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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Half a minute in heaven

Cicadas rehearsed their moonlit melody,
The night I ascended to heaven in my wheelchair,
For my open casket had no aspiring wings,
My instinct punctured beyond repair

A desert fire somewhere saluting me in volleys,
Tiny flares escaped from it’s monstrous hearth,
But a downpour parted from the milkweed leaves,
Perhaps to reflect what I was worth

The fakir’s warnings resounded and echoed,
Scaring off pigeons sitting on the mosque’s dome,
Before being devoured by an innocent tsunami,
So in another ivory womb they may find home

And in the gossiping gape of the deodar leaves,
And in the shivering of the linkboy’s feet,
I heard the tales of the world below,
And how it got trapped in it’s own caveat

The sojourner would have been much easier now,
If the loaded dice didn’t weigh down my soul,
But I was kept engaged by the flirtatious celestials,
The observant moon paused on it’s midnight stroll

Love, the chauffeur, stood wide eyed and still,
As death waltzed in my trembling arms,
I spent half a minute in heaven again,
Fore life retracted me with it’s earthly charms



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Another Year

Another year rolled off of my cheeks,
Brackish, black, and bygone,
Her schismatic desire cracks into mine,
A beautiful rarity by all possible means

Playfully falling notes from a scherzo,
All collapse under an unfulfilled waif,
The haphazard precess of snowfall bemoans,
The massacres to which snowflakes are subjected

It’s not as if my petulance is allowed,
To make the scene any warmer,
But neither do the sconces complain,
Though they dive head-first in hot candlewax

Another year awaits in conjunction,
Of continuance of this torturous medley,
Some call it life, the buoyant brave few,
I call it a travesty of chaotic jurisprudence.



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Nib

The bloodshot fluid in the pen evaporates,
What was once saturated with potential,
Can only leave impaired stains
On the bleached prairie like parchment,
Where the black armies of someone’s lexical approach,
Await my battle cry

And I’m doodling in a violent attempt,
To help it’s untimely demise dawdle in vain,
Or perhaps bring it back to life
But I only manage to dig canyons,
Nearly cutting through the thickness of the paper,
With no sign of a crimson river beneath

And I think perhaps I would like someone,
To hold the nib of my manhood in her hands,
And inscribe with it the initials of love,
On the prison cell walls of my heart,
Because I am all dried up with solitude,
I need to learn how to write again



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Fragile

She is the delicate string of hope
Stretched across in parallel with the horizon
With the kind of caliber and credence
That could put together this jigsaw puzzle of mahjong pieces
That my life has come to be,
Her iridescence can still limp and cut across
My moods like a train of falling dominos
In chain and in a chain reaction
Of radioactive diffidence that makes me unstable
And all the ligatures and linchpins holding together
My grandiloquent yet somehow grotesque self
Fall at her magnetic boots and I fall on my knees
And fumble to take apart the flaps on the cardboard box
That should have been labeled fragile.



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Silent Revolution

For too long have we considered,
The fate of this rascal,
This phony, faker, poet,
But no more,
No more!
We cannot tolerate this absurdity,
Concealed in this philosophies divine,
Do you not see what he means?
By all this brouhaha,
Nonsensical gibberish in disguise,
Are you blind to his ambitions?
Or are you just blinded by your own?
Wake up comrades,
For a red sun dawns as it breaks,
The monotonous whispers of nocturne,
And abolish this mental serfdom,
To the redundancy of his thoughts,
Come, let us go back,
To the time when words,
Reigned on the prowess of consequence,
And kept imagination on a short leash,
Revenge, my friends, is the answer,
Retribution makes the world go round,
So let us all rise to pledge our oaths,
To our silent revolution of lies,
Rise! , Rise! , Rise!



