Undead

Every morning I dig your grave and make an obituary with past tense in my speech. Every night I dig you out and whisper warmth in the present cold wind.
Every day I light some wood and turn some scribbled notes to ash, every night I write something good to burn such scribbled hopes to ash.
Every day I brave the chill with a laughter cutting through its fog and feign,Every night I spill some tears that make the morning mist again.
Every day I let go of the remnants of a corpse of once a life, and every night the ghost of it haunts and holds on for dear life.
Every day I jostle past the debris of the structure once, Every night I build the wall and leave a stone still un-turned.
Every night and every day , I could put either one to end, To let it perish or to cherish to break and then to never mend.
but what is it the night or the day , I could live it or take it to bed.
Though not life, this is not death in choice and thus compulsively so Undead.

November Nougat Nostradamus.......

One cup, two cup pouring in the porcelain,
there's brew in my blood and my tongue in cream.
Novembers is such dreaded winter dream
and Nougat to the flavor is a sweet relief,
 some Nostradamus penned apocalypse
I can take them all in one heavenly sip.

EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA...... Honesty redefined.

Lets say that I dislike you , I express it without sparing thought or mincing words and then stick it up your face.My dislike suddenly becomes despise and my despise turns to hatred, just as you perceived it to be. Worst case scenario.

Instead I hold it back, go through a laborious process of  critically evaluating my thoughts,behaviour, inclination and with the tested,time trusted measures that I apply to logical affirmation and reconsideration I announce that I disapprove of certain factors and make a rational call.We sit down on a table and discuss evidences, circumstantial and otherwise.

Indeed, Honesty is not always the Truth just as Passion is not always Love.

Your dying heart

Your dying heart has caved in ,
in to the gorge of my swallowing pain,
your dying heart has caved in today.
The beat at its thump in my chest,
the blood as it froze in my breast,
time was your trusted test,
it gave in today.

Your dying heart has caved in today
into a gorge of my swallowing pain,
there's a river I say I know
it floods the rocks, then storming its way.
and discreetly still it does flow,
off the land of  mortals,
secretly it paved in today.

Your dying heart caved in today,
into a gorge of my swallowing pain
You dark befallen darkness I curse
You shard of glass you broken ceramic
I cut on you my bones and veins
and they crushed and whirled in to the drain,
of your deep sinking rabbit hole.
and then your dying heart caved in with them.

What is left of me I wonder,
I was long dead and now I am plundered
of that dying heart that caved in today.
now,there is no gorge of swallowing pain.
My dying love is still dying.

Silence is...

mistaken to be a weakness and never seen as endurance. But is endurance only for the gullible and weak? I often wonder,

sought as a resort from the jarring madness that words are.Exorbitant vacations in the most exotic of locations can not match up to the respite from the need of conversation or mindless talk to keep up with the social pressure of networking.But is solitude only for the introspecting? I often wonder.

the laboratory of a mad genius and the perfect stillness that is before the most revolutionary of experiments are stirred in thought and then expressed.But is isolation only for the madmen? I often wonder.

the offence of a lone wanderer when the world calls to join in its material revelry and then blazes at them the sounds synthesized by echo in the hollow spaces that resound in pluralism of the crowd.But is the wilderness only for the fakir? I often wonder.

the indifference of a cynic when misplaced activism is eating into its own purpose by meddling with the jammed up cogs of the structure and in turn destroying what is left of them or empowering them by oiling their churning to be crushed under the implications.But is reason only for a philosopher to ponder?I often wonder.

the medium I chose to express what I can not put in words, it is heavy, it is meaningful , it is a pause, a much needed one. My words can be undermined my silence never taken for granted. But is silence only for the shaken, the broken, the suppressed and the cowards.You will know of what I often wonder.

Filthy Hands

My bare hands and I,
we leave prints around ,
One is the dot, the sun's eclipse spot.
another a cross mark on the ground.

I cut my fingers on barbed wire,
have burnt fate's lines in the fire,
and then dyed them in black or red,
for graffiti or simply bled.
bled from self,sometimes of other
and to cleanse them have I never bothered.

The earth in nails from the potters wheel
and the glass from mosaic on the walls
embedded in souls of my palms

like time frozen in instance of build

and the places where they have crawled.

They have folded themselves in
contemplation.
what  is thought and prayer at times.
They have held back in consideration

at others they have crossed the line.

They have given in dread of mistrust
and taken by a sincere thrust.
they have rested on a restless heart
and then stopped it in a clench  of fist
they have rubbed a temple in subdued thought
and then coaxed it to not resist.

they have held a warm body,cold and clinical

they have traced passion on beautiful forms

and have synchronized with tidal storms

cured the cold faces with their warmth,

in either my desire or their want

they have held and let go not for long.

fidgety devils in indecision

gods in rights of their precision.

my filthy hand will wash off one another.
my filthy hands will wash off one another.

