moonlight

and you walk
and walk
and walk into
the same room
over and over again.
The schizophrenic joker
takes you by the hand
and leads you
to the ice-cream man
who hands you a cone,
delicious as can be,
chocolate flavoured,
sprinkled with nuts on top.
The sitar-man sits
in the corner
and woos you
with his dreams of swirling
colours,
a kaleidoscope that keeps calling
and helps you fall lower
whenever the earth opens
to swallow you whole.
And there’s a knock
and in walks the man
on the moon,
toothy smile
and hunched back,
a white rabbit walking by,
his feet
are dirty from all the walking
and his smile has yellowed
with age
but sparkles still,
feeding off the sun.
So you speak to
the joker and the ice-cream man,
the sitar-man and the one from the moon
and you wonder why.
And the flickering
television screen shows
you your life in slow motion,
every detail making monsters
of little flowers of guilt.
A crimsoned hand
extends out of the mirror
and touches your lonely,
rotting body and the others say goodbye
and the dripping of blood wakes you
and you are pulled by the hand
and you dance a grim fandango
as you are pushed to the door
and you walk

rekindling

The rain pitters
and patters gently
on my blue jacket;
it drowns out the cicadas.
The sky blossoms
and blooms
in its splendid darkness.
I raise my head
and let the raindrops
caress my smiling face.
The rekindled flame
of home keeps me warm.
You picked your magic wand
and took me home and
after so long
I am happy.

Words are meaningless
And so fake poets hate all
That is around them

Smoke always rises
Smokers always look up once
Before looking down

red

Life ebbs out
slowly.
The blood
drips, drips,
drips
into a trail
of violent
red
that betrays
the silence
of the world.
The clenching
of fists
turns
the dripping
into a
stream
which helps
death come
quicker.

happy birthday

The bench is cold,
like the night,
maybe colder.
I raise my head,
exhale,
the cicadas
grow quiet
and surprise me.
The night sky
is not empty
but it is lonely.
This young poet,
whether fake or true,
is growing older –
dreams of the myriad
colours of the evening sky
are slowly
being pushed away
by a fascination
for the cold desolation
of the clear night sky.

hollywood

Life turns
into a montage
of film clips.
He sits
amidst the gloom
of dusk,
watching the evening sky,
mottled purple and golden,
quietly contemplating
over a silently smoked
cigarette.
Quiet music
plays in the background;
a tune
from home,
something to remind him
of all that has come
and gone.
I watch with mild
amusement
and pity him
while I snicker
at his foolishness
and naivety.
If only we,
the wiser ones,
could set
erring protagonists
on the right path
we wouldn’t
have to sit through
another scene of
trivial nothingness.

leaden soul

I drag my heavy feet
and my leaden soul
out to the edge
of the cliff,
back where I was
told
I had started from.
The sky looks
the same,
the other cliffs
are lonely
and the waters
swirl in
the same,
menacing way.
I don’t remember
which one I was
that day
when we took our leap.

I drag my feet
and my leaden soul
here tonight
so that I can force
myself
to write –
that is how I defined
myself
and so I must –
our definitions stick
for a long time,
till someone
tells us
that we were wrong.

I drag my feet
and my leaden soul
here and I light
another cigarette –
they are no comfort
and make me cough
a little more
of the ebbing life
out of me,
that which made me jump
and try to swim
though I knew
eventually
I would
drown.

“He searches
for the girl
with mysterious eyes,
so he may dive in
and look
for himself.”

Words from long ago
come rushing back
with different meaning,
warped by the callousness
of unlearned hands,
hands that lack
knowledge.
Is the lack
of knowledge
innocence,
or is innocence
just another mask
that I found
in the smoky hallway?

Now I don’t know
anything.
But slowly
I am walking
back to long-forgotten
alleyways,
now desolate,
lonely,
waiting for footsteps
and I pray,
to who, I don’t know,
sometimes,
and wish
I had never
gone beyond,
and I know
that I lie to myself,
to life,
the universe,
and everything.

fireflies

Fidgeting under the steel
of the moonbeams,
the boy watches
little insects
scuttle
into little cracks
on the pavement.
There are the
usual friends
with him –
the smoke, wrapping
around his slight shoulders,
the trembling leaves,
whispering constantly,
the cicadas,
eternally wooing him,
the stars,
talking to each other
of distant dreams,
but not the fireflies –
now dead or hidden,
waiting for another summer.

smoky hallway

The smoky hallway
lies
empty
once more.
The flashing lights
only flicker,
only sometimes.
Masks, strewn
across the floor,
everywhere.
Some broken,
some chipped,
some never used before,
some never to be used
again.
You ask me if I
have a mask.
I don’t know –
there are no mirrors
on the walls –
they were broken
in a storm.
The only mirrors left
are where the masks
should have eyes
but the masks
are not mine
to touch.