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.

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.

Le Proof....

Often as I have quoted the same
There is a cure to bursting pleasure,
it's sporadic remains.
a sensation to cease
a stab of a pain
but numbness,
 a curse beyond mundane.
wince and write off,
in a 'whence'
and then with a sly
I wrote in a nudge
to all fowl cry.
"tell me(if at all there exists), the antidote
to Novocaine"

Blank Noise

Blank noise,
blank noise.
all that is
a blank noise.
even the white,
went out of sight.
the wind past the tunnel
it was hollow.
Cuddled underground,
a hare's burrow.
Long ears, My ears long
a distant voice,
a distant voice.
and all they catch
is a blank noise,
not a sound.
Underground.

Perception

I cut a truth in two,
A half I kept from self
A half I keep from you,

Suppress the sadist inside,
as I cut little incisions
and make truth from half lies
with an alchemist's precision

Deny either of us two,
the whole as it is true,
I have cut it in equal piece
for fragmenting unease.

The truth is brittle as it is
too strong to survive with the weak
and too stark too outraged
to subtle down with the meek.

The wedge is thin.it divides,
the line between true lies
there is truth, there is deception,
but the devil called perception?

We have sold to the devil,
There is no good and no evil.
It is defined as per say
Infinite in many ways.

What was half a lie
half a truth became
and further twisted and turned
and truth and lies were the same.

There will be truth, there will be deception
what becomes of perception?
and then there is wrong and right
but what's left to decide?

then we termed 'Belief'
Laws, religion and lack of it.
All carnage of the psyche
split and as perceived.

We free our own devise
of virtue and of vice
and sins have become petty crimes
with convenience of times.
Soon they will be mundane,
but for the paranoids and insane.

There are wars and there onset,
arguments and unrest
outcomes,grim gore grief.
never death of a belief.

There is truth, there is deception
What a curse is this perception!

I had cut a truth in
equals of two
as one it was defined
now it is sublime

there is half a truth
half a deception
and triumphing rest
is the evil good perception.

Conviction

No altars of morality
forgive my concocted sin.
sacrifices have been made,
not to them but within.

of what has been uprooted,
truth has been denied
but whatever sacrilege
has been,is worth of the one belied.

Love seeks courage of conviction,
what would convicts give?
on paroles of restriction,
so still unfulfilled live.