The Nulliparous Romance.

Why is it that a stark love can yield nothing but an anomaly to its own nature?
That upon yielding in its fruitful terms the most prolific perish to being barren, when nurtured  by the wholesome ?
Certainly the fruit of the womb could be bitter in its nature but why shrivelled? Should love and its consequential die as such,unborn? A disowned love child forsaken buy its bearer.

Wither Pale

Rest not,
       in augmented passions
of the bleak.
            fade away in oblivion 
the mind does seek,
                   a blankness hollow to the brim,
                   when the memory dies and the pain is a whim.

How does one not embrace?
        the numb wind dance
on a naked face
as the winter scalpels the chill
at a pace at which you run against its gale.
 
To burn before or after wither pale?
                         

Experiments of an Autodidact. Observatory.

There are chances of explosive chemistry brewing in the mind of a person who has known no precaution in the lab. Non culpable suicides do not amount to fatal punishment, they result in them.
Having said that,did you know that dynamite was an accident after several suicidal attempts and a by product of fatal mistakes? Innovation and revolutions can never be stirred at mild  precautions temperatures .

Echo

Stare down a bottomless pit,
and then wait for the thump of a fall,

and the sound never reaches your ears.

It has been counting years,
the fall to meet its end
and in the ever lasting free fall
the fears I have I fend.

So to test the theory true,
I screamed my heart to you,

in a hope the end was met,
and the crash caused none dead,

cut through the ominous silence

lest the emptiness be the same.
I yelled at you not yours but my
own fateful name.

I hear nothing new,
I crave to hear some voice,
The pit must be bottomless
for my ears do not meet an echo.
and the free fall is not a surge
and I am no string tied bob,
that will dangle on a string to hang
and then it's state recall.
it is an endless fall.
and the fall it shall be.

Hope(The bird in the nest and her offspring)

Tell me Love, Will the birds fly south?
or would they keep their nests this frost.
Will or won't the birds fly south?
or would the skein be deformed and lost?
Lets fly the birds away a while
lets fly the flock in hope,
the winter is too harsh to last,
for the mother and her child alone.
Pity the children know not to fly
pity the mothers sorrow,
They'll fade to the winter,
together then
they'll not see another tomorrow.

Why won't the birds fly south again,
why do they stay ?
To die in the chill of winters harsh
To bear the labour of pain.
leave behind the petty ones,
they'll cruelly be made to perish.
what survives shall only last,
what lasts, the spring will cherish.

Crumbs

September:
Crumbs from last years fill,
have dwelt in pockets for so long,

The rains have swept the colours to bleed
summer can last only in a lyrical song
and the seasons closing to the season frail
and the sun is dying in the pale,
the night has not still
crept of a chill,
my days are bearable in autumn's gust,
the riviera of leaves floods the dust.
last September took away so much
this September I faintly believe in,
for the taking away led to grieving
though the end of the month brought,
a cold frosted numbness, a plethora of thoughts
tilling the insides when nothing would grow
all would wilt and none to sow,
how much have since the soils recovered
and the groves of spring lament uncovered.
the fruit of pain that dwells in the heart,
is an un-cautioned leap with fears apart.
and boldly did we step in December,
my numbness and my love of the end September,
swiftly did we bring in spring
February has its own musings.
but I will dwell in September,
if nothing is to last forever,
for there is hope without the spring's burst
and despair without the winter's thrust
and I live in both.
hope and despair
choosing each from time to time.
My own subdued, my own sublime.

Crumbs from the last year,
I throw to the birds.

Indiscretions and Indifferences of Withdrawal (Confessions of a caffeine addict in rehab)Part I

First week:

Why take subterfuge in sanity when you know you are extraordinaire and if the rest label it as some kind of an anomaly you need not care.

Now, I am aware of my bodies ability to adapt to the barrels of coffee that I would glut myself with indulgently as I would go through the hum drum of my life. What I was not aware of was the tendency of my body to adapt to caffeine as an endocrine secretion rather than an artificial substrate that tampers to a degree with the metabolism and hyper functioning of it.
 Caffeine metabolism and the adversities associated with it I would neglect because in philosophy I am more of a fatalist and a cynic when it comes to prophesying . The school of thought that gives no thought to the criteria lethal existence because death is inevitable or as the less informed commoners would spell it out as YOLO.

Bah!!

So if the thought of the  impending doom being accelerated was not a concern ,what was it?  One may question.Well, you could say it was a very Rise of the Dark Knight situation where in the spirit of the human soul to survive in the face of adversity struck and struck me hard.

I never thought it was a confession to make and forget me Father but I have not sinned in having a spoonful of heavens delightful brown earthy fruit in my cup.Only if I am to be accused of something then let it be the unending need for the holy spirit that pours from filter kettles into my mouth wide open.Aah, the sin of gluttony...umm ..no, lust perhaps.

