monologue

The gentle spin of the primary colors,
Counterclockwise gyrations of nuts,
Clockwise turning of the bolts,
And the melting away of rivets in my mind,

All reminded me of when it was cold outside,
But lukewarm in your embrace,
As if the peaceful threads of my being -
Were twisted in your Viking braid,

Strewn over the thoughts you had at the secret beach,
Were my confessions for not being an adult,
Now they’re embroidered over my spine,
In the dialect of melancholy.

I can not afford to pay this ransom,
Demanded by a self-kidnapped consciousness,
The markets of all my interest have collapsed,
Now every second is bankrupt.

I’m on parole of a sensory prison,
A defective piece and a failed experiment,
I’m Prepared for a total annihilation -
Of parallel universes between my shoes and my feet

I know I used to be really strange,
But now I’m really just a stranger,
Digging dust on a golden highway,
Singing aloud in monologues.



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Jeopardizing the riddle

When Cleopatra was kissing the Helen of troy,
With all her intentions locked on seek-and-destroy,
Did she dawdle to think of Caesar or David,
Or what was his name? Do you know that boy?

I floated down with a bloke named James,
Over the waters of a blameless Thames,
He said he had a license to kill,
But I had no time for his fun and games

That was not my favorite song of the band,
Historical percussions I could not understand,
Under the rhythmic pulsations of the northern lights,
I stood naked, but I stood grand.

Far from all the eclectic and electric noise,
The lieutenant deployed a thousand sepoys,
He commissioned a mass voluntary suicide,
Their children now play with nothing but toys

I feel like a perplexed jeopardy contender,
My fears running down a reptilian meander,
Searching a question that answers the riddle:
Which one’s the goose and which is the gander?



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Subwoofer

We’re champions of the suburban undergrounds,
A 12-inch subwoofer system declares our independence,
As we cruise our way through fortune forsaken streets ,
The earth still shivering from the blasted Ice.

We’re injured but we’ve never been happier,
We’ve evaded the inevitable.
Outside we’re victoriously escaped soldiers galloping their way to the alehouse,
Inside we’re the most astutely ignored dark corner of their souls,
But we learn to struggle. And we learn to struggle for ignorance.

The high priests of our tribal social-behavior,
We’re Mystically confused but eternally rescued,
As if by some force of nature that levitated in vacuum,
We’re now assisting our smoke-choked windows to breathe

“Look, 9’O clock”, he said, “she’s hot”,
“Come and ride on our dicks you slut!”
“Steven, this is no way to approach the situation”
“Fuck your situation mom, I’m so fucking horny ”

We’re the princely by-products of an elaborate joke,
We like to suck cocks and guns,
We wish we could suck in -
Our 12-inch subwoofer systems




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Dichotomy

Just like the man who never cried,
I floated much like a sinking feather,
Downwards and onwards to a greater genteel,
Through the atmosphere, and it’s weather

Their irreconcilable differences,
Like a dogma flowing through the police blotter,
A dichotomy of affairs in decomposing nervous systems,
Ink jumping out of a floating wall of water

The redeeming signs were gift-wrapped in apology,
And a deserted alibi at the pivotal square,
Truth, wants the man who never cried,
Not this silent night gift-wrapped in nightmare

He’s shaped like a boomerang that didn’t return,
Or an alarm clock that sounds like a didgeridoo,
The man who never cried would know what it looked like,
If only had he ever been to a zoo.




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The Immigrant's Dilemma

With my brain enveloped in a headphone silence,
I was thinking about my discussion with Pauline,
And contemplating crying,
Over the ashes of an unexplored future,

She told me she was bisexual,
And the whole room morphed into a huge whirligig,
This was like being in the fifth dimension,
A psychedelic incarnation of the truth

Was I evolving in slow motion?
I had suddenly discovered a tribe of humans,
On a different branch of reality,
I wished I had read more about the subject

And there was this kind of passive aggression,
Which never rose up to the bottom,
Because I had dreamt of the huntress’s society,
And my heart felt like a pencil sharpener

So who exactly was I fighting here,
Everybody and myself?
An incomplete thread of philosophy?
Aliens from a highly debatable outer space?

I simply did not have the information.

But it was not the idea of her making love to other women,
It was the idea of her loving anyone else,
anyone else,
but myself.

The poor man can only measure his love,
On the scales of jealousy of the color of her eyes
Oh! love is the immigrant's greatest dilemma,
And resilience his only ironical weapon.