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All at the same time

I watch the animated war of constellations,
Trying to separate -
The electron from electron glow,
What indistinct entanglement of light!
Getting caught between -
My eyelashes - tendrils of a Venus flytrap,
Open and inviting and unscrupulously seductive,
And as my prey takes it’s final plunge,
A suicidal dive into the depth of my eyes,
The irises can almost taste it,
Ah, the taste of succulent sleep!
To it’s flavor my retinas oscillate so violently,
That perhaps my eyes start drooling,
In their oh-so-efferent anxiety,
Expressed at the sweetest sight of slumber,
As it finally pulls the shutters of delicate skin together,
I can see,
How Orion draws it's sword out,
And beheads the great bear,
As in their in wicked words and symbols,
Some Neanderthals etch this battle's depiction,
On the inner walls of my head,
And my torch-illuminated skeletal chamber,
Coming alive to the archeologist’s interpretations,
Of these fireworks illustrating miniature supernovas,
Exploding in the crisp December skies,
All at the same time.

Gunpowder

Light the gunpowder sprinkled in thin lines across,
The dismal floors of the forest of dismay,
Watch her beauty spread fire like an explosive enquiry,
To which I confess that I’m fuckin’ blown away

I’m choking on sunshine in a filthy cabaret,
Sunshine that kisses her tender, textural grace,
She jolts and cajoles all our sodden senses,
As she hypnotically erases all songs in her praise

There’s something about this mistress of poise,
More poisonously potent than the helium I inhaled,
Could she be the reason why airplanes crash?
Why submarines sink and trains are derailed

If the last junction in our journey of faith,
Is in watching these dismal woods go down in glory,
Then the powers that be need my strongest persuasion,
To allow me to play some small part in her story.



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Sarajevo Girl

Seven clowns on the trail of destruction.
And a Sarajevo girl who can read my mind,
Was this what I was looking for?
A life in fast-forward; a death in rewind?

We all sing lullabies to the moon,
As our ephemeral reasons to stay awake drown,
What’s so because-poetic to the common man,
Is just another blasphemy to the astute clown

Soon with the liquescent wisdom of gods,
And with saline water our ship shall fill,
Then we’ll have neither another word in our quiver,
Not another drop of blood on our quill

And would the Sarajevo girl selling flowers now,
Then sell umbrellas and harvest hope? ,
Phorcydes wouldn’t help us when we ran out of water,
Don’t expect any rescue if we run out of soap

With heavy hearts and with debts on our back,
We learn to paddle this lone canoe,
Let the electrified river with a penchant for falling,
Take us all safely to where everyone’s due.



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A day at the butcher shop

It was the kind of pleasant day,
When no one hurried to hit the hay,
And the sun smiled out of papier-mâché,
And all was yellow and bright and white
And all such expressions trite,
To whisper and chuckle at my delight,
And a swirling and humming dragon flea,
Buzzing o'er my head in it’s undiscovered glee,
And buzzing around a meatloaf melee,
As I sat with my elbow on a bloodless table,
With my apron as clean my soul was able,
To keep desires on a leash and a cable,
While T.V. was busy in conversing with static,
Their discussion being confusing and erratic,
Released my mind to wander out the attic,
Into the meadows where Svetlana might be lying,
Soaking sun and shadows of seagulls flying,
Much to her mirth was their horrible crying,
When all I could hear was the butcher’s insults,
But then I thought of really huge catapults,
And I thought of catapulting catapults,
Later the butcher severely insisted,
That I chop down the pork that had resisted,
The advances of the other knife-fisted,
Members of the butcher clan,
Feeding the village with their master plan,
And rescuing them from fibrous bran,
So I took a knife from his stained hands,
Reluctant battles I had fought on commands,
To meet the butcher’s cruel demands,
I chopped pork for the fork wielding goons,
I sliced baboons for the ones with the spoons,
But halfway in my journey between Jupiter’s moons,
I caught Ganymede’s frivolous eye,
Now my burning dilemma wouldn’t let me cry,
But If I don’t stop murdering, I may never die.