I was made to realize by none other than the ghost of my present that I being one of these people who is a fatalist in philosophy but a survivalist in action is challenging her own survival by being a heavily dependent piece of machinery that would die the day it's fuel would cease to be. Worse would die if stranded on an island(the ghost of my presents is brilliant at throwing at me convincing logical arguments especially when they cater to the cynic in me)Truth be told after having watched Cast Away at the age of five ,it has been one of my most dreaded nightmares.I realized that bringing up a coffee plantation with salt water to irrigate the fields in the sand did not seem like a viable solution and the osmosis of sea water on such a large scale is well impractical.

So, what choice do I have? I am extraordinaire in my capability to absorb caffeine as my own but I am in all my capacity bound by the human restriction of not being able to produce it through hormonal secretion induced or natural.

Hence the ghost of my present talked into me sense. The worse part about interacting with the ghost of my present was the fact that it made its argument inscrutable by denying me the much needed cup of coffee while it talked to me. That's when I knew the conclusion was watertight. I had to quit otherwise the little voices in my head would die.

In the first week of my abstinence, I feel dead, I feel like I am the ghost of my past. I feel hungry all the time, I have fallen sick and feel drowsy and feeble and fragile and bleak.I walk through the streets avoiding the sight of cafes and anything close to the reminder of my elixir turned poison.
The lesson to be taken from the indiscretions and the feigned indifference is:

If I can do it, so can you.For updates on the same, keep reading.

Circadian Relapses and their subtle hints.

Time will collapse in its eternity
forever will lament the time gone by,
and the sting that the time weeps on often
is the sting of each instance as it softly dies.

It relapses in its kill, the time we had,
the people we had , even the air we breath,
in a cycle it changes to poisoned wreath
of the binding clause and if we choose to keep,
trapped in our lungs, trapped in our hearts.
warping and deformed, they die, perhaps slowly,
they die for granted and they will die as unholy

Causing slow torturous pain and little drops of blood,
why we fear not the melting ,we fear only the flood?

Who will tell your story?

I wished for forgetfulness not a long time back.
I wish for it still. That or the reassurance that someone will tell my story as I would capturing details instance by instance, capturing details version by version. From the eye of a beholder and the eye of a critique, from the fond recollection of a friend and perhaps the fiery tongue of a foe that lashes its venom.A lover's passion , an admirer's wistfulness, a stranger's bewilderment and an acquaintance's misgivings .

What to say of multitudes? I can not quite remember which role have  played to perfection.
What is to remember?
Who will tell your story?

The Vanishing Act II

It is not an abrasion of  the chaffed skin over the fresh wounds but the sudden merging of cicatrices with the flesh of my body. The healing gave way to such a rejuvenation that the scales of the past have been falling off. The tincture of time slowly wore of and the tourniquet was shed because a single stitch that was holding its ugly scar sunk in without a trace.

Even the bruises  that they left, the patchy discoloured skin has now blend in and feels like river bed silt bathed in the dawn. The light set in, the dark diminished from the rims of the incarnation that was once before.The soul rid of the self inflicted atonement and the guilt minuscule to null.
I know love again and am capable of it. I know the vitality of emotion and the flow of it through my veins and the will to spill them.

Another self is to die in this light and one wonders what all will die with it. It is the closure to a life disdained by its own wants and condemned by its needs.
Now he can disappear, the apparition he was , he flees . Today I set him free and with him my dark and my fears, my afflictions and infliction, my self righteous indignation and I let go for the first time in my life.

But well, for him it is just another vanishing act.His second one perhaps.

Not quite Mona Lisa.

but etched dark chocolate syrup should make this better art.

Battles ,Annexations and the Wars.

I don't like to boast, display, or serve dutch courage.If a battle awaits I 'll keep my arsenal close.

 Brick by brick we fall a wall, drop by drop we dry a well, pillar by pillar empires fell. The rats brought down Rome  before the cats were unleashed. I have been warned, what now, what difference it makes? The confrontations have kept me awake through endless nights. I have slain my self, I have killed my self and been reborn. What effect you cause with the drums and horns?

We could blow the trumpets hollow of the air that is in our throats but what is the point? Better save up on that breath. You need it to fight, to battle, to win.

The enemies outside and the war is within. We part to annex the next territory. Before we control our wits , our form and our whims.
How ignoble could the enemy be.Sinister in it's suicidal nature. Yet survival is the one stark key that keeps him from winning and you from failure. Who will rest your fidget, your paranoid ways?

We thrive on most poisoned despair but hope is what sees me through. I eliminate chinks of doubt and lies that may cloud my mind as I put myself through the test of endurance, the decree of pain. It is the light of life that I search for and not its friend of fate.

