Sometimes I wish I could be a troubadour,
The ultimate philosopher of all and more,
A lyrical escort to the evening chickadees,
Serving my homemade musical remedies
I would let your hearts dictate my songs,
And if you wish I’d write the wrongs,
You’d smile and drop a penny or quarter,
Happiness and illusions we’ll trade in barter
When I’d sense a couple of shivering feet,
Tired of standing on the grounds of defeat,
I’d cheer them up with the jolliest tune,
And walk with them till they imagine June
And when the nervous night finally falls,
The one which my lonely heart appalls,
When perfidious night bulbs start selling you lies,
My songs shall entertain wanton fireflies
Alone my guitar bids the autumn farewell,
With clefts in my heart and blisters that swell,
The sweet reminders and the choking anxiety,
The violated stand quiet for the sake of variety
In Shadows and silhouettes and shaking strings,
In Concrete bruises and traffic stings,
In resonating pagodas you could hear me sing,
And challenging fate for all it may bring.
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Troubadour
Radio Tears
I can hear your radio tears,
Wrestling down your sorry cheeks,
I know how they change careers,
Every time my piano speaks
I’m so high I’m on air right now,
This vacuum amplifies your sniveling sorrow,
A microphone interrogates my larynx somehow,
I’ll see you someday you can see me tomorrow
A duel between my keys and your brood,
My piano is a battlefield for the telepathic,
You can’t discourage when you’re not in the mood,
And the referees are all so very apathetic
I hit a minor and your heart finds the Atlantic,
You’re scuba-diving in memories blindfolded,
A major note now and it’s suddenly romantic,
The origami albatross is neatly unfolded
There is no guarantee for your defective emotions,
Your lies can’t change truth’s short-wave frequency,
And I won’t ever be the cause of unhealthy commotions,
Not even if you’re in a dire emergency
May the lord be praised for this revenge benign,
May you recall what’s forgotten when memory disappears,
And these slaves of slaves of injustice divine,
May they never force you to shed radio tears.
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Reboot
Winter tastes the same this year,
Like extinguished cigarettes on the frigid floor,
And your shadowy blanket still wrapped around me,
Enlightening the darkest nooks of my mind,
And your face is still liberal with the torture,
Your memories show no mercy on my mortgaged soul,
And I know that I should know,
That this will probably never end,
Astral predictions confirm my beliefs,
My beliefs leave enough room for doubt,
And doubt,
Reminds me of you.
So you see, I’m stuck in a vicious cycle here,
Of morosity, heartache and pain,
So fuck you!
And fuck the universe!
Oh but I’d still be your furniture,
Nothing’s better,
Than having you walk all over me,
So what’s a man to do?
I repent,
Reflect,
Reboot,
But the winter still tastes the same.
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Detainee Release Form No. 12
The pious keepers of umbilical chords
I beg to thee, my humble lords
Release the frogs! Release the frogs!
Erotic postmortems and hibernation pills
And crushing them under thy rubber soles
Is severely torturous to their dissected souls
And to the finances of my apocalyptic mills
Amphibians trapped in padded antechambers,
Are harbingers of exacerbation mi-lords!
Have my head under thy sacrificial swords!
But please release my family members.
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Lilliputian
A cacophonous communication in ecstasy,
A by-product of the intense heat,
Erupting from this slender stick’s rump
And the scorching effigy of her shame
Probing the depths of her mind, anally,
With this carefully aligned battering ram
Eternity begins when wooden bodies melt,
With the audible universe pouring out her mouth
And later I feel so pathetically small,
Like a Lilliputian soldier against her gargantuan lust,
But then I’m reminded of that principle of nature
Where fingers are mere gigolos to cochlear itches.
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Cockroach
Crawling on my broken glass insanity,
Through the din of the day,
Kafka makes his way,
To his refrigerated asylum under my hair grey,
I want to smash this surrealist cockroach,
This tubercular German Jew,
Crooked existential slue,
I want to squeeze his head with my shoe
But as I stare down at the splinters of my sense
Arranged like mirrors in an infinite recursion,
Whispering about my deliberate subversion,
I’m baptized by a sudden cosmic inversion
It dawns on me then, like it dawned on him,
We’re all horrid vermins, crawling,
With parasitic expressions on our faces sprawling,
Banshees screaming afore mirrors drawling
The surrealist cockroach checks it‘s antennae,
Scurrilously waves a feeler at my face,
And then, as if it’s loosing this race,
It scurries along and leaves no trace.
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Twentyone Semicolons
Punctuated in periods of seismographic shifts,
My time in the sanctuaries of despondence drifts,
And the question that guards elucidations of fate,
Is running fast, but is running late.
Twenty one semicolons, and two silent periods,
Envelope this ensemble of mistaken myriads,
Invariably they send me a bouquet of lies,
My obdurate will my obdurate will defies
They yell out perfectly embellished taunts,
And scratch the surface of the past that daunts,
Lies upon lies built on embankments of trust,
But I shan’t break this mould, even if I must
Because in this mould I was died and cast,
And yes, sometimes I’m left alone and aghast,
But these twenty one semicolons recapitulate the fable,
Of how she struggled as he put bread on the table
And though life’s ocean may seem rhetorically calm,
But their bones still need my gratitude’s balm,
So I can’t refuse to pay the responsible debt,
And that I will, is the safest bet.
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The Unassuming Suspect
Tea parties and stabs of invisible knives,
Makeshifts and deliberations of infidel wives,
Golden locks fluffing under nervous straw hats,
Mediterranean winds and mechanical rats
Telegrams and noisy facsimiles,
Maniacal laughs and evil smiles,
Wandering eyes behind Rembrandts fake,
The unmowed lawn , the blood on the rake
Corrupt accomplices and crystal balls,
Double-crossing bears and voodoo dolls,
Bullet-trains and bullets in brains,
The unassuming suspect’s innocence remains
The attention-deprived sleuth with the magnifying glass,
A trusty sidekick and a voluptuous lass,
A love affair maybe, and possibly some heat,
And then suddenly, all fades to deceit!
Magistrate courts and Scotland yard,
The all-knowing madman reciting the bard,
Secret talismans and cryptic obfuscations,
The cold-blooded murders’ juvenile hesitations
A wicked hunch then, Ah, the concluding clue!
Candle wax stuck under the prosthetic shoe,
It’s over, you think, and pay entertainment’s tax,
But what unfolds is an anticlimax
Pornographic flashbacks, and anxious gasps,
Everyone gathers around the fireplace like wasps,
An unexpected confession and the vindicated smile,
Oh wasn’t this all just worth your while?
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Memsahib
Edit: This Poem has been published.
Memsahib scribbles epistles for an unfortunate lover,
Jots down her providence with India ink
Ends this debauchery naiveté committed
In her sterile negligée, lavender and pink
Translucent tears on the fading papyrus
by the burning guilt of kerosene
Reflect the crystalline purity in her
And the frescos on bungalow walls obscene
Sealing the evidence of decadence with her lips
She kisses the envelope with an imperial stamp
With the servile butler’s senility molested
And thus escapes this Colonial vamp
She takes a sip of the impotence‘s sherbet
As the summer sun hides in an ambuscade
And swallowing the end of this interlude
Her Rolls-Royce follows my mocking tirade
Her deeds will make up for gimmicky folklore
And petty gossips concerning regalia bygone
Like her taxidermal pet cheetah, ornate,
Her lingerie once was an unassuming fawn
To Johannesburg! , where the reincarnated are born
And where the languid await a shooting star
No Brahmins there, to cleanse her Atman,
Just beguiling nightmares of the burning Chamar.
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