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In Suspension

Like a marionette enacting out,
In suspension and between suspended intentions,
Your every thought, and every doubt,
And then returning behind my veiled retentions

I let my victimized strings compensate,
The sudden jerks you throw between your wrists and mine,
Your reprievable reprimands and words that berate,
Can’t conquer my defeat or defeat my design

I’m no tumbleweed tumbling with the breeze,
I’m a real boy! With real feelings,
I’m no plastic toothpaste tube to squeeze,
I’m as tangible as those tangerine peelings

But here I go, again in suspension,
The blue limelight filling silhouettes with it’s hues,
Am I to dance with your ten-fingered-tension?
I was really free once; but that’s old news.



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Earthbound and falling

Sorry clouds pouring down their afternoon apology,
My attention shifting between the bracts of a lone thistle,
To the algorithmic beat patterns of vacuum in my head,
To the resonating alarm of my carelessness’ whistle

No nocturnal gnat had ever yet seen,
A soul as free as mine in this hinterland so arid,
Blowing up worries in subtle rings of smoke,
Though the distinctions of my distractions were varied

Like the Rastafarian centipede perched on a mushroom,
My words, left trails, like those of the warm and wise,
If you retraced those trails they all led back to me,
And all labyrinthine exits led to your surprise!

A beggar fears the phantoms less than the robbers,
A failure fears nothing but it‘s own self - appalling,
A contraband fears the confiscation of freedom,
But I fear nothing as I’m earthbound, and falling.



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Tadpoles Raining

The oblong sky stared right back at me,
With a calm, blank, uninterested look,
As if to say, "I'm so bored with you",
As if to wish to write another book

So I toss another morph over my expression,
And contrive a look of the harshest reminder,
"You're the one who's bored with us!"
I tell to the sun and those who stand behind her

We threw allegories around like a Frisbee that day,
That would be the later cause of our drift,
But, for now, I'm enjoying bathing in the presence,
Of the sky, the sun and their wonderful gift

Had it been so that the sun was green,
And tadpoles rained from the skies at night,
I would still disappear like the Cheshire cat,
I would still respire with all my might!



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Amethyst & Jade

Go! Fetch me fallacies,
Amyotrophic policies,
Speak Absinthian gallimaufries,
Fake gammadions for gallantries

Talk in a turbulently tumultuous tongue,
Pushing Panic buttons fore you eat dung,
Stop this Inquisitors’ masquerade,
Fetch me amethyst, bring me Jade

This makes as much sense as the invasion of Bucharest,
And the steam-punk galactagogues pumping her breast,
I’m chewing love letters written in hieroglyphics
And my unpatented claims to higher physics

And do not leave her alone in the woods, man,
For horribly horny hyenas might execute their plan,
Then these entrepreneurial dividends may remain unpaid,
And then you may die alone, unlaid

I have a bachelor’s degree in the zymurgy of barley,
You can fuck with Björk, I still like Bob Marley,
And her fertilized ovum is called a zygote,
You should’ve known that fore you put her in your throat

Religious homosexuals are redundantly whimsical,
(or whimsically redundant if I may be practical),
And you, young man, are a concoction of notions,
Drenched in exaggeration of unfulfilled emotions

But me, I’m the marquis of Kilimanjaro,
Where lies my Xanadu, beset with gardens of yarrow,
You may come there, and play with my braid,
And do bring some amethyst and if possible, some jade.



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Troubadour

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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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

To the messiah of all the castrated dogs
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.

Affidavits of Mystery

The temple bells are ringing slow,
In the precincts of this monolithic edifice,
Candescent flames of hope burning low,
A silent prayer for deliverance of laboratory mice

My father nudged on the arm of another person,
And asked him about my destiny’s decree,
He replied, if the conditions don’t worsen,
I shall be the ambassador of all who’re free

But as I walk across these corridors of pain,
I smell naphthalene balls and tinctures of iodine,
The battles fought by disinfectants in vain,
These germs have witnessed more than I’ve seen

And I feel as if the best days of my life,
Are now available on DVDs in stores,
Too many possibilities of perpetuation in strife,
Too many nights spent with temporary whores

What’s the lesson then, that’s not been learnt?
What explains these lingering notions odd?
The affidavits of this mystery have all been burnt,
And faithful hypocrites now believe in god.



