I was never good at writing about the truth in all it's explicit severity, which was probably the reason I started writing poetry in the first place. A sugary coat of vivid visions scatterred over scarred dreams and held together with some eloquence helped me swallow the hurt of a failed relationship at first, and then, it eased it's way into the possibly false notion of talent.
I really don't think of myself anything special, but I soon found a virtual audience that was kind enough to let me continue dreaming. I found that there wasn't much difference between courage and confidence, and I realized I had a bit of both. One thing led to another, and it was too late by the time I bechanced upon the conclusion that it was the art that held me hostage. So much so, infact, that I didn't even care about the generally accepted principles that governed this branch of art, I knew what I needed to know about Iambs, Trochees, Spondees, Dactyls, Double dactyls and what have you, but never adhered to any specific structures. I might even have created my own meterical foots for all I care. It was personal, although I seldom wrote merely for personal gain.
Although as I progressed, it seemed evident that my predilection for orotundity and grandiloquence will never feel the need to cover up or hide under any false pretence. Neither did I ever feel the need to justify the befuddling setups that I built most of my poems over. It was rather unfortunate that my brand of articulation earned me a reputation of being too "pretentious".
"There's something quite wrong about what you write and how you write it, but I just can't seem to put my finger on it", said an online reviewer once. I knew exactly what he meant.
Something I wish I had known earlier on in my life is that you can't improvise imagination, it always screws things up when you try to squeeze a confession out of muse. But anyhow, poetry made it all seem worthwhile for a whole year, and now: one mental breakdown, two severe (writer's) blocks, and more than a hundred poems later, I bid thee adieu.
For the usual reasons, of course. I need a break, time for myself, to rethink about my life and get away from this glaring monstrosity that had me enslaved for most of my adolescence. That I shall return is an artist's promise, and I always keep my promises whenever I can. There will be those of you who will appreciate a tear drenched goodbye and a hug or maybe even a goodbye poem at this point, but I only have these lines that Rob Thomas sang to give to them:
"So gather up your jackets,
and move into the exits,
I hope you have found a friend,
Closing time,
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end".
Bye.
Closing Time
5
Flashes of an invisible hope
Like sunlight peering in though eyelids shut
Sporadically sliced by each passing tree
Blessing eyelashes folded
(as if in a prayer)
I would like to drive away
From these seasons
Release all jokes tired of being laughed at
But I’m trapped!
In white light,
Pink noise,
And purple silence.
I wish she would never stop talking
I’m sick of hearing myself think.
Indecision
The independence of this divine indecision
Bellows it’s way through conurbations dead
Mocking my heart with indiscriminate precision
Like a shamanic siren of the uncertain dread
She hid something deep in mental undercrofts
Apportioned her life in a milestone collection
I heard fate whisper through the arching lofts
Requesting preparation for an aching rejection
My imponderable intentions don’t mean to fiddle
With her impregnable mindset - undeniably astute
But the incorrigible indecision, that stands in the middle
Might never allow me to tell her that she’s really cute
Yet cute she is, all my inarticulacy aside,
She’s a welcome distortion to a dream unseen,
What fool wouldn’t want to make her his bride?
Who wouldn’t fall for the rhapsodizing queen?
I could get on all fours and roll in the muck,
But I realize she’s feeble and fleeting like a vision-
She belongs with the bearer of a better luck
My lovely creator of this divisive indecision.
Laboratory
Under the sublime Tuscan sun,
With wafting whiffs of all that’s citrus -
(Pinot noirs and limestone distemper)
She’s reading Dante,
With precision or with partial purview
Fingertips resonate the call of olives
As I detonate all rhyming crescendos,
(Blow arpeggios in legatos to hell)
We transcend into two desperately living souls -
Prisoners of our heroic imagination
Then raindrops twinkle like shooting stars
Glasses brimming with chardonnay leave
She goes back to her solitary throne -
(Princess practicality in a polka-dotted frock)
I return to my lonely laboratory of dreams.
Calculate
I’ve created you from scratches, love,
Built you up with a keyboard manic,
Have some fear of the one above,
For heaven’s sake, it’s time to panic!
I’m falling faster than you can calculate,
Hoping consequence will cushion my fall,
I’m running out of opulent cliché’s to relate-
I’m running out of escape tunnels to crawl
Every twilight bird chirps in your praise,
To the soldier homebound from a welcome retreat,
Then his thoughts belong in that haze -
Where shadows with shadows meet
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Fabulous Disaster
Would she be wearing a fuchsia hued sin?