Plot whatever there may be on how you would or you might act. For I know not less or more than one in present , the fallacy of a forming fact.
You defeat the purpose of your life in plotting another existence and end . I live here rejoicing little treasures and building on my long stood strengths.

I do not need a battle to annex what I know I do control. My life I chose to live as a free man. Not a prisoner fearing the end of parole.

What about lunch ?

“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.” 

“It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?” 

― A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

Prison Break

Every time I start to feel the gush of fresh air in my lungs, a musty smell from the cells takes it's place in my nasal tract.

Every time I break the shacks and try to run from the binding rules, they tell me I belong not to the cells but the padded room of an asylum.

Every time I seek a wilderness to build my home, a rampant agglomeration starts to build around its need to inhabit.

Every time I seek solace in solitary confinement of my self, they tell me I need to be tried at the will and the whims of those who confine me to their existence.

Every time I let go of ropes I find a fiber of the string dangling on hanger hooks to my flesh and suspending me in the atmosphere.

I have begun to wonder if I have lived my life in paroles I have from the inevitable imprisonment in a structured sustenance.

Anthems

Not that I am fond of controversy or jumping like a splinter in its eye. I do not have what people call worldly faiths and belief. Do I know politics, yes. Do I have an opinion, yes. Do I re-affirm my belief by challenging others, No. To each his own.Till it's been kindled by their nous and flamed further by logic or a pungent sting of a passion that outwits logic in experience.

Here is my faith put in one word..FREEDOM
 The freedom to escape an imposed structure and let passion  trickle through the parameters as defined by political anomalies, structural dependencies, social perfidy and all that corrupts an individuals identity.

The song is the band's dedication as an anthem for Tibet's struggle for an identity and the freedom to sustain it.Inspired by the the strong passions and desperation that trickles through the walls of each establishment in the little land of the exiled people in McLeod .

The inspiration....
Every structure every wall  seethes the ink and paint .... Save Tibet.

for the love of music.

Accounting for the losses to Friction.

Let's discuss the exhaustion I have come across in all these years. I feel like a steam engine coming to a halt .The chuk-chuk train that let's out a hiss of exhaustion as it approaches some station that is en-route it's destination.

My destination was defined as something beyond infinity, a dot on the horizon that I have been chasing, My eyes towards the sky, people think I am counting the million specks of dust that float in the trace of the sunlight. They say I am aimless, they would, they do not see my destination. What I have envisaged through the hopelessness of the clouds, the gold of the sand and the chaos of the waves. How would they ever spot that one dot that I define as my destination.

All through my life I have been warned of the non existence of a utopia, the illusion of a mirage, the fact that infinity is uncountable (not that I am counting my way to it). All through my life I have been busy making a realization of what I was told is impossible.  I tell them I hold the dot in the palm of my hands that make an enclosed circle around that dot. I have been happy rounding of the distances and covering them and making that circle at each milestone of my life.I have been happy experiencing infinity.

Now I am exhausted, because my experiences I have begun to feel are mine alone. I do not have anyone to share the heights, depths, understanding, love or passion of them with.
Now standing at a certain station that is en-route I feel exhausted. Though every station en-route has refueled me and I have felt the charge building in steam and the lost being found. Lets see how long before I resume my journey to the shore and then beyond, tracing the dot in the horizon.

Stream of Consciousness is rather spontaneous in sub conscious.

It was a relief that most people talked to themselves. I learnt when I asked them questions. It's a horror what they talked about, it's aligned perfectly in a rather smooth fashion, like a cleaving stream from the ridges . I should have never asked , I should have never known because it's a horror when I complain that my thoughts are swirling at a rather tumultuous velocity.

What are these thoughts that cloud our heads? Monologues ,stream of consciousness .I  have a stream with rather choppy waters, You could raft in them and drown if you trip on the rocks that barge against the flow. Thought permits it as a characteristic, the eccentricity of the choppy stream.I am not quite sure of it as a desirable trait though.Sometimes I have found whirlpools in the stream. They should not exist in a river.
Then it makes me wonder if everyone I know has built a damn in their heads that controls the flow.  Practicality sake, they have.

That's when I learnt that it's not wise to transfer your thoughts to people at the rate you think..... most people do not..That's when I learnt to quietly observe.My thoughts would flow past and I would raft on them myself, slowly but surely it became a river, a smooth flow because I became used to it. To me it's in sync with a rhythmic flow. I do not have to charge the waters in the direction of my speech.My actions in rowing the raft try to keep up with the water flowing. As for the people around me, I learnt that their streams met with rather terrible landslides in the flow, hence the waters are muddy and the flow is ruptured. . It was not that their thoughts cleaved the ridges. The ridges fell in and they stopped to flow in their element.

