Flashback: February 11, 2000

bleak, 
    bleak, 
       it is a bleak day
and i am tired

my words used to weigh 
   millions of tons of 
warm blood, 
   genuine tear 
      sincere sweat, once
now 
  i 
  am
  too
  sick and tired
of my own sarcasm

and, and, and,
i saw my people happy, with their 
wives, 
   husbands, 
      signi-fucking-ficant-others, 
         children, 
            and their nine-to-five regular jobs

everything i've dreaded to have

happy
  bruised here and there,
    broken a little,
      tarnished a bit,
but genuinely happy

which forces me to believe
may be it was bread-and-butter
i should have worried about
  not `why's 
  or `how's 
  `meaning's or `truth's 
all the useless junk i wasted my cheap words on

may be all was the surface and
  superficial was the deepest i could get

i am sad that
i have grown to be an hollow shell
  a shell cracking under its own weight
because, i've lost my faith in 
  the trancendent, 
  the beautiful and 
  the just;
for thy kingdom has never come
thy will came un-done

Thursday, June 18, 2009

to dad with gratitude

i would have liked to place a coin
  in your mouth for charon
  to carry you across the river styx

instead i got to listen
  few passages read without
  any genuine trace of 
  recognition of a human man's
  passage into 
  the great oblivion

all the while 
  remembering 
  the wonderful stories
  you concocted after
  each installment of 
  scheherazade's radio theater
  every friday morning

"demirbank demirbank demirbank"

tell charon a hundred years 
  is too long a time
  to listen to men reciting
  a text they barely understand

tell him he can have my golden bough
tell him he let dionysus pass once
tell him i owe him one
tell him you are a story teller
tell him you are my dad

tell him tomorrow is friday

Flashback: June 25, 2001

the feeling that time passes through one's body
that there is nothing one can do
that one's consciousness is but an error
  on the face of an indifferently silent universe
that one hangs on life because
  even this miserable existence is better than
  nothing
  the silence
that there is 
  no retribution
  no solace
  no reason
  no explanation for what has happened 
that there is nothing/nobody you can get angry with
along with there is nothing/nobody you can thank to
  for one's pain and hope alike
that one had no previous lives
  and is going to have no afterlife
that this is it, the only life one has
is an overwhelming burden on one's heart
  combined with one's regrets
the only things one can truly own 
  apart from one's memories