Month: August 2010

Bed-sheet Genius

Rumours like fires spread
of a man finally out of bed
claiming to have seen in a dream
the meaning of life and the
trick to remember the dream.

In his dream was a layer of snow,
the more he dug the more he’d know.
He dug till the air grew thin
motionless he stood at the end,
with the sky, far away, grinning.

And in his dream did he realize
that he could’ve dug on either side.
No sooner than he had thought this
the earth beneath started to crack
and the wind broke in with a hiss.

His dream was now flooded with light
no ground below, he was in a flight.
He fell through the sky to the land,
only to find that if he had dug upwards,
he would’ve only found sand.

So the genius fell and fell,
through the hole and the sky.
The trick to remember the dream
was to break the rhyme.
Thus he woke up with a start.

Spheres and Cubes

A cube full of bourbon
a pot full of wishes
a pot full of sleep
a cube full of ants
a Descartes full of death.

A steeple of faith
an idol of gold
an idol of dust
a steeple of clouds
a temple full of death.

A step forward with hope
two eyes full of pride
two eyes that are blind
a step forward to merely abide
a cadaver full of death.

Stall, to rest.
Wait, to hey.
Wait, to stay.
Stall, and pray.
A halt for life, a life for death.

Big Black Fleshy Mariah

The black dead protein
shielding her silver skull,
her green glassy eyes,
a cheek, I love that so.

A drop of salty sweat
cooling her rubbery neck,
her rubbers, reaching
a deep dark hole, I love that so.

The reflection from her polished toe,
lighting the dark taverns,
between her thighs, raising
a million salutes, I love that so.

Her disgust with her love,
his obsession with the whore,
bodies craving for brains,
deliriously, I love that so.

An exercise in poetry

Breathless: the search left him. He refused to believe that his inquisition was he. He ran, shuffling between copies, looking each image in the eye, trying to find out where he lay. Each image, in its turn, looked him in the eye, trying to pierce his heart, stabbing his character, only to see if it was real or not. Or was it or was it not. Mirrors create more mirrors, only to lead us astray. Us? Oh no, don’t you dare judge me, you fucking image of mine! I am, and you are not. What is it? Who spoke? Was it an echo? You bloody playing games with me? One of us has a voice, now that it has come to it, and that one is the real one. Oh no, tell me I’m insane, tell me it’s the voices in my head, tell me it’s not you speaking, tell me that I am the one who is real. Not you, not you, not anyone of you.
Look up! haha, there we are, the real one owns. Or does he? I see a mirror above me! I see fingers being pointed at me from above. Are only the mirrors real? What is real? Are we just living vicariously in a hyperreality? Fuck. It can be true!
What is true?

Professional Confession

Crossing lines etched in stone,
daring to fill them with ink,
breaching limits in bound paperbacks,
here I confess, wrong I am.

Communion with the mother,
violating her tender love,
communion with the father,
extracting revenge for his love.

Laws sacrificed at the altars of art,
portraits misshapen, abject and dark,
godless, lawless, the characters roam
a madman I am, guilty I stand.

Here I demand to be burned at the stake
but for once you to stand by me.
Here I prove myself guilty,
there I raise a finger at thee.


Brightness lost, from under the clouds
muffled light diffuses out,
wrapping the earth in a blanket of darkness.
Not dark enough to be shown a light to,
not bright enough to warm the eyes.

A head full of laughter clubbed to death
by a nose full of snot,
constricting the flow of happiness
by a mere thought full of guilt.
Where was Lewdness born, who is his mother?

Sin is not to blame, the goodness is.
Judges we become.
Weeds of pride destroying the crops,
of love, happiness, and warm indifference.
They’re right when they sing the times are a-changin’.

The Crotch Whispers

The little man dangles on,
tired of generations spawning,
the symbol of ancestral mistakes,
the artefact of their guilt.

Surrounded by filth and sweat and lust
he still has the balls to rise up again
and maybe he is crying for salvation
when we thrust him in again.

Like Sisyphus he will stand again,
hope he hasn’t lost ever,
taking the burden of expectant souls,
he will climb the mountain again.

When we are the gods
when we push him into the caves,
when we forge his desires to spit on us
as a craving for the abysmal abysses,
are we being objective?
Or are we thinking with our dicks?

Interview with the Coyote

The illusion of speed, I have
a rain of colours, I am
livelier than the background,
which repeats and repeats.

I run over the cliff,
I walk on the air,
I eat stone and shit,
I fall only to run again.

I chase the Roadrunner,
I am the failure of the show,
I and my million schemes
don’t even annoy that asshole.

I can demand some dignity,
but what use would that be,
for if I catch the asshole,
what would the next show be?

Chuck has been unjust,
but I am the hero of the show,
for it’s not the little asshole
who people come to see.

A vain absurd delusion, you’d say
but he is not so unjust, I assure you,
he’s given me a mind of my own
to cook up delicacies like freedom.

I have the freedom to stop,
I can refuse to work,
but poor Chuck would then die of boredom
and that’s how I rule him.

So you see how every tunnel I traverse
has an end, and it’s only the faraway light I see.

Lovelorn and Lonely

Part-I: Accusations

Years I have spent with you,
yet I was alone,
you soaked all the pity,
dried all my tears too.

Choice I was left with none,
donned a mask of smiles,
songs of hope I sung,
drummed my hollowness for beats.

It was you who echoed within me
absorbing all the light,
leaving me lonelier than before,
leaving me darker than the night.

I sang to you songs of love
but you didn’t answer,
I sang to myself the songs of love
and heard you laughing at me.

Now you ask for my life,
to spend my life with you,
but your abject intensity
you won’t let me die too.

I surrendered my energy to you,
who grew more powerful
grew darker than before
and swallowed me whole.

My tragedy is your comedy,
oh villain of my life
smile now that I have survived
only to be eaten again by you.

Part-II: She retorts

Oh lover of mine,
how dull and blind you are,
stop wearing these glasses,
look how bright it is outside.

I was always there with you,
was I not? when you needed me,
did I ever leave you?
how selflessly I stood by your bedside.

I hummed when you sang to me,
I was the resonance in your beats,
I was never the hollow,
I was your character’s depth.

I doffed my hat always to you
I was the audience you performed to,
how true your characters were then,
how pure your acting!

I have a name very silly,
for I am the eternal companion,
yet you curse me-
call me by my name.

I was what you dreamed of,
I was your imagination,
bleeding, red as blood,
bloody perfect.

I have never complained
but you have been inadequate,
seeking treasures of dust
when you had all the stones.

Complain again my dear,
complain as much you want,
but I am merely the shadow
that confirms the light.

The Coward

As I look out from my window,
my apparition shining its eyes on me,
at the sky, at the rays filtered
by the leaves decorating like jewels
the ghostly barren caricature of a tree,
I feel my body tremble in anticipation
of the life ahead of me,
lacking promise, lacking hope, lacking humour,
destined to end like the tree’s
when some million years later
someone digs out the little drop of oil
that would be me, soulless,
ready to be burned off into the air,
by a fuming exhaust of a car
traversing the path I once held so sacred,
which is as sacred to the car too,
but is a mere smile on the face of time,
to be crushed when it gets angry,
I see my apparition looking at me
laughing at me, mocking me silently,
showing me how ridiculously ephemeral
my life, your life, all life can be.

In the horror of this strange prospect,
I close my eyes, press my lids tightly close,
blocking out all the light filtered for me,
refusing to see any of the beauty meant for me,
spreading guilt and dismay like universal entropy,
which again, ridiculously, or hopefully,
is as ephemeral as humanity.