forth fire of shrinking violet's wraith is dous'd;That's for thy hood to infiltrate its itsybitsy,Or a worse hit wieldier,be it itchy feet in trenches, If brash tide of an aggravated case scenario reconfigure thee,Then what could that apparition do,if thou shouldst not moult,draining thee pinkish and thee bland and stolid in karma?Be now,self distilled from fractional to acatalectic,for thou an art as ass,far too unfair,To be foible's damnable relics and maketh thee a noxious jetty for a jettison,Then moult thy cross,let not advantage slip.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 21

Sacred Homiletics.Those homiletics that with genteel work of art,did by time sculpture,The abiding forest where every adherent doth adhere,Will play moult to this burning gales of achilleels heels browbeated censure,And that unfair roses,in the unfairest wedge of rudderless shore,which unfairly doth primrose bank,For never a wasting venom,so leads to its gangrene,To vicious dusk and confines infections there,Sag checker'd with undrawn pedagogue and pebbles of its pedantic cobwebs gone quite vacuous,Viles overshadow'd brink and inestinguishable ubiquitous:Then were not every artistic distillery gone vapid,facile and factitious,A contagious element,inextricable,in the metropolis of gregarious flocks, Contagion's impulse,with effect as embankment were encumbered,Nor it quarrantined,nor it sequestrate its presumptious volleys what they were,But a handful of gather'd flowers,distilled though with winds blow,Lease but their arts: still blands beyond compare.

January 2, 2018

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY-SONNET-20

Dread For Dread.Is it for dread to dread the windy dread,that dread for dread,mightest thyself dread dread for dreadin a pouted dread verily dread?In boloneys,if thou be clueless,shalt harp to slave and then die,The cosmos then will they their passion clamourtrigger'd,O how vile is time o howtime is vile,where as guille theplanet will thy detest joyous sings,That which none boon melody and her filthy lucre,mightest they sing thee to titivate public ovation;when compared to the arbiter's lyrics of gilded league and gnomes'purple birthrendition?When every dread flight,widow'd thy jingo frame,May salivate nescient ego,even without its concord,Be not waned with this medley of homiletics andepistle,even on the eve of thy long moth eaten sullen transmogrify,Be as thy presence be,know thyself and dread for dread by lease of arts,shall no flight be,thou mayest as a bibliomaniac,with bibliocrazy feedeth thy blank psycho,when thou from this folly greedily convertest,If all were so steel minded,then time's fury ceases

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 19

Of mischief,of mischance,of karma and of machiavellian primrose,Of that bromide,which doth barely by oft a prognosticate,toconjecture vain winds in hell unknown and heavenward farthest shore find,If from thyself thyself marrooned writ thou wouldst not covet to convert,Otherwise thee in purblind perpetually shorn,Yet callus'd hands intemperate,in this grail benight'd refrain avaunt,Tis gaunts and crocks in their beguilling sap,at hellish dunghill blustery crispy,To gavel palmy days with a Abel's pot of porridge,for a lifelong wheelchair of casuistry,of wobblingfeet astrayed in trenches with its captive audience,Muchfrostier than a surfeit counterfeit of arts,its twin brother,Who will then be versifi'd in its poetry lines and lo,sequestrate its huts from this vast hordes of shrinking violets?If the sickos,an anthropomorphic city square,were made bland with the nebulous dreamland of yonderhills,tarnish'd with most dread'd memoirs in sight,then six of the best strokes bevelling its predated shall dunghills be

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 18

That so much glistening bravura and gallivanting hoofs of treacherous traipses ahead,Which ushers in a gemstoned procession,a truest colours of time's rainbows,That ambly ambit of palmy days in the brew,be not hideous night that brassmonkey'd starry morn,Then of brawny gallivants and brevity of birds of passage,do i not witha bargepole interrogates?O thatyou were time's slavish ado,but bristly you are pugnacious of itsflurry and fang of fugacious fugacity,Not bat an factious eyelids,being so facile to fritter flurry whereon all mortals beneath time's paroxysm calf,creases,and thereafter quietus impounds,Trumped with this ignition of ignition key,so sound shall the lease of time's use, optimal reckons and beckons of every passing wind,Who lets so forth in fairness its bridgehead and not rot to decay with time,O not you had a chaste,let not your winces say otherwise,And not from the morsels of time,do i my instinct pluck,But from the mishance it grooves,it is this misshap its riotous bestows in its windy sails

