Witchdoctor

Between my precocious impromptus,
Improper prioritizations,
Pretentious farces and a smoke mirrored intuition -
Lies your mournful recognition of your blithe yet crass self

I am not unaware that I am unaware,
Still, I am awake and sure that I am -
Ready for the war-mongering intelligentsia’s designs,
Wicked! Cruel, and without a sense of humor or humility

Their stupidity travels sans an entourage of witnesses,
People scavenge off of their carcasses and the illusion thereof,
Epiphytical tendencies are evident in the blatant show-off -
Of the televised fingerprints over their glass brain

But it’s fickle and in the hopes to crack it -
The pretentious witchdoctor chants his mantras,
Perhaps to rid them of their ghosts -
Perhaps to scare his own phantoms away

Momentarily then, the music dies - only to emerge
With remigial vertices attached to angular chords,
Coercing me to shed my narcotic baggage,
Letting the mathematics of my expectations dwindle into chaos

That’s all there is to it then,
Murdering the ego isn’t recommended for the faint, or quaint,
All shrink-wrapped promulgations are incomplete,
As are all self-obsessed archaic dementias.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

The Rhapsodizing Queen

So the rhapsodizing queen of the soul-peering conglomerate,
Rechristened me as the unloved frog,
As I sat deliberating over lotus leaves and algae,
Quietly observing the February fog

The moon colored me in a darker shade of green,
The wind carried me to an undisclosed tomorrow,
With the chloroform hanging low above my marshes,
Sedating me as it dissipated in my evanescent sorrow

My sad croaks were heard by none but the croc,
The helicopter wielding periscope of god never saw,
That I could chew myself through this watery grave,
My diabolical plan was never with a flaw

But this deliverance I owe to the queen,
For I never would have managed to repay the cess,
I never unlearnt the allegiance of being a true royal subject,
And that I shall be and nothing less.




This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
For a new friend.

A Musical Fulcrum

I might be sentenced to a lifetime of gathering dust,
This ancient headache might stick to my head like ancient rust,
I may never act again, but I know that the show must

Go on

The unsteady and unwell musical fulcrum tilted,
The titling tatter of totalitarian senses jilted,
Miserly over me their residual river silted

Then went on

Darkness punch-holed it’s way through the light,
Powdering the visible over the pondering bright,
Yet I let my day dream continue despite

The dream was gone

In an unsteady dilemma in the malodorous telephone booth,
Or maybe over the melodramatic fountain of almost eternal youth,
I bechanced upon the almost bearable truth

That I didn‘t live anymore.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Broadcast

There was still a little brain left in my tumor,
Which shouted out the words to the forbidden rumor,
The meek shall inherit the automatic earth,
With metallic mendicants of immutable girth

A veneering illusion induced by this maze,
An invisible placebo peering through tobacco haze,
Slowly disappearing footsteps in shoals of silvery sand,
Like nylon stocking lassos in a lipstick lesbian land

The factual broadcast was inaudibly loud,
Yet unable to distinguish the crowd from the crowd,
My fascination with the demivierge’s repulsive caricature,
Reflected upon reflection, the perversity of my nature

In another epilogue to the never ending story,
I stood upon my knees in a heartbroken glory,
For which perverseness is not a blessing in disguise?
Which human role did I not reprise?



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
P.S. : I hope the new blog template isn't too pretentious.

Coward

I tried hard to memorize the code,
In which lay mnemonics to the secret thought
Tracing the truth to it’s final abode,
What faith beginning did faith begot?

Beacons of light broke through from my rind,
The appetite of darkness devoured in it’s fault
Life is just another casino for the blind,
Where truth plays poker in an unlit vault

I measured time with memory alone,
The pendulum swings as it takes us forward
I’d have killed my torturous telephone,
If only I wasn’t such a fucking coward.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Sacred crime

It has been long since this cigarette was lit,
Centuries we’ve spent in counting stars,
Infinity has fallen through the bottomless pit,
Though we haven’t found the liquid mars

Our resilience - ever redesigned,
Society layered in thick skin and thin,
Ubiquitous anomalies of free will confined -
Preventing us to peer within

The lunar glare down a suspicious zenith,
Inspecting our glasses half-saturated with sorrow,
Like the priest blessing a prisoner of faith,
Who awaits the gallows on the morrow

Tis’ a sacred crime to follow,
A necessary enigma to illustrate the tune,
That serenades the sensory prison to swallow -
Inexplicable crypt of a lifeless rune

As we feel our way out an umbral haze,
Recognizing the footsteps we find on the snow,
With catalytic obedience awaiting end of days,
Blind to the cigarette, and the truth aglow.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Forgetting the Future

I am not the professor of a miserly profession,
Merely the processor of a motley depression,
I did not create my recreational obsession,
Nothing‘s mine but a sense of possession

I am the cage that went in search of the bird,
My every step is my every word,
I conform to the nonconforming herd,
What you find rational - I deem absurd

I’m forgetting the future of the skirmish of old,
Fighting the past to escape from it’s hold,
I’m a golden llama but I’m not made of gold,
I’ll melt before I’ll ever be sold

The tripwire treading urchin who did not realize,
Nothing did he see that he did not surmise,
I am his pleasantly confusing surprise,
He’ll never learn truth till he unlearns the lies

Nature’s retarded plan I defy,
I refuse to be draped in this denim sky,
If I never laugh I may never cry,
If I was never born -then how may I die?



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

other

the
other
side is
just as
dirty as
the other
side.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
(written on the back of a bus ticket)

November or May

Heavy hung the air above,
Prowling came the afternoon,
Knocking on the planks of wooden ideas,
What uncanny temerity of gloom!

Stealthily lay the channel across,
Water like silk in a charnel walled with suede,
Nifty crafting of sunlight on it’s brim -
Reflective of my pensive mood

A condor-driven barouche taking me across,
To Peru where I marry many maidens of muscle,
Penetrating the hollow of their harrowing deep,
As I Fly O’er the drover’s humorous hustle

Reducing it’s hush to an untraced murmur,
Was the whistling wind that never subsides,
Raindrops fell like chiseled silver splinters,
To much dislike of my faintly bribed brides,

Asphyxiated for want of a constant celebration,
I floated and gloated right through the dreary day,
I celebrated life through the gamut of it’s gestures,
Remembering not if it were November or May.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

note to self

Keep shining, dear poet.
Loose naught thy false-sight,
Which measures reflections that measure shadows
But over these haunted cobblestone streets -
Shadows are soldiers of an undying war

Keep shining, dear poet,
There are still words waiting to be impregnated,
With your off-springing meaning -
With your colossal nothingness colliding with itself
Haven’t brochures persuaded the innards of you yet?

Keep shining, dear poet,
Lonely milestone digits still await your impatient glance,
The gentle sweepings of your headlight lamps -
Are their only hope in this ravenous night,
For it embodies no whispering soul

Keep shining, dear poet,
Even if you know you’re sinker-tied,
The syntactic and the synthetic won’t attain your desperation,
For they’re the finest scientists of the underwater reflection-
Gazing into the depths of a bewildering ravine

Keep shining, dear poet,
Think about what you were thinking,
Then utter the ghastly gasp and gossip given over a garbagy garb,
Resonate in silence and peddle to the beat -
Of rusting locks and damnable wall clocks

Keep shining, dear poet,
You’re worth much more than your worth is worth you,
Stop counting the blemishes on your daguerreotype,
There’s not a single reflection of the truth -
In this submerged house of crazy mirrors.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.