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Must you die, nemesis?

Must you die, my nemesis?
Swallowing this capsule of regret,
Shoved down your blowhole,
By your nemesis, the me?

Must you die here, arch enemy?
In this blue lagoon, with my harpoon,
Slitting your four chambered heart into two,
For more than just an iota of my retributive satisfaction.

Shall I smile the smile of a hunter worth his while?
Or shall I lament the loss of a deserving adversary?
Shall I lick my thus-vindicated wounds?
With this tongue that longs no more for the taste of your blood.

Is the glare of the photographer’s smoldering flash,
Hurting your conjunctiva?
And does it bother you, when I dream,
Of your skeleton suspended from the roof of a museum?

Would you ride the zeppelin of my desires, dearest foe?
Now that yours has succumbed, to my obdurate will, but still,
It’s not as if you didn’t go down with honor,
Anarchist of the highs seas, you were mighty even in death.

Against whom shall I now draw,
Conspicuously meticulous and creative plans of destruction?
Who shall visit my blood-smeared dreams now?
The visions of whom shall now drape my sanity?

You left me without an offspring and intestate,
And my hatred incubator is empty once again,
But farewell, nemesis, may we meet in other dimensions,
Farewell and rest in peace.



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Harp lady

Joanna has such a surprisingly suffocating voice,
What is she not letting go of?
Is It her own mystically magical self?
Or something that I shouldn't know of?

Yes, she plays the harp with some skill,
Is that the agility of her fingers?
Or is it what happens in that infinitesimal moment,
In which her each thought lingers?

And I feel like the flower that blossoms,
When it’s touched by the dewdrops in her tears.
Is it in the fragile way she pierces into my soul?
Or is it just those peaches, plums and pears?



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The Spirit Welder

Thirteen pills of Babylon,
And yet I feel lost and alone,
I wish for raindrops to turn into bombs,
And I wish for these missiles to guide me home

Aurora licks my silver wounds,
With her silent rainbow lies - stoic and hollow,
If this Sisyphean trail’s end were in sight,
What’d I regurgitate and what would I swallow?

I often search for splinters of truth,
In the noir dreams of test-tube babies,
And I find myself casting sparkling reflections,
In the deserted eyes of coyotes with rabies

I fall in love with mannequins of wood,
And propound anachronistic theories of marriage,
And upon the death of my reasons to sing,
I blame my mother for her false miscarriage

So put your gas mask on, O spirit welder,
And disassemble me part-by-part,
I’m a clockwork automaton in this digital age,
No microchips are embedded in my unyielding heart.



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Dystopian Dilemma

-1-

The victory of forces of reason
over forces of kindness,
Brings us to a point, where,
Science spills it’s guts out,
And people relish it’s delicacies.
And Self-righteous morons,
Stand in perfect concordance,
With their electronic gods,
Curse them!
Curse them! For they shall eternally rot,
In the abysmal trenches,
Of their self-constructed oceanic hell.

-2-

Trust not these bible-thumping idiots,
The time is ours, and hope,
Shares the same bed as us,
And you must never allow,
The morally irrational incantations,
Of those who believe in the suppression-
Of the logical forces of reason,
To hold you captive in the prison of false faith,
And the rituals of superstition.
Absolution; is not an undertaking of god,
Nirvana is a cerebral function and only your neurons,
Can perpetuate the feeling of eternal bliss.


-3-

This is all Bullshit!
Do you really believe in this?
The real logic always transcends,
Consciousness and all it’s cousins
And consciousness,
Can never be dictated.
It creates it’s own extremes,
It’s own laws, it’s own religion.
And the moment you subscribe,
To the theories of anything that,
Lies outside your consciousness,
Know, that you are no longer free.