Now that he's wearing out and thin -
All stretched out on a hopeful horizon,
Balancing the scales within
He'd rather confabulate a fabulous disaster-
Murder his imbecile yet celibate master-
For desires as delicate as gatling guns,
Were sinking his sanity and a heart cast in plaster
Therefore, his positively potential bride,
Obviously oblivious in her Bengali pride,
Lit his freedom's pyre and watched his soul escape,
Before deciding to let his fate decide.
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The Brownian Lark - Revisited
With the perfidy of a mildly charmed quark,
On a journey for answers I did not embark,
Nothing did the stars tell, nor the moon did hark,
Yet I gallantly gaited towards The Brownian lark
It wasn’t the clairvoyant that I sought to explain,
The explicit supernatural is lighter when it’s slain
But amongst somber skies, one crooked wind vane,
Was being a whirling dervish in excruciating pain
Coincidence was ever so gently humiliating,
When for the patient eleven-thirty I stood waiting,
A canine couple in distance shook facilitating -
Every pleasure afforded by their frivolous fornicating
The thunderous nimbi then moaned like a whore,
Our trio was soon caught in an orgasmic downpour,
Nature seemed hell-bent on revising the lore,
Of ill fate I could’ve asked but nothing more
For more than one dry reason I sought refuge,
From my unabashed audacity and from the deluge,
I pressed on for aridity with a saunter of a stooge,
Towards the only shelter of hope looming huge
I retraced my steps, never retrenched them back,
Though humidity before me was all drenched in black,
Though that time had lost me, I had found it’s track,
As I was awakened by an urge for a midnight snack.
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Notes:
This is a spoof (sort of) on my trilogy of poems titled "The Brownian Lark". I have changed the pattern from AABB to AAAA just to make it a little more challenging. This is no way, however, related to the story of the trilogy, neither is it a sequel nor a prequel, it's just a spin off. The object of writing this poem was to ascertain the growth of my so called "skill" between the time that I wrote the other poems and now. In my personal opinion, I think I have decidedly shown some improvement, YMMV.
The Brownian Lark: Part One, Part Two, Parth Three
Stuntman
Me and my futile love affairs,
Unfruitful and damaging beyond all repairs
None conceived, and no one compares,
Though I cherish mine and envy theirs
Indeed these petulant love affairs,
Are like the stunts the stuntman dares,
For his insatiable addiction of shifting gears
They’re reminiscent adages that memory shares,
With reclining old men in rocking chairs
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Secondhand Karma
Twilight came knocking like the highwayman,
Fell over my shoulders like a sudden burden of freedom,
It must have been the struggles of the day,
That rendered me so
Ashamed.
For in the day I struggled for night,
At night I stood listening,
The sounds of the approaching day,
The omnipresent danger of daylight,
Squeezing my guts out my mouth
All this for the worth of a few stars,
Sprinkled about my illuminated Luna,
On a palpating platter, caressing our skin and feeding us -
Secondhand karma at subsidized rates,
For the glory hidden in our denial of it’s true color
Modern times saw the retail chain of stores selling ignorance,
Mediocrity stood at the receiving end of our altars,
Masters became snow-smugglers in cowboy hats,
Disentangled, yet not absconding -
From the balance sheet of the universe.
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This
This is my keyboard - formatting electrons,
Like a barber sweeping the shop floor,
Collecting all black strands of discarded meaning -
Both earning their livelihood,
With clicks here,
Hair clips there.
Over pages that don’t curl like they used to,
Behind a smooth glass window,
Words waving at me,
With a childlike demeanor,
They parade forwards,
Then disappear into a back-spaced nothingness,
Deleted from existence.
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Dial-tone
Softly triggered the dial-tone,
Told me why I was alone,
Beeping grains of sadness static,
Electronic erotica being erratic
Before the skeletons of athletes,
The martyr rinses and repeats,
As her voice like a tsunami breaks,
Breaking mine into gasping flakes
That heaven dweller must be a clown,
His blue umbrella held upside down,
Drown with me so I’m never alone -
Give me death or dial-tone.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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?
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other
the
other
side is
just as
dirty as
the other
side.
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(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.
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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.
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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
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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