no rhyme nor reason

Seaface

2011-08-24T13:06:00.001-05:00

While waiting for another whiff of unrequited longing
I stumble upon bare arms that shimmer
under streetlamps in a distant city.
The quiet swish of a fluttering
sleeve from a strange home
tickles the still-
laughing eyes from another land.
The slow return to arms unreturning
in my waiting mind reminds me
of the seas that lie
between here and everywhere.

petals underfoot

2011-04-06T18:50:00.000-05:00

My brothers' dreams flow swiftly:
sugaring swiftly through and past
drowning ankles: chattering amongst
themselves, shconspiring, whispering,
whipping into twelve-barred conversations
little parsts of us should never
hear. Lovers and conspirators, the keepers
of secrets buried long within a few centimetres
of crackling paper towers held
gently, gentler than lives ever will.
Racing dogs racing past slumbering minds,
racing to sit still on silvered slivers of alliterations.
The krschickoush of lent-out dreams
waddle past us and we pick on the dreams of our brothers,
togetherly grate upon the iron-schqueek gates
of togetherness and together walk
perfectly paved pavements of petulant petals and cliches.

signs of humanity

2011-04-03T18:40:00.001-05:00

By the by-lanes whipping through
the city the walkers saunter and stroll,
parading past vacant eyes
looking upon families of fours. The plumage
of such exotic birds bears no electric colours
or blooming feathers, just little sandaled-feet
and slight touches of fingertips.

By the pebbles and stone-fragments
lie white dogs and a black wolf
amidst scampering rodents who dare
scuttle by the fingertips of pensive men
with vacant eyes. A misheard siren
in the distance forces the baying
of wolves and a sudden silence imposed by the quiet of the other few.

The signs of humanity stretch
past the cobbled side-walk: the buttends of days
and nights waiting for a fresh breath
within the bags that contain our separate lives.
The churning of wheels loses itself by the seaside,
the breakers stumbling towards the insurmountable
walls of our walking feet.

pin-striped designer suits

2011-03-21T16:42:00.001-05:00

The dreams of my brothers get sucked into thin air,
vanish into evening dust,
take rest upon uneasy shoulders, still tired
from fucking ugly girls
walking down well-lit streets. They are bought dirt-cheap –
a pittance – are taken into back-roads,
turned into carnival rides and goatee-clad assholes,
vigorous biceps and stable marriages. The dreams of my long-lost
brothers are sold as sure-things, or as dowries to women
who cannot read more than a page, even of excrement
listed on best-seller lists. My brothers' dreams slink
down staircases, across hallways ill-lit, through
the bright sunlight of open fields where we played as children.

The dream of my brothers finds escape in dark
corners of childhood memories,

each walking towards it as long as no one else
is looking – the dreams of my brothers fumbling
and fighting for themselves, for being liked
in vulgar terms – the most intoxicating kind –
where my brothers' dreams were stolen
and bought, and traded. And we wax eloquent
about ourselves in masturbatorial pleasure
unknown to the prudes,
our dicks hanging clean with the after-cum of unsatisfactory fucking.
Always willingly,

making this a most lucrative trade for us all.

We, the owners of such valuable gifts, we the bastions
of times of old, the ones
who swerve off the path, those few
exploring the safe areas around paths of safety. We skipping there
where money and spouses abound.

If only they knew that the dreams of my brothers have been sucked up and
regurgitated. If only we knew
that we were eating shit and puke, selling
it to the whores,
to the souls of our younger brothers.
The requiem plays so softly at times;
the bugles of our youth
working their soft ways into our souls, asking
abeyance to our thoughts and to matters relating to our lazing brains.

Never have we known the truth and never shall we with luck on our side.

I have seen the dreams of my brothers drawn into caves
where the lure of lust seduces the last bit
of us into submission,
without seeing that the simpler worlds we once
had are sold for sums bigger than our simpler vocabularies
of longing will ever understand. We struggle
towards the uniformity of life
with trust
but we see each other selling
our dreams into groups of unknown heritage,
trusting the world to pan out and let all that is good be.

I have seen the dreams of my brothers fucked with
and
ejaculated upon,
tied down
by nice people
in bed, whipped by subdued maniacs,
whispering into others' dreams that they would prefer
death to torture rather than choices.

My brothers' dreams keep me up through nights,
dreaming of tsunamis and destroyed hotels, bloody
cages of glass, and dogs attacking
each other without the correct provocation. I have seen my brothers' dreams
attacked by hungry dogs and jealous cats,
by voices modulated through jealousy;
those dreams never understood.

I have seen the skin on my brothers' arms fall off into the abyss where the corpses of dreams lie.

These dreams wake and walk
sometimes, troubling the fable creatures and legends of yore,
the masks and labels.
They talk of pillars in the courtyard often.
And of the pangs of hunger from the choice between soft
amnesia and satiation, sometimes without battle.

I have seen the dreams of brothers
disappear into sex,
into hash, fermenting
into nothing exciting,
nothing that competes
with the heroes of poetry once venerated,
no overdoses here, no fucking up, a few lines, a little puking,
no tragedy. Maybe we deserve
no fame except amongst the giggling
group of once-upon-a-time-teenagers we'd rather have mouth-fucked. My brothers'
dreams never tell me
if I should be grateful for fantasies or pour a drink.

alley #34

2011-02-18T21:58:00.001-05:00

I cannot find
the poetry I had dreamt of
as a boy.

The wisdom of ages
is showered upon
me,
as
I
tremble and am told to sit still,
to watch and to speak,
to say little.

Trying to understand the
whispers of men who told me
they know more than I can.
The men whisper to me
words that are heavy
with smiles of the sorrowful.
I beg for more and doors I will never
enter are thrown open for me.

The memories of boyhood cluster around
seedy dreams of waking up. Sleep winds
past alleyways imagined as a child.
I weave through their grey insides and stumble
upon words from before.

The old are jealous of the young.

Children envy the past
that belongs to the dying.

Do you remember
when we walked
into the strange landscape
of cluttered words,
silent musings,
magic dust?

first-printed words

2011-02-12T16:27:00.002-05:00

Still, though years have passed
and our paths have diverged,
my only reaction to those glorious
first-printed
words mirrors your disgust at
the adolescent discovery
of desire and the unknown. When those
simple sentences poured through
my closed eyes I worried of no parents
and judgements, no censorship from truth. A simple exclamation of the heart.
Yet that disbelief and shock rattle
past a mind struggling to reconnect
and all along you ask for another.
No accusation,
nor an explanation, just a simple acceptance
of the way the windows rolled up
every time we went out for a drive.

spectre

2011-01-12T17:04:00.003-05:00

There, up on the undulating backdrop
of my worst fears, I realised
the one fear to haunt my everlasting
worries. No clothes for a rich boy's home?
The deed was done, the memory
etched upon the mind of an eventually wasting
body, slowly circling, spiralling towards,
beckoning, wooing,
the centre of its universe, wherein it was
conceived, so unglamorous, a foot
from where the little boy sat and spoke.
Still the haunting innocence lasts, gnawing
at scraps of skin shed since time began.
Scraps of dead cells inherited
from a protected skeleton
embalmed within layers of desires
for a simple life, of a few cars, and a family,
a wife to cook, a son to rear,
a few hundred men to command and disallow
from letting passage to
clothes fit for a rich boy's home.

return to civilisation

2010-11-11T15:34:00.004-05:00

These silly syllables rolled off our tongues
slipping silently into the brains
of our friends,
bringing with them ideas long lost,
ideas of beauty, and poesy, and dreams unlost.

The trees waved, sparking off
temptation, the woods sparkled
with unknown libations. We took
our dreaming nights, walking
towards unknown sights. None knew
the way back to city lights.

“These silly syllables will be the end of us,” spoke
the wisest of the few, the rest treading
slowly back to their nests.

I looked around me and saw their faces,
the candlelight shone bright, his teeth
glimmered, his eyes a dull grey,
they warranted a pat on the shoulder,
a come-along from an old
comrade.
We moved like whispers in the darkest night.