January 1, 2018

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- SONNET-17

As fast as thou shalt dread,so fast in the pits,thou cringest,In weariness,weary tides thineself weari'd from that which thou squeaky clean pulses,And that whole bag of tricks,that necklaced bah,which so cuddingly bestowest,Thou mayest not wield the bigsticks with brassy bowls of bigotry,when thou thy transmogrify earnestly craves,Herein hibernates to unleash willpower of benign naturewit,Without this stupor of blockheadedness and ill-wind blustery,not a rot of a bolshi'd bloke endears,Let thosewhose naturewit hath not roses rapin'd,for bollocks and booverboots,Brash tide but brassy,notof intemperate bravado,rashness and a feckless decrepit sedulous palms, Which bounteous bravura with eleemosyneries,thou shouldst not bounty reap,let alone sow,guerdon of a priceless hardihood,Andthen impromptu cadence,carve thee a niche that thou mayest to it stuck be,But still counts as the clock,not to let down avaunt tothine girdle clicks, Even still in the stable,endanger'd species,birth and breeding blushes not its brawns

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-SONNET 16

Look in thy dread and utter thou censure to its visage slander'st, Now is the desideratum that time to the froward not mend;Whose salient hardcore if now thou not knowest hardihood plays its chess, Thou dost then renewest smartness unless some smother perpetuates,For where is hardihood so unfairest trudge,whose heathen'd womb,perseverance desecrates,Pointless the pofaced of the wranglings,Or is he bereft of hardihood,will he barndoor hit,hardcurrency buys,Of pastyfaced pat and reviles,where violet repudiates to numb thy barndoor?That thou art thy subservient slave cringes and slaves'wraith in thee succumb,So thou through saga of salad days thine senile shall see,Time is no time,when not reviled,tis time is no time's fool when beneath it be not ridiculed and plaudits poured, Within sphere of unthrifty holliness abound,where hardihood is a damn deadweight fugitive and saddlesore like an alumni on the rusticate,So vilous art palmydays vamoosed its esplanade of hideous winter as all seasons,So Vilous awindysail

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY-SONNET 15.

When shrinking violets'locusts and holocaust thereafter shall besiege this plow, And horror-dunghill entrapped in thy burrowing fields, Thy speculative's spineless embankment,so gauchi'd on its spindle,Will be a traduc'd spiral of perambulating tintinabulation spirit'd,Then being speculated where all thy puntings and sweapstakes lie,Where all the curios of thy slanging matches,To spin within thy own achilless-frosty trods,Were an odyssey of tearjerker and derail of sunny times,How much traduce poureth on thy beauty by time's nebula,if thou couldst refrain'this biles of unfair shrinking violets'cluster, Shall squemish my jingo frame and my nethermost machinegun nest, That dost guille nimbus for my blushing scorn,These frangibilies were to be odorous odyssey when thou art senile,gravely karma cringest,And seeth a slander of a haunting violet,where thou art far away from golden fleece,If thou couldst not sequestrate thyself from its happygolucky hangovers,barndoor hit afar stareth thee foul in the face.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY-SONNET 14

From the fairest foul,the meanest trite to the most unfairest plunge,Funky frith-blue funk's St.blues pillories,each mortal's hanker,sleets from its fury,That naturewit's rivet whereon ascent might never weary be,But as the reaper did by time recompense,Its tender but ferocious sledgehammer might reminiscence slanging match bears,But thatsleight,not slapdashed slander'd sleeky slather to thy hazy eyes impuissant,Slammer'st thy slacken'st heels,with self-libation slingshot,Slumbering a soldiery where solecism,soidissant solicits,Thyself thy sonorous gaunt tothy lethargic scold,thyself too greenhorn,Thou that art now planet's smirchiest shrub,only to be smitten by its gauchy cloud,That thine own shallowest bud,within thygaudy sprout,busiest contents, And fritterest churl that makest tender'st churl be now reproof fromits banging reproach,To ply gluttonous spasm of the grav'st time,that entreaty beseech spangled cobwebs to be exploited, Be thattender bud,that thou mightest a shrinking violet molasis fret not

