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

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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