These silly syllables brought us
to a tree, a sycamore bent with
age and apathy. It had seen the best
pass by its boughs; it had seen them all
passing back below.

A single step changed our minds – we walked
on and nought said a word,
there was much too much at stake,
the children within asked for another time to argue.
We moved
under the cover
of darkness, lineages mixed
with mud and some united.

Now there were but few
who walked on, only
some who felt the call
of our childhoods.

He stopped me,
patting my shoulder. I realised
that none was around.
In a single syllable of unlearned innocence
my friend told me to hold back
and stay a while.

He showered my unbelieving senses
with reason and doubt, the furthest glimpse
of a light in the dark
was yet so far from known
city lights. We lifted our friendship,
said goodbye to our friends,
walked away again
towards the flicker of the neon lights.
These silly syllables roll of our tongues
slipping silently into the brains of our friends.

along the sea shore

2010-10-15T06:22:00.000-05:00

By the bedlam of roving
footsteps
the slight shudder of her shoulder
unchains streaming shards
of amber rays oblivious to minds
wandering around.
An unfaltering gaze
pierces distant shores
guarded from meaner sights. In another life,
borrowing a vestige
of loveliness, she
becomes
the carrier for one
poet-son's verse. In
the here and now of my own
wandering she conjures
the whiff of cities distant
and never to be seen. Never
breaking her gaze to meet
another crawling over the serpentine
contours of her back, never choosing to watch
the world watching her as time passes
by, she waits. And the sun sinks
through the tangled
mazes of her hair.

desert

2010-10-01T17:13:00.002-05:00

So simply you cut them down, taking
what little we had to offer,
taking the wandering alleys flowing towards
unknown destinations into your
grasp, washing them down
with a simple, soft, quiet sprinkle of nectars
we never tasted as younger boys, giving us forgotten
men a flavour of delirium, begging,
pleading with us, pleasing us so subtly,
while asking us for little and a little
more than we ever knew we could give.

So sudden and hopeful your requests,
our unlearned minds couldn't hope
to resist the charm of your ruby-red
fingertips

(familiar as they were
from unending nights
when we muttered thrashing about
wondering, waking to wander and step
onto the one path that would always,
eventually, find us another; yet so strange:
those caresses from your worldly hands
left us ashook, our minds astray, those
senses, still seeming to resist the world)

blossoming.

Never could we hope to enslave you as we had
all others we encountered, while quietly
stepping aside so as to deflect
blame that we would nonetheless meet
on uncobbled paths the city had lain out
for us. We were special;
and you knew.

We never expected you,
you see,
walking so idly amongst us,
in utter rags like ours.
Then you raged (and bloomed),
then you called out to us,
and hummed a ditty somehow
known, which we failed to resist.

We never thought,
you see, that you could
swoop
so silently upon lost boys,
that these little fortifications that we troubled with
could so easily give in
to subtle requests that you presented
so silently to our naked minds.

Our humanity we forgot, taking pleasure
in the animal games we
played and taught
each other – the world
looking
on would shudder then shrug,
not once did it break past
the fortifications we unknowingly built till
you, of course you,
stepped in.

The little touches
of our dying skins, minuscule turns of our brimming
heads: dying:
breaking up the complex harmony
our little universe had invented such
aeons ago, slowly withering, saying
goodbye to each other, missing quietly the traces
of sweat that lingered
past bedtime, far beyond the hours
that our mothers had thought
us gone.

So simply you cut them down then,
so easily nudging our prayers down the chasms
of unending doubt far worse than
the doubts the prophets warned would
befall those of us who lingered still,
and forever,
within the chasms of haunting odours
of each other, the touch of our dying
skins, the long-forgotten touches of our skins,
those wondering mornings, and unending askances
of everlasting wandering within
the desert that has but one path,
one cobblestoned path we treaded ever
so slowly that long ago.

2010-10-01T17:06:00.001-05:00

Commanding
an army of peons,
he conquered divisions
cast by human foibles, taking
in stride all that he must
because, of course, the future
generations need sustenance.

Each wrinkle folds over itself
tells a story of Faridkot and Amritsar,
of Burrabazar and Lake Town,
his dying grounds are decided:
the embers haunt these environs and
our minds. Faltering steps assume mythical arguments
of survival. He knew he was immortal:
now his grandsons watch him
waste away
ever so slowly. The sunken
eyeballs that watch us lose
their gleam-over ever so quickly, the days
wash by: my father. And his brothers look
on in disbelief, the giver of life going
so cheaply, undone by simple diseases,
by afflictions to our basest urges. We watch
him shrink,
slip
into reveries and dreams:
they summon memories that trouble us so.

Wishes wash over, trying to cling onto
all that they have done without ever knowing
what they even thought,
their was done, ours we offer for
we know not what we want.

relocation

2010-08-13T15:17:00.000-05:00

Appearing so softly upon the balcony
of mosaic that silts silently while we sip
our tea, the visions of a new
neighbourhood dig in and find
a corner in my overcrowded memory, take
a bite out of the past, shake their wet
tails, whimper and settle into a comfortable
post to watch the wanderings of
the heart.

The young woman, reminiscent of poems
read so long ago, the earliest imaginings
of otherness, scorned by pornographic
rebukes from allies, carries water
vessels back and forth, and always I sit
reading of streams of consciousness.

A mother runs upon love that her eight year-old
drops silently and unassumingly
as his training wheels carry him
over the thinly layered asphalt of our
neighbourhood.

Ah, possession, that long-sought-after
and easily-found ware, why must you turn
simple words into an affirmation of avarice?

inheritance

2010-08-13T15:07:00.001-05:00

In the manner of olden times we
walked silently over oft-trodden
sidewalks while our thoughts, distracted
by their lure, rained misgivings over
the roads to be paved by semblances
of ourselves in a mist-driven
future. The return home is marred, but
always, by these familiar traces
of unsettling intimacy on strangers'
faces. While, slyly,
unconsciously, our elbows touch, we
talk so flippantly of the ways of the world,
and chewing apart the complexity of lives lived
in simpler environs of modern inconveniences, we ignore
the frayed feathers of an old
crow above our wandering thoughts.
Like simple stones under the ever-roaring
foam of currents that we do not feel, for their
familiarity we take in stride, the traces
left upon our palms the prophecies of our forefathers.

Peering through the blinds

2010-06-29T23:58:00.001-05:00

I see
only my own feet reflected
in the smudged pane. The room
across the drive is faintly lit
but no silhouettes walk by tonight.
A murmur from below whispers through the floor,
the street still slips quietly by.
It snakes through my memory as I pause
a moment too long before returning
to lie down, to purge all thought,
drown, and disappear.

malbec

2010-05-10T16:34:00.000-05:00

Atop a bare table in the unkempt
room an unfinished bottle of wine
watches the sunlight stream
through a broken window, whispers
spices and fruit, the lingering
feel of freckled skin
running lightly down my back
pushes into recesses forgotten
and the smell of silver bells
curls up, sleeping gently for
all visible time.

efficiency

2010-04-26T15:48:00.000-05:00

Just a single click (so mundane
it begs to be excused
from such places, strolling
limbless within fantastic
visions) and it is done.
The ticking hands collide and disappear,
the wailing sirens sleep uneasy tonight --
there is no other way to put it:
a single click marks that time be done.

neon light life

2010-04-13T07:57:00.000-05:00

Softly glowing strands of memory
left behind some evening emerge
and curl about sleepy fingers.
They tell of stranger parts
I will never see.
From another world, it seems,
you walked in, onto this greying pavement of
memories. We traded tales
by neon light, neon lives and dusted motes
swimming by my sight.
Not once was anything said
we just kept knowing what we should.

2010-03-29T14:30:00.000-05:00

In the shadow of the moon
silhouettes whispered uneasily,
those fingers splayed against
the wall, ruddy
marks on your back
taking moments to disappear.

a changing of the gods

2010-02-25T11:37:00.001-05:00

While the croaked lullabies
of snow-shrouded ravens
caress imminent dreams,
sensations of another life creep
under the night
into my sleepless mind:
a whiff of sandalwood, the soft whispers
of wood chafing against wood,
singing bells, the vibrant colours
of old sarees.