I meditate sometimes. That's when the brook is cleaving the ridges. It's spontaneous, not barred and it flows with the rhythm I desire.

Lamenting(part III)

Of all the things I undo,
and undo as knotted strings,
I have learnt to fret not
but rue the misgivings,
of a woman so foolish in love,
or a man so blind in logic
 so staunch in pride
that vulnerability sheers to tragic
and to have them both in one,
fragile glass like frame,
both daunting at the surface,
both extremes in the same.

Of all the things I rue,
I rue one not my own,
such object of a life,
misplaced in misfortune,
I  could feel the two spirits in me,
I wonder if he had one,
What flames does it take
 for the soul to twist and turn,
be such as a coil of a weak alloy
be such as the vapours of
a substance smoked to dry.

Of all the things I give up,
I give into this one rue,(I hoped forgetting was brisk)
oblivion never found my doorstep,
it was in haste to find you. (easier to find stone obelisks)
Of all the things I love,
I wonder what is my passion,
An unnatural borne progression,
Epicene in it's nature,
for you were dead I now know,
 the two spirits in hate I harbour.

Why Do We Fall?( That quote from my favourite superhero flick,to ponder)

So that we can go through that rush that defies another force intruding or acting upon us, streamlining ourselves with the entropy of the space we exist in and just learning the term surrender. The free fall before the crash.The little resistance of the air,that like hope stays afloat in the atmosphere,and we let go of it as the concrete is near,despair. It teaches us to despair, let go off unreal. We fall, to see the inevitable occur and realize that everything we have done before however substantial it may have been is biting dust with us and hence everything we do should lead to the moment of contentment that we seek In that one moment and nevermore shall never more be thought of. We fall, to rest, to redeem, to remember,to revive.

In deed, we fall to rise again. A Fall is to Rise.

Mushroom Clouds...can be constructive.

I threw an iron rod into the machinery of my life a few years back and watched the squirming of the rusted wheels as they tried to chow on the thickness of the obstinacy I had thrown at them. 'Why?', you may ask is it such a pleasure to stand still and cock a snook at the motion of the rest of the mechanization?

The rust was making me cringe, the slow pace was driving into me a diabolical restlessness that raised an atomic force that was just manifested into the vibratory energy that would throw the surrounding particles into a destructive frenzy.
So well, to implode upon myself was the substitute to exploding into a mushroom cloud and taking the world with me.I just burst inside and launched upon the neural and atomic and cellular systems a nuclear winter that was to blanket them from the transcending seasonal variety of moods, the effervescent spring, the summer scorch, the pestilence of autumn and the silence of the barren winter that was quite natural to my existence. this winter was different,it defied the transient nature of the rest.Winter is not the right term, now I'll call it the Ice Age.

Ice Age, The anatomical structure was well deprived of it,as it is my physical structure struggles to keep up with the rest of me, for once my cerebellum must have experience a gust of motor activity while the rest of me would rest at a decelerated pace that I subjected my self to.I was not thinking as I would normally, a retarded system as immediate environment aided it, I would feel nothing at all, the cringing, the frustration,the empathy,sympathy, grief, anxiety, all succumbed to indifference. A well crafted indifference.
Everything was dead...dead as it could be and for once life was happening to me instead of the other way round.

Irony always has been a lamentable association, In more prevailing terms it could be labelled as my love-hate interest. If to have my hearts desire was a tragedy ,so quoted Wilde,irony rescued me from one and obviously put me through the twin of the former...not to have my heart's desire.
Everything happened at once ...like a solar flare of enormous degree to melt away the ice caps of my ice age and then a massive flood from the solid to liquid volatility .Then there was a sea, and the violent motion, only this time it was not controlled or inflicted.

These shocks and jolts have restored my faith in vitality.
If only my life could be in sync with my instinct. That is all I ever asked for. My passions to be deep, my experiences to be a psychedelia and that too without the interference of an unnatural entity.
Neither inflicted, nor triggered, perhaps induced by all that is inside and exuded to be brought to the surface of the existence I am.
I just walked into a possibility of life so rich,so vibrant that I feel it is my call.I'll keep spilling more because it is unimaginable that I be able to contain the experience and restrict it to my insidious parameters.
I might take the world up in a mushroom cloud this time. 

There is A Light that Never Goes Out?

Lets crash glass from the Tungsten heat inside,
I glow too much I am told..........
Lets put off that flame burns his hide,
Was I slow not enough?
I am told.
What is to me, but this heat this fire?
what is to you ? dead frame on pyres?
I am not the light, glow, warmth you sought
If I am then what was I not?
You venture closer, you'll falter, you'll learn
the closer to light, the more you'll burn.
Were you not aware, or so I am told.
Dark is just as deprived, so I am told.
There is A LIGHT that never goes out,
So I am told.So you squint and are blind,
Would you hold that against me?
If you crush your lids against your orbs,What would you see?