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A little bit of vodka

I swear I didn’t drink much, mother.
It was just a bit of truth,
With a little bit of vodka,
Called “African sabretooth”.
Now you must leave this inequity, ma
You can
not
Break
Down
Like
This
For we’re not selling peanuts here,
We’re the diamond thugs!
We’re smugglers of afternoon’s direction
And we’re sleeping under rugs
Where the lopsided tavern awaits us,
Is
Far
Below
the
Rabbit
hole
And we like to stand when we yell out -
“GOAL!”
(and we like the old man who pisses with both hands in the air)
And we like a lot of things,
But a lot of things don’t like us,
People of the world should listen,
For I’m Machiavelli himself,
And I’m speaking on the behalf of,
All the coconuts on the shelf,
And “oh”, she said, “you’re such an artist”,
As I slowly slit her neck,
With fifty-two cards up my shameless sleeve,
And the fifty third on the deck,
I swear I didn’t drink much, mother,
It was just a bit of her,
Mixed in some chronic tonic,
And a centrifugal blur.



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Twins

Halfway on my journey to an underground heaven,
I stood upon the incisive indecision,
Of letting her stay or letting her go
With my pockets full of nepenthean memories,
Held between an intuition and a déjà vu,
Like the little sapling that never grew no more,
And the parakeet that flew south but ran east

And a madness shared between the two of us,
Like the silence jaded on Medusa’s tongue,
But I knew not of that madness for all I knew of,
Was the regret I shared with Midas
I talked until she could listen no more,
As she listened until I ran out of words,
And now we share this crazy silence again

We were like two incestuous Siamese twins,
With no idea of what to do with the other,
So I cut myself in half with a lone lying chainsaw
Which still whirrs about on a cold metal floor,
Splattering my innocent blood on the steely walls,
And all I do is hope it runs out of it’s fuel,
Before she realizes that she has her freedom now



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Rapunzel and the barber

Rapunzel awaits, in the witch’s tower
Captured by her beauty’s dower
In a prison where she doesn’t belong
Awaiting the prince to come galloping along

It’s nighttime and now the moon radiates
And in all her gullible glory stimulates
The night and it’s creatures who occupy
The woods that echo a donkey’s neigh

Surely such a sound couldn’t belong to a stallion
Who’s master is awarded with every gallant medallion
Brave knights ride nobler steeds
And not some creature who feeds on weeds

Slowly she hears tapping of a pair of shoeless hoofs
Random and irrational as the wretched animal goofs
Now below the witch’s tower the creature firmly stands
Along with it’s master with scissors in both hands

His glance as evil as the glaring of his blades
'Tween the sound of their clanking our damsel's heart wades
Of his ulterior motives she was perfectly aware
But Rapunzel's bald now for she just did not care



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Roadkill

With the perseverance of a procrastinator,
I spilled out diasporas of dysfunctional poetry,
It used to be as easy as pulling strings of hay,
From the scarecrow’s slender acumen

A nubile lexicographer with one eyebrow raised,
Wondered when she was last nostalgic,
When her days were sewn together with a hammock thread,
And her nights pierced with wind-chime echoes

But alas! Now she reads my words,
With subtle tolerations of caffeine and morphine,
My roadkill diction she scrapes off the highways,
Picking up dried feelings and flakes of a pastel ambition

Tipping over the topography of her accentuating curves,
I cart-wheeled across her naked eloquence,
Kissing exhaust pipes for centuries left me deflated,
I wanted to breathe in her jealousy again

The dispassionate lexicographer with one eyebrow raised,
Sighed the sigh of a reluctant hope,
And inflated my carcass with a kiss from her lips,
“Shoo!”, she said patting my back, “run away now”.



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One-Eyed Juggler

The one-eyed juggler entertained the clown,
With the dexterous display of his plastic affection
When “what” went up and “must” came down,
The onlookers applauded with a prowling infection

Hark! The break-beat violence in their veins,
The shimmering nervousness on their faces clear
Piloted by the fossils of their digital remains -
Were cobles of their story the narrator didn’t steer

So what was to become of these fiends immoral?
The yawning divides in their values un-chinked,
Were they to pass apathy’s heraldic laurel -
Every time the one-eyed juggler blinked?

I threw away everything and everything else,
Took my insatiability to the sly partings of clouds,
Parted with my troubling paraphernalia and knells,
And Godspeed to the zombies donning their shrouds.



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Little Explosions

History books were written with sand-dipped javelins,
In the hubristic monotony of the anarchist’s tone,
Over the contrasting interlards of presidential debates,
By world wars waged over the telephone

But when jubilantly recreational little explosions smirked,
Encasing time’s profusely bleeding hinges,
With all our hearts pounding in their bodily prisons,
And with all our souls trapped in metallic syringes

Our bodies jostled between the much heated borders,
Of a future untraveled and a past deserted -
And beads of propitious perspiration on our faces,
The tear-drenched history books then squirted.

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