The cold mosaic of black and green
seem a distant memory, clouded
by years in between of losing
faith in bedtime stories to knowledge
grasped greedily: the smells and sounds persist,
slowly the colours fade.

Mornings of vermilion now remembered
under skies wearing grey, the ravens presenting
the lone dash of life amid
cloudy airs and my ears ring
with her rusted tales.

telling time

2010-02-20T12:11:00.000-05:00

in a room with darkened
lights smoky breaths
we get intoxicated
on each others' bodies
ever so slowly
the ruminations are worn
a second while we undress
ourselves
ever so slowly
ever so slowly our steps
patter down crunchy
sidewalks
ever so slowly
we walk into the past
clasping fingertips by the fireplace
ever so slowly
lighting our deaths
under skies populated
by unfeathered ravens
in search of warmth
for it is spoken
ever so slowly
and breathe
ever so slowly
by the warmth of youth
ever so lightly
fingertips touch
the memories of the futures beheld
ever so slowly
the ice melts
we hack at it looking
for undiscovered words
discovered once upon a time
by nervous fingers touching
another's
ever so slowly steps
are retraced
to homes discovered re discovered
found and abandoned
ever so slowly
the creeping bones
rattle into our imagination
the collective thought
we created and you start thinking of me
ever so slowly
I run ash over
my arms
ever so
slowly
you take your words
towards unspeakable realms
and walk away
ever so slowly
hoping to find depths unplumbed
before by these words
that came by
oh too quickly.

in other words

2010-02-06T01:30:00.003-05:00

whimpers from the room below
swiftly make their way into my bedroom,
their heated emotions smothering my
usual ennui. the raised voices and
simple accusations: our childhood
inquisitions. in this moment
of uneasy existence i realise
the worth of those hurtful words,
now that i talk through
wires and satellites,
now that i walk beyond
the lies we spoke to each other
because the neighbours told us to do
so; nothing more painful than
the absence of puerile conversation.
what more is there that we can do
to separate ourselves from each other,
tell me.

2010-01-19T16:56:00.000-05:00

On a cold grey night
a fog envelops my mind:
she walks past dim lights.

poets of my life

2010-01-03T02:36:00.003-05:00

My poet-friend talks to me once more,
leading me into alleyways long unseen,
taking me by the hand he guides my wavering step
onto a cracked pavement where we, the blind philosophers, spoke once.

My poet-friend talks to me once more,
hinting at unforgotten lands where we weaved magical stories
of the future to never come, once. Her step is steady though her
hands shake and we remember earthen cups once held by steady fingers.

My poet-friend talks and I listen for there is none
else to talk with. It shimmers through the gentle
blades of home and strikes memory-bells of yore:
its breath is silent and the noise sublime, a bond lost before the knowing of bonds unkind.

My poet-friend walks outside,
the step of an old partner making a mockery
of current climes.
My poet-friend sees no snow on the ground
and no dampness in the grass, the dry earth
clings not within the toes that still hang on for life.
The common act of living is so hard for this kind --
my simple poet-friends live for life.

stories

2009-12-13T20:27:00.000-05:00

Perched amidst a sea of words
my mind slowly comprehends
the incredible minuteness of human experience.
The stories we seek within pages
bound together and images glued along
bear merely a faint resemblance
to reality as it spreads
itself around us all.
There is no majesty in simple
lives, lives led by simple
people, lives of people like
us all. They are tied together by threads
weaved from the same crop, only a few come out
a little coarser than others. And then
it's only our inability to recognise
that breaks apart the uniformity of the world.

waiting for an appointment

2009-12-07T10:39:00.000-05:00

Through the clear window
of the clean cafe the passers-by
keep stumbling across
neat pavements by painted
shop fronts -- the mothers
and aunts carrying
children and coffee cups, the restless
few carrying a twitch and
a cigarette for despair.

Within, a pair of old lovers,
comforted by each others' scents
mingling with the smell of coffee grounds,
whisper into the ears of books.

2009-11-17T23:50:00.002-05:00

A few hundred faces having passed on
by, the elements that make up truth
stay, still fewer new. The sweat clinging
to each brow making quieter runs along
the paths of old, the glimmer of mischief not
left behind like their books had once told us
to be true. Silent variations in the music we made
become far too subtle for these rational
thoughts, not once did the fanfare in the heat
remind us of what we'd promised to do.

Gritty scraping along the parched dust
of our sheets turns us away from taking the plunge,
these little tales locked within
refusing the games played without.
Talk of futile evenings and infinitely distant
dawns gives us the power to push aside
our shallow instincts, those that fueled
the imagination of children once.

dreaming of the mediterranean

2009-09-28T14:39:00.003-05:00

By the wayside at a busy highway
Bill waits patiently to talk to people unlike
me. Yet he finds me stumbling in,
in dire need
of company with my uncut nails clutching
the damp butt-end of an unlit paper toy.

And the usual salutations lead into unlikely discussions
and contemplations of cultural misgivings
and missed opportunities for travel.
Here, along the remote roadways of rural Pennsylvania,
my words stumble around the concrete blocks
that make up these states
and that word so
choppy,
and I revel in the banter between
this man, my father's age, as we talk women
and of the fathers of our lady-friends and how they always scare us
men.

The words stretch out into the distance with the trailing highway, never
knowing where they circle and bend back into themselves.
Bouncing headlights smack our ears and the weariness escaping his
body clasps that from mine and clings on for life.

I take my leave in hesitance -- the rented room awaits but I am
sorry to leave this self-proclaimed ignorant redneck
with no one to talk with in the middle of chilly night
that creeps out of the trundling trucks' noisy exhaust pipes.

to a child in a business suit

2009-09-13T02:17:00.001-05:00

as murmurs of shouting
from without stumble through
my windows, i resist the temptation
to walk again through half-lit
corridors, instead wishing to hold
on to traces of intelligence within, never
keeping my mind in its rightful place.
where are the questions i so easily asked
of you, once when you were a child in my arms, once
when the twitter of centipedes knocked n'once
on my doors?
the crackle of burning twigs, minute and crushed, now takes the place
of your breath, the hours of waiting for you to wake
up again, to afternoons of placid existence, when you would
speak so shyly of your dreams and hopes.

the marketplace of emotions lifts its shutters too soon,
i am not ready with my wares yet -- instead asking
to sleep in and dream of days gone by.
the murmurs muffle all signs of compassion and i hold on
to strands of the flailing whisks of words once spoken so boldly.

ticking along

2009-09-07T17:44:00.000-05:00

the yellow walls, along which
my hands run smoothly, raking up
the dust from older versions
of myself, take a minute to step
back and open up to the sunlit
yellow house behind us.

the dimming sky, within which
there are no snickers left
from prating globs of light,
takes a second to swoop down
and spread its arms above our
bowed heads.

the key in my pocket, waiting still
by itself, away from the jingle of its kind,
to find the moment of escape,
pushes against the thigh of another,
still asking questions that never will matter to any of us.

in transit

2009-07-20T23:43:00.002-05:00

these steel and grey
structures
of our time,
like buses they send off
these flying insects out into
the unending sky till
we reach another such marvel
full of signs and warnings - the greys
dotted with oranges and greens
(fluorescent, warning) and sometimes
the upholstery on the
scarce seating
disagrees with the grey of the
floor, the steel of the cages,
black and white uniforms, to borrow
the colours of the real world.

An old man always hiding aged eyes behind dark glasses

2009-07-20T23:35:00.002-05:00

His wife's car borrowed
for the extra income, the
ashtray full, the radio humming
softly spoken verses,
the speedometer never
questioning the approval of the law.

Our conversation: his
step-son and granddaughter,
of her life with them
and the vagaries of the
weather. "Now if only we
were all good Christians! Tell me all
about you guys..."

