With sometimes eyes closed
and sometimes open,
you see the unseen
and unsee the seen.
Your words lie somewhere in between
the voices you cannot condemn openly
and the voices that push you away
from getting soaked up from this sunlight of reality.
You are divided between writing something truly honest
and writing something that masks the truth
so perfectly, it becomes a voiceless waterfall falling
over these incumbent eardrums of the readers.
You hold the might to culture a society
and rationalize its view, shielding it from
the tranny, oppression and unequal treatment.
So next time when you look in the mirror,
remember you are a needle lost in the grass,
you can either sew the ground to cover up
whatever is wrong,
or you can stab others to let them find out themselves.
It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper
I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.
I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.
The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.
I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to kill him.
Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god, they must think I love this like the others
but it’s for bread and beer and rent
I’m tense lousy feel bad
poor people, I’m failing I’m failing
a woman gets up
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
it’s too late.
my eyes can’t see some lines
I read it
they can’t hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that’s it, I’m
and later in my room
there is scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
When they ask you,
and I know they will someday.
Tell them it was for
the slice of sky
that smelled like your
tepid past, for nostalgia
reverberating as consensual
like a dream is forgotten
at the end of the night.
tell them it was for
the glimpse of nature:
the pregenable beauty,
for your assailable heart;
though after being enclosed
in those bony rib-cages,
I knew they would
melt every time
at the slightest touch of you.
It was for that touch.
tell them it was for
end of the everlasting hunger,
an conclusion to this unending madness,
to describe a whirlpool
of blurred visions,
emasculating every second
by the dark whispers in broad
When they ask,
Why you started writing,
Tell them it was for yourself only.
For your demons and their exorcisms
performed ritually twice a day.
Tell them it would remain that way.
Forever and ever.
Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.
Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust
The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.
I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
The cubicle welcomes you
come now sit, go through your e-mails
do your work proudly.
No! Don’t let your eyes wander outside,
it is just a beautiful tree in wind,
just a pond with ripples of water ,
There are no shapes out of them that you can imagine.
There are no memories in their shadows.
This silence ain’t whispering you to write.
Close the notepad.
Just don’t write a new poem again.
Don’t be maniacal.
You need caffeine,
to drift away from your thoughts.
Just fuck them, right?
You gotta work now.
Just don’t search now on the web,
How Hemingway blew his head,
How Sylvia path asphyxiated herself while
her children were asleep,
How Fitzgerald’s heart betrayed him,
How Kerouac died of cirrhosis,
How that old lazy fat fuck Bukowski
told you once to go all the way
otherwise don’t even try.
You are not one of them,
You shall not be one of them.
you are drinking your chaos within,
they all gave in,
they couldn’t drink it.
but you are drowning it in caffeine
and shitting out tons of work.
you shall survive.
if you want to.
But I know you won’t.
I can see it in your eyes,
so go on write then
as you always have.
Make it worth it.
Don’t drink the chaos within
The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes the child within me.
I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.
I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.
I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.
I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.
I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.
I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.