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Apprehensive Giraffe

Long neck, approaching,
The airspace of the people’s republic of china,
Requesting permission to land,
On the cool green grass that grows
Around and under the palm trees in the distance

Hot air causes optical illusions
And hot air balloons
With their Technicolor exteriors
Cause collision in the sky

Mayday! Mayday!
But it’s July the eleventh, not may
Are we going to die?
I hope we are

The apprehensive giraffe watches in silence
As this metallic comet decides to descend
Ablaze and at great speeds
It takes a little time for the dust to settle

And when it does get calmer
I can hear large teeth chewing green grass
and sniffing my hair, perhaps
He wants to welcome me to Mongolia



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Daydreams of a fisherman’s wife

Subliminal reveries of the fisherman’s spouse
In a slithering, slippery, erogenous drowse
Find her floating in a pool of septic pus
And in the embrace of something unctuous

Vacuum cusps kissing her unsheathed softness
She lies in the company of the prisoner of Lochness
Who’s invertebrate and has tentacular appendages
And unwraps her from her emotional bandages

The hind walls are pierced with organic orifices
And someone behind them intermittently pisses
Her lover’s gelatinous arms slide on her slimy skin
And awaken the monster that dwells within

She quivers as it then infiltrates in a spur
Releases spermatophores and impregnates her
And then she, for just a microsecond gestates
Entrapped fluids escape from all her bodily gates

The maiden’s iliac now swells with heavenly pleasure
It’s an ecstatic saturnalia by every measure
Her spirits swim in celebration of liberation from their velour
A kafkaesque explosion and she's the cephalopod's paramour



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Escapism’s Adventure

Escapism finds it’s roots deep down
In shallow pools of materialistic fools
And the effort that it takes to mutate this frown
Cannot be measured in existential joules

Everyone wants an unreal adventure
But the economic boom and the fear of doom
Decapitating braces and evolutionary denture
All keep them tangled in necessity’s loom

On Saturdays my heart fills with pity
As mortals gather around oddly lit portals
And celebrate their blessed mediocrity,
As innocence weeps and libido chortles

Is their no release for us prisoners of life?
If I could resign from this day-job, I would
But being and conscience won’t call off this strife
I don’t want to live. But maybe I should.



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The Worth of a promise

Promises made and promises broken
Promises that are so often forgotten
But promises kept are affection’s token
And promises broken suck dirty rotten

Some are made in the blink of an eye
And some are born out of obligation
Some are just parts of a big fat lie
And some promises cause constipation

But the real worth of a promise, then
Lies in the moment in which it’s made
Because words spoken can hurt badly when
The tongue works like a razor blade



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Tautologies

Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to bed.
Numerous lies were told her there,
To catastrophe she was led.

Tautologies I recited in her ears,
I had nothing else to offer.
Unwearyingly she learnt to live,
In this empty king’s empty coffer.

But I was up to evil again,
I slaughtered her unborn children of hope.
Blinded her with recursive silence,
And bound her with a fantasy rope.

Every fiber of her being, then,
Was held prisoner in my breath.
Carry me, my love, she said,
And I carried her to death.



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Rasputin’s Revolver

Flare and smoke and a pointy copper shell,
Your own personal rocket on a staircase to hell
Rasputin’s revolver and it’s front loading muzzle
A dash of my ire and there goes this puzzle

A promptly squeezed trigger causes inanimate combustion
Claustrophobic mind opens up to the congestion
Like molten lava escaping from a lubricated vent
There’s nothing you can do then, nothing but repent

There always lies a way to put an end to this dissension
When you get too old and barely eke out a pension
And life becomes a bitch and the only way to dissolve her
Is a fucked up mind and this Rasputin’s revolver



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Dreams

And thus I,
Remain uncoiled,
Between the sheets
My drawers are soiled

And you remain, desecrated,
In my sorry soul,
Engulfed in your own mélange
Enveloped by your camisole,

I relapse,
As I collapse,
Is this for certain?
I’m unsure. Perhaps.

But Strange,
as it seems,
But we never get as close
As we do in dreams.



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