Me throwing back the questions,
back at him, talking Brahma,
Vishnu, Mahesh, comparing the
holy trinity to an egg,
he cursing his son-in-law
for being in bed with his daughter
and a Jehovah's Witness. "He warn't
no good - never spoke much
to him though."

And before long
the airport crept upon me,
the sanitised walls ready
to absorb me and me resting
in his prayers. Maybe, said he,
I would believe someday.

travelers

2009-07-08T23:21:00.001-05:00

We spoke once of faraway
destinations, premonitions, retribution
for deeds done not too long ago.
We sat and sipped on frozen
beverages, the words stumbling off our tongues,
their touch calling upon bare
memories and sentiments – too close to invoke
nostalgia. The reasons were few but the answers
were true and the mosaic danced cold
and unwelcoming.
We spoke then of much and I listened
to your dreams and such –
the world slipped on by, waving and calling,
we both stalling and never hoping to converse
again. Our voices, then, must have held so much,
so much so that our memories fail again.
That evening light shone upon our shoulders, on
our feet, and on our eyes, but now I fear I am out of breath
and there’s naught in my mind to stake hold on what
we’ve held.

desire

2009-07-01T04:44:00.002-05:00

Every thing turns to white:
a view riddled by cold winds, harsh,
like the thoughts of a snowman standing
alone in a field - children walking
past every morning.
Throbbing and burning underneath
a sky greyed by churning thoughts,
the minds of the young
look for passions that might
let them be immortal.
Images imagined with unending
hope: to be fixed in time,
etched on a page, exorcised
from humanity, freed from stone
as old as the earth that the snow clings to in vain.

At a Coffee Shop

2009-06-28T02:17:00.000-05:00

trickle-top blue paste ink
sunk slow into human
willing flesh asking for signs
to last forever
sudden strangers walking
talking buying cookies
for their daughter - only the
younger one though
leather work
running through the skin
giving me words
to use and exploit as i tell
the world about the exotic west
and we celebrate under
a purple sky our open arms
the taking of the east and
absorbing bit by bit the
easy loving of another
tick-tock the clock walked
along and you and i spoke so
soft the ink of his face
might run off
and away
what then would we do
tourists asking for a glimpse of the world we would never know what it meant to belong somewhere and realise what it meant to be home and comfortable in the sweat and happiness of the rich comfort and the crispness of the soddy notes we handle every fucking day

2009-06-28T02:09:00.001-05:00

So what, then,
are we working
for? The leather-
worked faces don't
need another place
to die for. The faces of
untarnished
youthful rebels
reeks of thoughts
from another generation.
But, at least, they can
talk to demons of their
own.

In the Wafts of my Love

2009-02-01T04:08:00.014-05:00

In the wafts of my love,
that word forbidden to our mouths,
I found a life so dear to my world.
Looking for nought more,
I wandered these biting streets.
Why is it that poets,
celebrating that worth contemplating,
are forced to talk of all but love?

Talk of the poor
and the misery of others,
the hate that festers in hearts
like symbols of distrust,
the distrust of years, creating a film
of filth on the face
of pools that is your broken heart,
the words that change a generation,
that take us away from us.

Talk of drugs and potions,
of panaceas and lives
that save us.

Be sentimental towards life -
it saves humanity more than commentary would.
Nothing to talk about greater than love.

That word has been stolen from us -
return it to the place it owns.
Be bold in being worthless,
all the worth in world cannot be defined.
why chase it?

taking sides

2009-01-29T23:29:00.002-05:00

While the scrunching shoes converse with the pavement
the trees send simple messages down below,
telling the patient earth of all treading upon her back.

Some keep walking by too quickly –
the cold sculpting their breaths
into fluid artwork that attacks passers-by.

Then come the ones (the trees seem to say)
who want to wait and make amends,
with their tiny fingers digging into their sleeping mother
taking pieces of flesh to sleep with that night.

A stir beneath the sheets
and the sky knows
one day they won’t matter:
the ones who cared and the ones who tried.
The patient soil takes all that comes her way,
unlearned in the way of prayers.

lunch

2008-12-08T05:35:00.000-05:00

Nod and mumble, chair pulled: kzzhikh.
The still dark biting surface of the drops trickle twitter down creeping gentle against the glass and sink soundless soft, seamlessly swallowed silently: one touch at a time: taste of barrenness and the dryness washed around quickly through the throat and down into stomach: empty but of some bread this morning.
Takes another and from the corner watches the silence around him. The chipper chitter chattering of the others speaking on and on, an endless parade of small slivers of words breathed into the air, travelling from mouth to ear, behind napes, around the hats, bouncing off backs and hands: and flowing around the damp edges of the glasses they hold in their hands, circulating through the room, touching the ceilings, curling around corners turning into a melee shut off by a clouds of dust from him.
Waiter brings it here, took long. Take a bite, be good for now. Tiny particles ride up from the plate, sudden touch of steam to the chin and within now the slow climb up to arouse a sudden spurt of flavour and devour the meat with eyes: the brown running liquid enrobing the flesh, sitting, still too hot.
Fingers curling around the knife, he feels the metal against skin, the fork, unheard scrapes. Slowly the flesh cools.
Pat the waiter with drinks and Pat the waiter asking: liver and bacon, steak and kidney pie. Burnt that morning. Craving the taste then and still want to dig into it, hunger comes and goes and never at the moment.
Bottle in his hand, gripped tight, little wrinkle on the head, stem twists to the sun.
The angry scraping of silverware ceases in the corner and the hand moves up, another whiff before the bite: food loses taste when cooled. The flesh good when it is warm, but too much heat can’t be borne by gentle palates. Only hungry men are angry. Then no thought while tearing into it: juice run down the jaw (sloppy eater for others to fear), jowls working meticulously, takes a minute to wash and let it slither down.
The relisherof inne ror ga n s of beasts: lerivicslse, strudoastffethares, nut-ty-griz-z-z-z-ards: grizzly bits of beastly nature.
Sudden klink-klangk and the fork on the floor, the stranger in the corner looking about, feeling for the fallen weapon. Little bits touching his fingertips, little bit of mud the last one brought in, collecting under the nails, settling in by now till they stick and then he finds the fork and now back to eat, and the little bits falling into the gravy, swimming around and entering his mouth and descending. No.
Him nodding away, chewing away, the strength to bite into the food, chew, chew, tearing it apart, the grizzly bits of beastly nature he relishes so much.
Immersed in the mashing the mashed into gravy and beat, whip to equal consistency, one part gravy to two parts potato.
His plate empty, all gone, but much better than the morning, burnt kidney at home. Little morsel slipped between the molars, twisting tongue teasing it out: left, in, in, other side, again, little, gone.
Stomach satisfied, last touch to the lips, lick, tchkyl, all washed down, the bitter taste smooth with the acidic flavour of the food teasing the taste buds and leaving the gullet nicely wetted. Dab of kerchief to the mouth a crumb brushed away, hat and coat and on to the world beyond. Little dribble of sweat, tiny, trickle down, twitter creeping past his salty temples, thinking he is.
At the hotel that welcomed him, aforesaid relisher of inner organs of beasts: liver slices, stuffed roasted hearts, nutty grizzards. Still eating, good, now, go, do what must be done my naughty darling.

the thought of six keys

2008-11-18T03:39:00.000-05:00

Always with the first snow
come those moments of reflection,
of contemplating the future, a surrender
to maudlin thoughts of the past,
nostalgia swept along by tiny
flakes, a desire to shake them off
as the snow melts when you walk into
a warm room.

Still devoid of reality,
still strongly rooted in a fantasy
played out on a reed-pipe.

