girls and boys

yellow fringed voices wither quietly in the silvered night songs sung by reddened eyes whisper intently in the blazing light people walk and walk on by the spot where I rest my weak mind sparkling gems of shouting kites hold their breath begging respite over and over the children cried snatched at each others’ living toys ask in a bell-like voice why the girls hate the boys and love them

revolving doors

The coffee-house was
gentle and quiet,
visited by heaving chests
and sorrowful minds,
their watches playing
hide and seek with
the rulers of the world.
A black jacket,
splattered red and blue
with voices from fantasy
lands, from places of the calm shivering
of silent prophets
of forgotten birthday wishes,
talks to the shadows
and slithers along the
corridors of gloomy
adolescent boys and girls
kiss with borrowed interest
in obscure seasons
of delight that have passed
by so slowly from
your mind
reaches back sometimes, I know,
(so please do not lie)
to times of heroic speaking
of home
and how humble I am
not trying to lose myself
in words that they have said
that I am not trying to lose myself
in the coffee-house is glowing
with a surprising light
emitted by dead writers
of prose and poetry written
in rhymes that she sang as
a child is walking slowly past
the swings of
bright purple is fading slowly,
of course I am not trying to lose myself
in what you said
I was not good anymore according to
the rules are unwritten in stone
in a black paint
the sky blue again someday
I will try to lose myself in what
you said the joker is smiling
as usual
I am trying to lose myself in what
you said you liked my stories
are my favourite way to
stop thinking so much
confusion in this world of
narrow lanes are always being rained
upon the table perched a cat
that had learned the art of perching
from the bird he had swallowed
whole centuries have passed by
since I haven’t thought of
you are playing with your old dolls
so peacefully that I want to just watch
now come tell me is it not fun
to be alive is a gift that not many
people have a right
to say what you want is important
when words are the only thing that
you may command me to go to bed
but I want to stay awake a while
more tea for me please
do not ask me if I am trying to lose myself
in what you said when the coffee-house was gentle and quiet, visited by heaving chests and sorrowful minds.

tripping on endless land

Burning fingers,
smoking towers,
dying monsters
and lovers blindfolded,
loving themselves,
and stabbing at their hearts,
with knives dipped in alcohol.
Blue-eyed horses
whispering to singing stars
and wishing for me.

I am the hopeful dreamer
dreaming of endless lands
and running men,
still running,
with orange sneakers
on the raindrops above.

I am the hopeful dreamer,
ding-dong bell –
hats that jingle
and jangle in the mist
while little kids
kill old men
whose mothers are in pain,
seeking solace in vain.

Words flow so easily
but never know where to go
once they dive into the ocean
of the hopeful dreamer,
dreaming of endless lands.

The pink iguanas
with glazed eyes
stare at stone monkeys
and wish for a better life
and wish for me –
I am the hopeful dreamer,
dreaming of endless lands,
searching for a clue
that might lead
the trench-coat addicts
to salvation and death.
The yellow men
run and run
and run and run
and the torn flags
shimmer in the evening sun
and the hopeful dreamer
keeps rambling on
and on
and on.

Halos shatter,
hearts break,
the hopeful dreamers
keep dreaming of endless lands
and wish for me
to become a part
of the blue baby’s bawling.

dreaming of another place

Through the green
shades of a quiet
evening
the roving insects
of delight
scurried
over the decaying
body of an old
prisoner of mankind.
His eyes
turned into silver
mirrors of dismay
and his ears
deaf
to the cries
of the blue
baby’s dreaming.
And the shadows
of the oaks crawled
toward the edges
of his pink-skinned
fingers while the little children
played in the garden
next door
and their cries
were unheard
by the blue baby
as it dreamed
of tiny dancers
floating into familiar
places and dead singers
weeping for long-lost
diamond necklaces.
The professor watched
the children play
and scribbled
on his fading hope
while the blue baby dreamed
of another place.

blue clouds in the mirror

Walk slowly
by the doorway,
if you please,
and leave
the lingering whiff
of cigarettes
and alcohol,
if you please,
but don’t drop
jagged pieces
of your porcelain
heart on the ground
please –
it is hard
to walk
and my feet
already bleed.

You can sigh
again
and again,
if you please,
and whisper
words that make
fun of everything
that you had built,
if you please,
but take only a little
away from
my memory
please –
the paint on the door
is starting to peel.

carnival

You are sitting
by the window
and that’s unusual
but only because
the curtains are
not there for once
and there is only
a shroud of smoke
that stands between
you and the circus
that passes by.
The townsfolk are
revelling for now.

There are elephants
from the land of
cherry-pie-cream
says the ringmaster
and you raise your eyebrows
because you’ve never
heard
of the land of cherry-cream-pie.

The trapeze artists are
ugly
and their sequined
dresses are borrowed
from the dying queen.
She has no use for them
anymore because she is wise
and waits only
for death
to kiss her
goodnight.

The bear is very happy
because
he is stoned
and the shimmering reflection
of the sun on your glasses
reminds him of the night
when the sky exploded
into bolts
of purple
and lime.

The jokers keep crying
so everyone can laugh.
They aren’t happy
because they’ve
always been sad.

When the notes of a requiem
blare from
the trumpets with diamonds on their sides
the girl with golden-brown hair
smiles her smile
while you puff away.

The children crowd
around the carnival trail
but are pushed away
by grown-ups looking for their fix.
They talk so very loudly
that you cover your ears,
look away for a while
and notice grey-green eyes
turn your way.

In the middle of chaos
and fanfare
and joy
your mind travels
back to the grey-green eyes,
again and again.

You hear the tragic
notes of gloom
that escape your old
school-teacher’s brain
but pay no heed
because she won’t
be alive much longer.


And so scribble
away, scribble away
your silly words
and your inarticulate prayers
for time is up
and blindness envelopes
the world.

voiceless dreams

He becomes
a stranger
to people
and to everything
they say.
His hearing was
perfect,
once,
and even now
he listens
to music with perfect ease
and can hear the rustling
of autumn leaves
from a distance
or the sorry sigh
of a lost soul,
but is not able
to hear a word
that is said to him.
A friend described
the beauty
of silence
under the surface
of a pool of water
and though
he cannot swim
he forces himself
to go under
and he never
comes up for air
for the silence
is very beautiful.

tired

and the jelly-brained nomad
whispers to me
and asks me
the meaning and
I shake my head,
glance at myself
and raise a hand
towards the door
to my left.
The jelly-brained nomad
walks through the door
and I sit quietly,
smoking,
of course,
and watching the stars,
of course,
and missing the fireflies,
of course,
and the jelly-brained nomad
whispers to me
and asks me
the meaning and
I shake my head,
glance at myself
and raise a hand
and disappear
from green field,
starry sky,
life,
and the universe
walks on by.

Ouroboros

The Ouroboros (also spelled Oroborus, Uroboros or Uroborus) is an ancient symbol depicting a snake or dragon swallowing its tail, constantly creating itself and forming a circle.

Too cold. From then to now. Too cold.