Venture still closer and you'll shudder you'll learn,
the flame that the wick is,it'll melt and burn.
I'll keep the light and fire,
so I am told.

I wish we all be forgotten.
What is to remember ?

The Outcast

It's the fairly consequential end to those who think that everything that surrounds them is inconsequential to their being. Dependency is the ramification of structural existence. I do not challenge it, I sometimes defy it.

It's like rearing an ant farm, you rear the people who like structure tied insects carry the little grains of information stored in an ant hill of a news feed and then they breed in further ,creating opportunities of new ant contacts. Stock of grains from the little nuggets you pass on or chose to float in their virtual universe are then stored and shared, further carried to the source of it all. A large glass box housing them all, You could be an emperor, a jack, a queen in the domain of the glass box and then when out of the glass box there is a .......  where these structure tied insects are not even existent. further if the glass box is dropped, the ants would scatter.
The ants have scattered. I did attempt at throwing the glass box off  the utility shelf. I am the ant who escaped the glass box while it had not collapsed.I  am essentially the outcast. I cast the others out now. They may move in the stench of the formic familiarity, that is obligatory. I do not affirm my ties in obligations. I am glad the rest understand.

Witch and Craft?

Lissome lissome scarlet lips
Touch this, touch and gently scath,
touch another archers bow(the tensile silk string)
and cut them on the inside with the edge on sinking in
such impressionable flesh, my skin, your skin?
what a construes to this offering?

Drench my words in the water we stirred
we shared a sip each from the glass,
we lent our breath and caused a storm
on the placid that quickly pass.

I drowned my words in you
I drowned my faith in you
I drowned my spells in you
 offered a sacrifice that night
and the moon I drew on one hand
while the stars of the arrows
from my own red nuptials
and my own ties of thread
that took with them the stones
my arrows tied to stones.
Do you see the raven bleeding in?
do you see the nightfall seeping in,
just as you spelled the spell
in incantations of the sighs.


I lent the peripheries of my altar
and I lent you the open pentagram
where in your vibe merged within mine
Lets draw around the circle of life.

The pyramid built on the mount of my back
I rise with yours. the arrow rises.
We rise in the full moons night after
We sink in the dark fortnight's laughter
We cause the summer solstice
We cause winters blurred mist in our eyes,
We cast voodoo together
and the pins are stuck in our pasts
the spears we shape for the present.
Do you see the light now bleeding in
the fire we lit should not blind you
the fire we lit should not bind you.

I am a spark after all, you a spark
and none the splinter
we spread, we burn
we soar, we flicker
we hiss in vicious vows, our douse
we crackle in fuel that lights us free.
We char each other, unlikely?

Life is Short

'Life is short' he said, and then ran touching every pillar or a milestone that was to stand there, on heels to the finish , he raced ahead , leaving its essence behind.
'Life is short' I said, Wild goose chases and entrapment of the kind,
I stood there to build a pillar with my hands and fell the ones too old or to redundant to stand. I will, Stop to think, pause to feel,at milestones.
Life is in my hands still, and I will.
Ambition, I wonder which one of us has more as I measure, 'Life is short' either way, for you to race it down or me to stop at leisure.
'Life is short' he said pace and amble, it is,trade the stakes, it is a gamble.
'Life is short ' I said, At stake there's too much, I am not stagnant just invested and my investments should grow.There is much risk in investing, You run fast hence realize slow.
'Life is short' he said and people should be at length,
Reason being the drag ,they pull at your strength.
'Life is short' I said, people are distant, A person should be kept near, Your strength is sapped on by not people but your fears. Life is short for them as it's for you, You could live yours just once with them you could live two.
'Life is short' indeed it is , My dear, indeed it is.

Sixth sense and the consequent.

I wish I would stop seeing what others can not, Around them all is a faint aura of their deeds and I see them , The cast and the molds are all surreal and I see them. I see the hinged ghost of humanity that feigns their flesh and imitates it in it's nude hides. I see beyond the men and women they pose as. I see more than I should . The hollow holographic projections are all that I want to see for what I see beyond them is unnerving, disgusting, ripped, mutilated,charred,burnt faces beyond redemption. I saw one today,on a rather familiar projection, My dread and disappointment have gripped me yet again.

My blood and wine.

I drank a cup last night and spilled a stain on the floor. I drank a cup last night and threw the cup to some more. I drank another cup and then I soaked in the tartar flavour. I drank another cup and the I let out cheerful blabber. I drank another cup and it made perfect sense. I drank another cup and then  it's vapour was incense. I drank another cup and then I drank in what was left.
My blood and wine are tangled in reverie. My blood is pouring out at the augment of more red. My blood is pouring out my veins and for once not in dread.
I drank in a cup more and the wine was my blood. My sweet fortified blood. My fortified wine.
I'll drink in more and I know there is an acerbic quality to the liquor that it is. My blood was never neutral.