The verbose wind chooses sudden moments
to let thoughts trickle into the world
and before you hear your shoe crunch,
the wind picks up once more.

of colours and atoms

2008-11-10T14:36:00.001-05:00

A shimmer that floats over the world,
a slithering sliver of silent lights moves across the ground
and leads my mind and my eyes
towards the swaying trees, silhouetted against
a sky of seven shades of purple till
a red burns bright from without
burning trees, shooting stars
silver bullets blazing across the skies
the guitar strums orange and the greens
caress my lazing limbs while
a pantomime plays itself out amongst the steeples of porcelain
from exotic lands,
the little boy watches the trees bend down and take his hand
into its own. Watches the trees speak to the sky,
the squirrels appear in droves,
three for every one that was.
The artist paints a horizon of magenta and gold
and the sleepers miss out on a final glimpse of wonder
and awe. I take a breath, roll a cigarette, let the air
become part of my arms and the peace I’ve been searching for
wishappears.

earth

2008-11-10T14:35:00.001-05:00

on the park bench

the world unfurling its wondrous

colours all around, the notes of despair

mix with the screams of joy while

lust awakens the worst

nightmares of children lost in a haze of alcohol and misery

the trees watch quietly, dancing with the wind,

moving to the rhythm of the world

hidden deep within the slightest murmur

is a ripple amongst the floating bodies all around

the fires burn bright in the distance

the earth bears each footstep with patience

over and over

no wanderer stops to look and trees watch on

a million lives within each leaf all calling out to them all

each life asking to be spoken to

amidst emptiness, under a shower of silver bullets

the world becomes one and we exist as a whole

At 3 a.m.

2008-07-04T00:55:00.002-05:00

the bus stand is a museum
of fitful dreams and broken sleep.
The chirping of a lone
cricket rings through
the ears of travelers bounded,
bounded travelers.
The vagabonds and beggars -
the permanent collection
here - are lined up
against the wall. Their
sheets of gunny sack pressing
into their hardened backs, fighting to keep out the cold.
Moans reply to other moans
as people twist and turn on their makeshift beds.
When their dreams are interrupted
some scramble to protect their luggage
while others take cigarette breaks.
A scrawny dog battles against
fleas and when the lame
beggar wakes up he takes a
piss in his bowl.

oasis

2008-06-16T07:17:00.002-05:00

At the tea stall around
the corner, you'll see not
more than four people if
you wish a tea in the
afternoon. The blazing
heat and the dusty air are mighty enough
to shape a different culture
here, away from home. You'll see
labourers and servants,
clerks and watchmen, huddling
under the canopy of the tree,
the stall's shelter from
the skies above.
You'll see me sitting
with them too, uneasy
and stared at, holding on for dear life
to my tea and cigarettes till
the ringing of my phone
forces my exit from this motley crew,
from that quiet corner in this cacophonous city.

dusk

2008-06-10T07:50:00.003-05:00

In the evening you step
into the living room. On your face
is a scattering of drops, salty on the
air's tongue - the kitchen is a furnace.
And every evening you step into it
to birth sustenance for your
captors. Tell me, is it alright
if I dine out tonight?

When you ask what I'm reading
I mumble the words and think of cigarettes.
You feign to show interest as
the pleats of cloth draping you twitch
uneasily.

Time passes too quickly.
You must ensure the clothes are
ironed and ready soon.

floating towards ithaca

2008-06-10T07:45:00.002-05:00

When I came back
the dust had settled,
leaves shook with torpor
under the pleas of a tired
breeze. The city receded into a corner
where she slept
fitfully.
The rumble beneath
my tattered shoes was not
her breath,
all of mankind shaking
her awake.
On the train into town
I met someone and she gifted me
a piece of paper
and asked me to write her
a note sometime.
Now the magic carpet has been lost
and she returned to the land
of mysteries and panic.

Night Hawks

2008-05-02T03:49:00.001-05:00

After the incessant tapping

of weary feet on the hardened pavement

has died down,

after the hum of car engines

has been put away,

in a nook hidden from the eyes

of the sun there is a small cage

where the night hawks are placed.

Three figures sit within,

three figures, disjointed, a couple not speaking,

and a stranger who has no one to talk to tonight.

The neon lights of the yet nascent city

stream through the glass panes

of the cage, casting an eerie glow

upon the desolate concrete ground beyond:

the man standing behind the counter

looks upon the ground outside

unable to leave the box till the night hawks

choose to do so.

The empty barstools sit haughtily

as though challenging someone to sit on them –

they must play these games

to keep from going insane.

They must play these games

though they know there will be none who comes in now.

These incessant games are the only way

to spend interminable time

in the city of neon lights.

Of Hope and Misgivings

2008-04-16T02:31:00.001-05:00

Blinking dots stole, one day,

the ticking hands,

when we weren’t watching.

Your body curled around

my limp spirit, legs wrapping

this throbbing body, chained

to swirling thoughts of itself.

The silence of emotions slipped

quickly through the narrow crack

in the window, quietly mixing

with the smoke lingering around

the lonely eavesdroppers outside.

But a few miles separate

my new family

(that easily-disposable product

bought so easily

with the currency of love)

from the one I sold just months ago.

Time cannot be told with limp hands;

years had already passed

between us. An ageing child

now lay weeping in my arms, the sweat

clamping her spirit to my mind. Her mind

ignoring the wails for shores

left long ago.

Glance to my left – blinking

lights, smoky nights, neon

kites of guilty pleasure

sailing above sinning bodies –

shut my eyes – plunge –

deep breath – breathe.

I see now: seven lives, seven

voices, seven years swim against visions that brought us

here and now, cursed

until we find the welcome touch of arms

that belong to spectres from lives lived long

ago, shores previously found,

never again

to be within reach of these limp hands,

these arms, lost, stolen,

sold, given, taken, asked for

by so many; lost to the magic

of promises, promises of magic –

those gifted by, owed to, forgotten

mothers and fathers, fathers

and brothers, and sisters and mothers, since locked

behind clocks made by hands

feeding off sin.

Your eyes pleaded

now, a vacuum was born,

an unending vortex, a ghost,

spectre, a vision from childhood,

an emptiness that haunts without

wanting to do so, a child’s

bedtime tale, the tragic inevitability

of never growing up. These pleading

mirrors are a curse

of wisdom but you look through it all.

I was a boy,

she a girl,

the world awoke

but she stayed

another night.

Under the Sun of Tropical Skies

2008-03-16T05:04:00.005-05:00

Trudging through the thick snow, he could feel his fingers slowly going numb, the flakes that descended upon his neck sending a chilly jolt down his back, making him think of ghosts that lurked in the trees. Or so he had believed as a child. Well, they did need places to live in, why not trees? A flickering vision of a little girl in a white dress, dead long before she deserved it, swinging her legs while sitting on one of the high branches of an oak tree floated by. The smoke from his cigarette curled skywards and he gazed towards the shining clump of lights within the warmth of the library.

He was sitting at the park bench by the vent, and so didn't feel as cold as while walking. The snowflakes shimmered as they fell upon the cold, hard ground. He had begun writing again, only mediocre prose, occasional poetry, a stab at haiku when he'd had a drink or two. What was there to write about though? The words that he spewed out once in a while were nothing more than angst-ridden lines that disguised themselves behind the mask of metaphors and attempts at being insightful. When had he last written something that he could show to another, hoping for empty words of praise? Better not even think about writing he muttered to himself, puffing away on his cigarette.
So he told himself a story, the only story he knew how to tell, changing a few names to not bore himself again:

The sycamore tree was silhouetted against the light of the evening sky, orange and maudlin, evoking emotions of wasted evenings amongst young adults who treated the world with boredom before they could head on and find a new one for themselves, was fearful to the eyes of the small boy as he walked homewards with a stick in his hand. The slayer of dragons, conqueror of lands unknown, betrothed now to several princesses, was humbly heading home to a dinner dutifully cooked by mother. Had he existed in the real world the stick in his hand would have been replaced by a technological monster of illimitable proportions, the sycamore only a decoration within a world of unknown mysteries; but here he trudged on within his imagination and found himself staring at the dark silhouette that captured every bit of his unlearned imagination.
As he stood with big blue eyes, staring at a branch swaying gently in the evening breeze, as the sky behind it turned from a secret shade of orange to a blur of pinks descending into a sliver of black that blanketed the horizon with defiance and refused to let any mortal eye make out any shape within its cloaking presence, he could see a figure, dangling its legs with reckless abandon.
Mother had already lain dinner on the table as the clock struck seven. Father was away and would not be back till Thursday – the house was so much quieter without him, even when he spent most of his day at the office. The floorboards and the roof-beams creaked as tough to give her company while she moved about her chores. As the water from the kitchen faucet drifted off the saucers, the door expanded to push the hinges back into place, and the clock’s ticking became oppressive to her dulled eardrums while the stars made their way across the sky.
Within her room (it hardly belonged to Peter with him being away so often), she would try to find solace in a book or in some obscure album that she had purchased at the store, but to no avail. The fluorescent lights. They beat down on her with unrelenting pressure, their harsh whiteness forcing her to cower away from their starkness into hidden corners within their apartment. This wasn’t the life she imagined once Peter had agreed to their transfer to a new city.
In Grantsville, they had a house hidden from the rest of the town. Yet Kassia had found ways to engage herself with the goings-on of local life. The afternoons would be filled with unending games of rummy and with talk of Cecilia’s latest trysts with local lovers. And here in the suburbs she seemed to be hemmed in by the way the lights surfaced wherever she turned her large, round eyes. Green as they were, they could not find respite from the probing of the rest of this fast-paced world. Where could she even try to go at this hour, where could she find a moment to reflect on her life without the lights beating down on her, making her feel guilty about everything she did? Why wouldn’t Sullivan come home to dinner? That boy was always off, wandering in within the parks that surrounded their simple, grey flats in the suburbs.
Dinner was the last thing on Sullivan’s mind. There was someone on the branch, a tiny figure, swinging its legs in a constant tick-tock like a clock out of a psychotic horror writer’s horrible nightmares. His eyes wouldn’t stir from that spot; they lingered there till they were stuck to the spot with such force that his stare wouldn’t even waver for a second to take respite from the darkness that the branch seemed to attract and focus on the beautiful colours that the horizon kept sucking into itself minute by minute.
It was a girl, a tiny girl in a white frock, who kept swinging her little legs to mesmerise Sullivan into a trance that made him forget Mother’s wait for her son to return home and spare her the torture devised by the lights filling her house. And the little girl kept peeping into her tiny palm, a palm, Sullivan knew, that was as tiny as she and as white as a snow flake that descended upon her creator as he puffed at his tiny stick of addiction.
Sullivan could never keep himself from giving in to his curiosity and spurred on by this vision of mystery he skilfully scampered up the branches to plant himself close to the little girl up above the world. With an oddly eerie mix of negative presentiment Sullivan forced himself to speak to this sprite of dusk: “What are you holding in your hand, little girl?”
Years later he would rue asking that question as her piercing green eyes bored into his; as her head turned to the right, the swish of her silken hair brushing against the leaves that crowned her head, he realised that Kassia’s eyes had lost him once and for all. A sinister chill up his spine forced him to shudder, to give in to the absence of any known emotion that might tell him how to react to her adult-like beauty.
Without a word she handed it to him, a stone of green and blue hues, maybe yellow and red, certainly with streaks of silver in it, nothing like anything he’d seen before. He was afraid to hold it; so evil, so full of unknown sin, of power denied to children. He knew he shouldn’t touch it. And so he clasped it within his right hand, feeling all her coldness spreading through his body, spreading through his shoulders, through his torso, and through his thighs.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” she asked. He looked up but couldn’t say a thing. Broken from his reverie, he smiled at her as she approached him with an unlit cigarette and asked for a light. "How was work?" she asked, and he nodded incomprehensibly in acknowledgement. “It was fine,” he managed in a few seconds. She sat down by him and shuddered as the chill in her bones was replaced with the warmth of the vent’s steamy vapours.

Femmetje’s green eyes shone under the moon. Her fragile fingers twisted around the cigarette as she raised it to her lips and inhaled deeply, pursing her lips as she did. The smoke lingered around them as the uneasiness created by months of tense love decided to envelope their shoulders suddenly. He hadn’t a word to say to her and was still recovering from his foray into the world of storytelling.

“How did your paper go?” she asked, trying to find a way to break apart the wall he kept building between them. He shrugged and flicked the long stem of ash sticking to the end of his cigarette. A few flakes drifted upwards, fighting against the snow that pushed into his world. The orange glow of the cigarettes teamed up to displace the kaleidoscope of colours that were a gift of the sycamore tree.

2008-02-12T03:44:00.001-05:00

scene from a kieslowski short

2008-01-27T23:48:00.000-05:00

Standing here with my cigarette
for company,
I spy upon a young man
trudging through the sheet of snow
blanketing the earth -
he walks with deliberation,
head bowed, coffee-mug-armed hand
swinging by his side,
a bag slung across his shoulder;
as though a scene from a Kieslowski film
(how that name rolls off the tongue,
Kieslowski), I see his silhoutte now
spotting another - a girl it seems -
walking in the other direction.
They pause. She leans in,
I hear her laughter ringing over
the snowy quietness and they hug,
linger a moment or two,
push themselves in opposite directions,
pause and make promises to meet again
(I imagine) - a study in human companionship.
They walk away from each other,
he looks back at her, and again.
Only one silhouette now.
He pauses, seems to sigh,
disappears behind the copse
of trees, bare for their winter sleep.
A scene from a Kieslowski short.

revisit

2007-09-30T21:03:00.000-05:00

Can't say anything
here. Cats sitting on the wall -
thunder and lightning.

________________

Two smokers strike a
match. Quiet night, walk with me.
No wind blows tonight.

________________

Old man speaks numbers,
numbers, words, and numbers, and
eighteen minds study clocks.

________________

Technologcal
monster striking fear in his
adolescent eyes.

silent cigarette

2007-06-05T00:53:00.000-05:00

A single strand of
snow-white snake-like smoke. Have a
good night, cigarette.

secret languages

2007-04-29T14:47:00.001-05:00

What could these small, black
marks, so strangely drawn,
mean to anyone?
Could they be the silent
swirls of snowflakes
trying to reach the earth,
still naked from winter?
Are they the smell of incense at the old,
old temple that was hid within
folds of crumbling rocks by
the gods themselves?

An old man sat outside,
begging for alms.
His were eyes that could not
see mine as I peered at him
with mine; yet adolescent eyes.
Could he have seen the silent
swirls, the snowflakes falling
gently to the ground?
Would he wish to see the
white snow, almost as white as his hair?

Maybe that is why I come searching for you,
maybe you will want to see the snowflakes,
maybe you will say you see the snowflakes
when you see these small, black
marks, so strangely drawn
on this white sheet, almost
as white as the old man’s hair.
Do you want to see the old man
who sat outside the temple,
begging for alms,
his hand
holding a steel bowl,
empty but for a few coins,
a few rupees,
his chest bare, a thread running from shoulder
to waist, the ribs easily counted,
his legs protected by a thin
dhoti, his beard long and silver,
eyes framed by furrowed lines,
the gifts of years?

But would you
be able to see the cracks in the skin
around his fingers, clutching the bowl
for dear life?
I would show you him
but I cannot draw
very well.
These odd turns of black
create sounds in my head
and make me think
but they are not
silent swirls of snowflakes
trying to reach the earth,
still naked from winter.

Maybe I could talk of other
things –
leave the images for
painters and
cameras.
Maybe I could tell you about myself,
maybe I could describe my childhood,
the games I played,
the thoughts I thought,
the tantrums I threw and the toys
I liked.
Maybe I could tell you about
my mother,
father,
or those afternoons I spent
dreaming of imagined lands.

But I know you would not see
the places I saw as I flew over the world sitting
in my favourite armchair
for these odd turns of black ink
are not the spires
that rose from deserts full
of deadly scorpions and scarabs.

walking

2007-04-29T14:46:00.000-05:00

They are still

wet from an alien

downpour –

these slippers,

chappals, sandals –

the simple sound

of the falling rain

beating upon this muddle

of languages.