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- PART 13

When i have seen that that my thatched roof against the storms that fadeth not defaced,The shrimp shrewish hurled in smithereens,and interred in forlorn ground,And unflagging and unfixed,and noble but novel raiment,my grandiose passion wears,That in this sickbay and on this sickbed,of a sickielike loungelizard, When sometime shun towers and illbred esplanade tis benefice i see, And brass sinuous slavish to shrinking violet simulates, When i have seen a mere hilly beans,verily,verily transmogrify, Or nesciency itself confine a mammoth into sickos of a lifelong wheelchair,O thraldom why art thou cruelty cruel and impenitent atrocious,that singleton of a decay,rot and rapine,O that time will not save,but slavish when volition in obsession willeth rot,This blasphemous vile,shrinking violet muddy shrouds and earthpit,it cannot abscond,Shall live in rumble and jungle,that disjointthunder and thunderstruck,Whereon rapines of mincious eschatology immanent,Yea but rambunctitious though to quell o let violet depart.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY-PART 12

Is it in thy wraith that thou friskiest kindle enkindle, Like a St. Elmo's fire,kindled in a stormy seas, So shall the glorious herald and triumphant hills ' benign graces be, Of winces of golden heart wherein shadows at his feet flees,chant salaam to cheerful earth, This shear shorn,keeps fortune and gilden boon away, But to the nightwatchman,audacity did his frenzied temple condescend,That fastens that which keeps buoyed at length with midnight oil perspicacious burning in noctunal regalia,Within shoreline protuberances,sleeky shockwaves bonemarrow threatens,Mine eye awake,when automagnetic waves aplomb,my brassy mettle felt, To neuter my automagnetic thrust,though not been impuissant;for that which i am,i shall be, That that unbriddled nerves,that kismet canst not castrate,to garrisson that which i have,i shall be, Against that automagnetic nerves,that that which has been,shall be, Against my automagnetic trudge that which shall be,am i not bound to be?

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY- PART 11

O that kismet forbideth thee to dubiety's circumvent, Not to hang limpidly to its atrophy but unearth thee of poltroon purgatory encrust, That frothy,ungraceful limbo of arts,that made thee its first slave, Still in purblind,a purloin of one's own grandest gemstone for a lopsided modus viviendi, That gem at your consort cannot control, O time art he thee imprisoned and mayest not free thee,That it be in your rainment,of rains and sun, And charter groans against drowning shores, O that rancour that ransacks in a rankle , O time thy gem ,art fled thee lustre ,when thou art imprisoned in thy willpower,The price of liberty o poltroon,thraldom which impounds behind gaol,afford thee not,to pay, O time's a sagacious sailor,ride thee rot a sainthood a good sailor,That thou mayest not bat a heavy eyelids tis the weary wight unwelcomed, But now maketh a harlot of verity a mischievious who sails the winds,the unsteady ship in nefarious oceans.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS' DIARY-PART 10

If there be poltroon polychromatic in thy sinew,But that which thou hath stumbled,thou shalt again stumble,The pricey prestidigitation of a prickly gorse,O that that thraldom could with a prig primly defied, Even as witness of proselytes,propitious of its thraldom freedom,Adore not the puppet,the puppeteers in his puppetry,Since punctilio at punk,in booboos was done , That i might punt,what the hysterical punter could,To this puppylove of your haggard passion whether we are punctillious punctured or whether pungent they or whether resorgimento,punchdrunk be the same, O surety lies,that i am the quest,the queer of the springtide, To context mean,has quilled pungent quibble, Into the farthest seas,wherein skepticism and skeptics abide,Wherein they barely cast aboard dubiety, as impending consignment,yet still the ship capsized.

PROFESSOR ABRAHAM SONNETS'DIARY-PART 9

Then Time is not time tis its inveigled be not ridiculed,Time is not time's fool,that it be ripped off by its mortal trickster,Though thraldom by procrastinates and cheeks of rosy lips endear,Within deadluck fathomed,that deadhand postulate of jetsam's mirth frenetic games,Within this deadloss,barndoor hit compass canst not rouse and grovels,Then this claustrophobia as agoraphobia ,debouch! o debouch! o debouch! That thou mayest debug achilles in thy tendentious intumescence,Time is not time's fool that thou mayest a deadluck be,bluebeaten to impinge its arts,Of the art of paroxysm,of the paroxysm of fury,of the fury of karma, that thou its debonair wreath sing, If this desultory be not writ,then this wit be not loved, And if this deskill be desolate,upon this numb, Be it reproof,be it paradigm's shift,then desicate,O desicate,thou desicate,then desicate,o desicate.