As time goes by.

To keep the bird of memory in a cage,
and the flight of life in the sky.
is to capture time in my own constraints
still flow on swiftly by.
put a wing on hopeless origami birds,
and to live before one dies.
the paper birds come crashing down
burn them, the smoke will fly.

"It is powerful yet compassionate,
within and without
above and below,
exists in darkness and in light
In presence as in absence
In negation as in affirmation"

 I lived by the ideal that it is
and I can live by the ideal that it is.

The rebounds and the leftovers.

Ricochet, Ricochet,
My words rebound,
Ricochet, ricochet,
there's is a dying sound,
the beat never dies,
the percussion alive
as the drums of the war roll,
and you claim not your share of the toll.
We are in a fight,
You do it wrong,
I did it right?
There's a  membrane so thin,
 that it collapses within
when you knock on that door,
there is rebound no more,
just a gossamer we tore.
and the dying scavenge,
left overs of revenge,
There are no fixes here,
just the wounds that need to mend,
Ricochet, Ricochet,
the paths we walk will bend,
Then there is no turning back,
there is a road to pretense,
I will burn that field around it,
You will not be alee ,
the wind will grip you in it,
and my flames you can not flee.
I was the smoke,
a bitter smoke,
a puff that torched your eyes,
Oh you blinded man of fire
she thought of you a flame,
oh you blinded man of cinders,
smoke and fire are not the same,
oh you foolish man of  common,
You became such wet timber,
Oh you foolish man of common,
I was not smoke nor the water.
Oh, you foolish man of common,
I was the wind, I was the air,
that kept flame alive
and you can not see or bear.
Embers, oh the embers,
I'll spark them and they will fray
and the fire will set alight, wet timber.
Ricochet.
burn, will you burn?
no, please ignite,
the flame that I can feed,
the fire that I need.
I'll rekindle you with the fire,
her passions and desire.
Oh, wet timber.
oh the surrounding hay and twigs,
I want to blow the leftovers away,
Ricochet.

The Trojan horse: I fight for a lost cause because I would win.

Stack the straw, stack the straw and the wood and hammer them and sew them and wrap in the rogue elements, let them in through the vents. You could use a bit of confetti to cushion the motives lest they would leak from the vents you leave for sufficient oxygen. What are the they, the weaklings you harbour, like the microbes that are too feeble to see the sunlight? They are liquid, worse they could be sublime and fumigate in the open before they pave their way through the walls .They will evaporate and dissipate in the open.

What should have been burnt at the gates I let in. I welcomed them in with trumpets when I should have rung on the clarions and the drums for a battle. The fumes did rise from the vents, they were toxin, They swept like a thick puff suffocating my guards,they spread to ravish my inhabitants and then they ruined the structures.I lost a war but the battle lasts. When ruined and ravaged I did not care of the consequences, You have only annexed, You will never conquer.
I set ablaze that horse and sealed the doors to my city. I let the fumes  be the air and I destroyed my own , I let the blood be the streams and I plundered what I had nurtured. I took a pint of my water pristine, a handful of my soil untouched, A sight of my sky cerulean and the air I held in my lungs with my breath , the fire in my heart was never vanquished. With the remains of my five elements I create a Utopia.

 Because you did count each straw in your cavalry to make the one horse that fell my city,
 You counted each straw in the city when you set fire to it.
 But my spirit is unharmed in uncountable and in essence.
 I rise from the fragments as I have always.
Idealist still, The chaos in your order, the anomaly that you thought you were in my city, the chink in your armour. I am , I will be.

A Hero and A Clown: The Dichotomy of a single existence

With a whimper of a sound
what should have been a thud,
he fell from our pedestals,
and crumbled ,not even bled
OUR HERO IS DEAD!
                               
                                       Aah the anguish, oh the pain,
                                              the tears were all in vain,
                                               he died not valiant but fled
                                          OUR HERO IS DEAD!


his cape was found all soiled,
he dispassionately had toiled,
to keep his dying flame,
his promises and his name,
one costume had he donned
another one on him spread.
Our hero is dead!
                                            Do you know what of him became?
                                           not a chaff of dust or a grain
                                             the diminished are left for martyrs  
                                              but he died in utter disdain
                                              your bitterness outweighs your pain?
                                              Yes, it is so plain,
                                               I do not cry, we will not mourn
                                                 we let out our ire in groans
                                             He wore a mask to please,
                                               the charade now just plays,
                                              on a painted plastered face.