They are far from home –

these slippers,

chappals, sandals –

away from the noisy streets

of home, the heat,

the dust, the green

tree-tops back home.

in solitude

2007-04-16T23:37:00.001-05:00

When I am alone
I don’t mind
I have my words
And those of others

I don’t mind
I have thoughts of myself
And those of others
Racing through my tired mind

I have thoughts of myself
As an older man
Racing through my tired mind
The memories of childhood

As an older man
I will be wiser
The memories of childhood
They will become easier to remember

I will be wiser
I have my words
They will become easier to remember
When I am alone

persistent memories

2007-04-16T23:36:00.002-05:00

The flicker of the light
Bulb that hangs over her head
Picks out the small
Lines shrouding her face

The bulb that hangs over her head
It dangles so precariously
Lines shrouding her face
Wake you to the beauty of her voice

It dangles so precariously
Like the last thread of a dream
Waking you to the beauty of her voice
As you heard it that morning

Like the last thread of a dream
The one that you never remember
As you heard it that morning
That morning was so long ago

The ones that you never remember
Take the shape of dreams
That morning was so long ago
You will not remember anymore

Take the shape of dreams
And run your fingers through her hair
You will not remember anymore
When you have not seen her for a year

And run your fingers through her hair
For when you are sitting in a dingy bar
When you have not seen her for a year
Strange women will remind you of her

For sitting in a dingy bar
Blinded by smoke and scotch
Strange women will remind you of her
And you will not know why

Blinded by smoke and scotch
You will pick out small
Strange women who remind you of her
Under the flickering light

banned stories

2007-04-16T23:36:00.001-05:00

I saw a black spot flash
Across a dark road
The quiet of the night
Disturbed by a scream

Across the dark road
I could see people
Disturbed by a scream
Whispered into their minds

I could see people
They held the secrets
Whispered into their minds
By the trees along the river bank

They held the secrets
Without the fear of being caught
By the trees along the river bank
I could hear the stories

Without the fear of being caught
In the quiet of the night
I could hear stories
I saw a black spot flash

As You Walk Through The City

2007-03-27T17:44:00.000-05:00

your senses are overwhelmed by the hundreds
who walk by you
with you
rush-hour noises
the cool evening breeze
rushing past
pushing away the humid day

the dogs
lying under the shade of choking
trees look at you
sometimes
you throw pieces of bread
towards them
as you sip warm elixir
from the earthen tea cup

the relentless rain
sends tiny rivulets of life
running down your brow
the smell of the wet earth

gaze at the gaudy lights
and colours
of fairs that emerge
like flowers in spring
trip over cracks in the pavement
feel the stubbornness of the city
as it throbs under your feet

the flowers in the stalls outside
temples leave you transfixed
the voice of the muezzin
calls to the devout
wakes you at the crack of dawn
the smoke makes you cough blood
sometimes

the colour red remembers you
as you cross the road
where you once saw a
motorcyclist
lying in a pool of blood

the sky chained to the city
tells you to call old friends
play cricket
this is it
this is yours
take it

insects crawl along the inside of my frozen back

2007-02-28T23:25:00.001-05:00

inside the mind of an imaginary
murderer
inside the heart of an imaginary
bird
inside the worlds of all the imaginary
children
ever born to the cries of the earth
inside a vacuum filled with imaginary
sounds
voices of earlier days
slither and twist into imaginary
knots
the crows murder
in daylight
feed
feed
feed so softly
the sound of beaks
on hard flesh
wakes no imagination
figments float into the vacuum
stop
stop stop
in my stomach, I imagine
there are insects
devour
devour
devour

2007-02-11T18:43:00.001-05:00

Snow falls without sound
boys and girls work all day long;
night time, alcohol.

2007-02-11T18:41:00.000-05:00

Walking back last night,
numb fingers, last cigarette;
darkness in her room.

Boy I

2007-01-29T18:35:00.000-05:00

Through humid summer nights that follow long summer days, he lies with open eyes. The velvet air of the city creeps through the half-shut windows of this house. His breathing, short gasps that rush to embrace the city air. The clock ticks on but has given up trying to speak with him. They have not spoken since he learnt how to walk.
He does not occupy much space on the bed – the smooth sheet longs for him to throw his hands over it. He stands, walks to the window, fingers touch the curtains but he feels nothing as he looks upon a street flooded with light that the man on the moon bought from the sun. In the distance, neon lights blind strangers who walk incessantly, waiting for a night that never ends. He is too far away to hear the sound that well-polished shoes make on smooth concrete sidewalks; he knows it well, however – once he walked with them, on a dark night when the neon lights burned brightest; they penetrated his skull, effortlessly passing through eyes they had blinded. He hadn’t left his room for days, weakened by the vulgar attack of well-polished shoes and neon lights on his boyish senses. He sits in the chair by the window, rubber-boned arms wrapping around bloody knees.

The floor of the roof is still cold when he lies down. His bare body can feel the crimson hues of the yet youthful sun rush across the barren sky. The birds know he is there. Outstretched arms shoot out from his torso, chiselled by a sculptor with a strange sense of humour. He waits with a bowl held in each palm. Food. Water.
The sun crawls along the blue dome above his home while its rays pierce the air and caress his darkened skin. The birds descend from the sky and the rays of the sun lose sight of him. The birds walk over his hardened skin and their beaks travel along the ridges that they created long ago.
When they leave him to the sun’s mercy he shuts his eyes to sleep for a while. Drops of sweat appear along his temples, flow through the etchings on his skin; his naked limbs glow in the daylight. When the birds return, they cluster around his knees, freshly stained red.

the joker

2007-01-16T07:21:00.000-05:00

This is what the boy said:

A spot of white paint still remains on his chin. He has been distracted the last few days, and a little careless. Everyday, he washes away his painted face, then folds his clothes and puts them into a bag. At work, he wears a tailored suit, exquisite and fine, of purple cloth and buttons gold. A shroud of jasmine perfume envelops his brow. There is silver wire that runs down the sides of his hat.

A joker of some repute, people come in droves to watch his show. Deepest night colours his pupils and the whites gleam under the circus’s harsh lights. The circus has acts aplenty but none as popular as his comical lines. At the circus there is joy, no doubt.

Now he heads home, the spot of white paint still clinging to his withered chin, the faint whiff of cheap perfume whispering to the man who sits to his left, the red lights of the cars hurting his restless eyes. In this city of fast cars and neon lights he is finding it harder and harder to breathe as nights go by. The shining numbers of the clock change shape incessantly, moving slower and slower as time passes.

His heart beats faster and faster every day to make sure that his face is as calm as before. The moon’s tranquil wisdom pours itself onto his drying skin; he watches the ground as he walks.

At home, he sits with a cup of tea warming his clammy palms. He speaks to the others, spies on the words of holy men creeping out of the silver box lying in the corner of the room, watches them drill holes in their skulls. The tea is still hot when he gulps it down.

walking through the night

2006-12-03T22:15:00.000-05:00

fluttering flags
frame the skeletons
of trees
struck by winter

satisfied smiles
swim around fields
of brains
filled with hunger

waking hours
pause to smile
around dreams
created by lust

skulls

2006-11-30T04:45:00.000-05:00

Skulls smash
against each other
and lightning strikes
the sorrowful ground.
Voices fly
like humming insects
of another age
and weave their ways through
the paths left by
the smashing of the skulls.

end of the world

2006-11-08T09:35:00.000-05:00

The window at the
end of the world
does not overlook
a cliff;
no roaring water
dashing against a
rocky wall.
It’s just a street,
plain and simple,
tarmac and chrome;
broken cars and
tired limbs,
scrubby beards
and fallen kings.
Young men
outnumber the old –
they’ve come looking
for answers
to questions
they were never told.
So the members
of a broken band
keep composing
rebellious tunes
and beg the others
to throw over
the world.
The kings look sad;
they know why they
are here – the drugs
disappeared as kingdoms fell.
And the young men?
They are here on their own
and so they drink
themselves dead and
the drugs bring them
pleasure
when they sway
to the tugging
of the strings by
members of the broken band.
And at the corners of
broken-down buildings
there are hunch-backed
poets
who sit and scream loudly.
The women are not walking,
nor sitting –
here they fly among
and dance with
the clouds that woo
them over and over.
They are smiling.

puzzle

2006-11-04T17:06:00.000-05:00

Piece by piece
the puzzle completes
itself.
All the mystery
and wide-eyed wonder
of childhood
slowly dripped
onto the floor,
creating a kaleidoscope
of jade stones,,
which soon, will settle
and swallow
me whole,
body and soul.

girls and boys

2006-10-30T00:41:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-30T00:36:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T21:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T19:34:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T00:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-08T22:58:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-04T20:33:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-03T23:48:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-03T23:41:00.000-05:00

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.

moonlight

2006-09-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-28T02:16:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-09-27T01:06:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-27T00:40:00.000-05:00

Smoke always rises
Smokers always look up once
Before looking down

red

2006-09-27T00:19:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-21T02:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-19T11:48:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-10T22:31:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-06T01:03:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-01T17:23:00.000-05:00

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.

the final cut

2006-08-15T19:00:00.000-05:00

i saw the sun taken away
i saw the boy being told the truth
i saw the pictures fade into dirt

'twas a lie
'twas a lie
fie
fie
fie

haha
hoho
johnny's gonna miss the show

strum strum
trum strum
gotta make something never
seen before

gotta write lines
deep
profound
gotta create
beauty
magic

haha
hoho

gotta drink whisky
and not beer
gotta read use black and white
and not colour

haha
hoho

gotta finish it off
but never had the nerve

haha
hoho

hoho
hoho

hoho

ho

please

hoho
hoho

haha

hahaha
haha
hahahaha

vanity

2006-08-08T02:41:00.000-05:00

And as we peer
at the sky illimitable,
the stars infinite,
and resting peacefully,
there where we
might hope
to wander
in our youth,
we must only look
for the magic
that spreads its
warm glow around
our naked minds
and never count
the fireflies that whisper
to the night air
but only feel
the hush
of their silent whispers.

And as the pure
nectar of youth,
immortal youth,
woos us
and lures us
to take a bite
of what life has to offer
let us not rue
past times and the vanity
of youth
but wait,
albeit with impatience,
for the life that waits
for us,
when we will
let ourselves
be
and where we shall
sit quietly
and sip the warm elixir
of wisdom, peering down
at our past with the knowledge
that we lived.

3-5-3

2006-08-06T00:46:00.000-05:00

Children hear
fairytales that end
as they should.

Adults read
fairytales that end
wrong. They cry.

a boy

2006-08-02T21:10:00.000-05:00

I see
a boy
sitting on a bench,
smoking,
with regret,
wondering
at the amazement
he feels
on facing disillusionment.

His eyes –
tired –
his ears,
indifferent to the music
of the cicadas,
the night washing
over him
without a flutter
and his stare
fixed on a twisted
branch,
displaced from home.

He returns
to his cave
of solitude,
back to mysterious
and wonderful
stories
from faraway,
a stranger,
wary,
worn down
by the city lights
and the clear
night sky.

music

2006-08-01T00:30:00.000-05:00

The drums beat
within my head,
the guitars tug
at my heart.
I numb myself
in a silken white
cloth of smoke
and wait for sleep.
For happy sleep,
for torturous dreams
of Neverland
and tombstones.

Would only self-pity
break me now
so that I may not
be anymore.

Words, words,
stupid words,
stupid, stupid words
begging for sympathy.
"Is someone else
supposed to be there
besides the spectre
of broken promises?"
the operator asks.

The grey shroud
of desolation
will never be swept away
by me.

Happy, happy sleep
sing to me tonight,
sing with your screams
and your screeches,
sing so that I may not
hear anymore.

Sing so I may
fly away
and fall,
sing so I may fall
with music in my ears,
with a numbness that
would choose me as son,
and then I can not
be anymore.

the city

2006-08-01T00:07:00.000-05:00

The sunshine locks
itself within
and the water races
through
the places where
I used to wander
but shouldn’t wish to anymore.

Trapped in a city
of neon lights
and fast cars
I look for a window
and a reason
to jump.

The waves crash
into each other
and undo
every idea
that each held
within the glistening
mirror.

Magical mirrors
struggle to breathe
in the city
of neon lights
and fast cars.
I look for the window
maybe because
I am out
of breath.

Fear

2006-07-22T21:46:00.000-05:00

I am alone
and I don’t mind;
I have my words
and those of others
and images and music
and my cigarettes
to calm me.

So I sit in the darkness
and have imaginary
conversations
over an absent cup of coffee,
rue missed chances
that were gifted to me.
I see palaces,
but no princess willing
to live in any,
mighty steeds,
but no knight brave enough
to kill himself,
I see lovers
afraid to love
and poets afraid to write,
afraid to endure pain,
unable to make people
understand.

I look at myself once
before I throw away
the cigarette,
the happy dagger,
life,
the universe,
and everything.

Sitar Man by Fred Herbert

2006-07-12T00:49:00.000-05:00

In the sad recesses
of his mind
the Sitar Man
sits and waits
patiently.

A long time
ago he was young
and so
will you be
and only once
and then,
maybe then, you will understand
what it means
to be waiting in the corner.

Swirling shadows
swim past his sallow
forehead
and when they find
the time to be right
they dive deep within
his eyes.

Those eyes,
long ago,
searched the streets
for mysterious angels
and now the Sitar Man
hides them behind
the caves he has discovered
and when you are old
then, maybe then,
you will understand
what it means
to be waiting in the corner.

night sky

2006-07-11T23:58:00.000-05:00

"Oracle sur Managua: Hommage a Ernesto Cardenal," by Armando Morales

Walking into the fog
the night sky surrendered
itself,
and the stars.

Animal instinct
paired
with uneven lust
dreams of tomorrow
and the meandering
path of civilisation
withdraws into the souls
of lost children
who loved in pain
and were pained
by happiness
when it was presented to them
wrapped in silver paper,
borrowed from the stars,
when the night
sky surrendered.

wishappear

2006-07-10T22:59:00.001-05:00

He waited in the corner,
with the musical innocence
of a whisper,
by a window
that looked upon an empty street,
waited for a stranger
to walk past
so he could see
and tell himself
he has not reason
yet to wish himself away.

As he lowers his head,
to put it on a platter
so that others may feast,
he dreams of fairy tales
and that peace wishappears.

despair (imagined)

2006-07-10T22:59:00.000-05:00

Will you dance with me tonight,
in a world
created by weaving
a storyteller’s delight,
by the riverside,
under the silent shelter
of the shivering trees?

Will you let the stones
scar your feet
and make them bleed,
till you can walk
no more,
till we have to lie down
and wait
for the moon to wake
from its slumber
and cover our
shivering,
scarred feet
with the silver blanket
of our sordid troubles,
till we realise
that nothing is
as were told
it is,
till the hunger
in your soul
lets you sleep
peacefully,
so peacefully that for once
there is not
a thought
in your mind
and nothing
that I could see
as I stare
into the emptiness
of our eyes?

i write

2006-07-10T22:57:00.000-05:00

I write though I know
that I have not the right
to write.

And yet I will.

With a whistling wind
behind my back,
with the smoke
spiralling heavenwards
before my eyes
I wonder
and I wander
along pathways, new
and untouched
with all the others,
all the ones
I wish I wouldn’t
see,
or rather,
wouldn’t see me.

I imagine worlds
and I imagine people.
I imagine words
and I disappoint
some people.
I write because
I think I must
and I write what I see
all around me
and inside me.

"life turns into a muse"

2006-06-20T13:16:00.000-05:00

tra la la
little timmy sang a song
tra la la
timmy wrote love songs
tra la la
little timmy sat by the ocean one day
tra la la
little timmy went away

it's just across the street

2006-06-15T14:06:00.000-05:00

They caged memory
in glasses of exquisite crystal
and danced;
the merry dance
of youth.
The colours of spring
took them across meadows
of peace
and skies
of golden-purple
where they promised
to be children
forever.