OUR HERO IS NOW A CLOWN!he brushed aside our hopes,
and brushed on self some hues,
he drew an ear to ear grin,
to cover a perennial frown
OUR HERO IS NOW A CLOWN!          
                                                     Oh, the others are amused,
                                                                                 and he is happy too                                  
                                                                                At the vibrancy of those hues
                                                                                 few can tell faces from a face,
                                                                                   he makes merry out of disgrace
                                                                                  We have cried and we have wailed
                                                                                    How blatantly he failed
                                                                                    you and I in our expectation
                                                                                     He was the manifestation,
                                                                                     of such strong belief and passion,
                                                                                     there is no place for reason
                                                                                     The man changed like a season.
I am flustered, I have rued
I kept from you the news,
Can't keep you from the blues,
You'll find them scattered around
OUR HERO IS NOW A CLOWN!
Die and die in your pain,
Do not hold the blame
it is not yours to keep
Our hero was too weak.
baseness does not run amok
in the higher self you became,
But you can not take the blame!
You will not take the blame!

A silence we will keep,
A grave we will dig,
We will bury his cape and mask,
and then laugh while we dance,
over the soil we will press our feet
and the epitaph will read....
Here lies that one man...
we loved and thus he could not  be.
We take from him the wings,
we take from him the baton
and we hold them in our hands.

                                                The world took away your hero?
                                                 The world will take your pain
                                                 There is much pride in living
                                                  In his existence there is no shame.
                                                  LONG LIVE OUR HERO!

      


                                                                                 
                                                                                   
                                                                                   

                                                             

Deluge and Surface

The keratin is dead as well as before,
I float ,I float, bobbing over waters
buoyant under the skin,
bloated in the insides
and salined on the core,
I float , I float, I float.

Fluids bodily in fluid
I sank in the waves now  inspid,
and the waters were all tepid,
I drown,I drown, I drown.
Comfort is such a lulll song,
All that is dead is longed.
I creeped through the weed
and breathe in the algae
marshed in diffusing flesh,
the dissolving is my remedy .

My emotion is such a blunt anchor,
My stall is such a brief pause,
My mind is no rusted craft,
my heart is a makeshift shaft,
till it drives me,
It would pool in it's own blood
and thump like water bowl lake
making a tinkling sound
on the bamboo sticks light beating.
the bamboo oars were left for paddling,
the boat I left for sinking,
the dead I left for thinking
and the deluge I took for land.
Where do I stand?
Where do they stand?Where do we stand?

I float,I float ,I  float
strands of hair float
stranded and bare float.
I plunged to search for you,
I'll take you to the land,
I'll take you from the floods
and put your feet to stand,
but I, I just want to drown now.
The deluge is my land.
I do not seek to stand.
I was made to swim or sink,
To feel neither to think.
I'll take my raft for shore,
not an inch less, not one more.

Bricolage

lest I wander,
Always do.
Lest I am lost,
 always am,
In the progression of my contraries,
I swift, sidle , and flitted past.
In all the twists I meander
never timid in my sharp turns
and the bends smooth, but the intent lasts.
brush strokes, sprayed and mopped.
Then a careful , light placed incline
to the paint in the backdrop slopped.


A pastel here, smudged by the undertone
of starker, darker and bold,
cutting, plastered, origami papered
and at the edges not center, the paste shall hold.
here a fact strewn, there, a logic misplaced
left to their devices, but never overlooked in glaze.

Swiftly I phase,
Swiftly I unlearn,
add a florid wrapped paper parcel,
I'll scratch off the fixing tapes.
Cutting confetti from the silver,
and mashing the ribbons scraped.

Turn the boxes upside down,
house in one,
rest in another.
and cut holes from the cardboard,
string them to the life sized doubles.
peep out through the vents,
smooth in their edges,
but not in my intent.

then when all the sundry gathered
and turned and twisted in potpourri,
fragrant chaos rises, coloured in chance,
do not sift or pick or tidy
, just add my bottled romance.
Stain it with my wine,
let it run over the work.
let it bathe in it's full bodied nature,
Like my blood has filled it's veins,
Like my blood is oozed and drained,
with the trickle of a passion,
A bricolage embodied.
An emanation
of all possible
and the erst en-caged probable.

Olios boxed and wrapped in cardboard.

What a hotchpotch have you created midst the patterns, when the tangles seek to untangle themselves , you take a needle and sew with a thread right through. Beading and rosaries, buttons and chinks, cartilage from the fish you chewed on, the bones of your hunt, the horns and tails of the devils you tamed, the tooth sabred and savoured, take the sharp trinkets collected in a while now and needle them into your garland of myriad. Experiences that you are seeking, experiences that are fleeting,experiences that have bothered you the least,bring them out of that box, the one that is lidded at the dark corners of your cupboard.The box that has been wisely stored in oblivion and now cut the string that knots them all in the peripheries, for I have found a treasure of olios. The one I seek to add to mine. Open the box, then I'll throw them into fire, or lock them at will, or simply put on display.