Saturday, January 19, 2008

make me laugh

there are nights with quiet despair
and there are those filled with
old ages' dusty remorse

time bores its needles through my skin
threads the most wonderful lines of pain
buzzing
in full color

but what about my self-destruction
in coffee and self-delusion
on the deserts of cities of the plain?

laughter slips through
from the prisons of my mind
to mountains of thine lust
starting an eternal winter
as fenrir's carcass told the story
of the spoiled children of god
of the mechanical kind

a lovely moon dies on the banks of
the river of no return
where once a prophet washed his own
feet more than once

i have no more to say

Flashback: July 21, 2000

a baseless existence
seeing an absolute incoherence and
hearing nothing from with which it
interacts
is my own curse
stripped from reason
its compass of truth
denied, by its own advice, an
ethical foothold
suffocated by numerous references
to multitudes of false beauty
by those confuse aesthetics with
cosmetics
and brushed aside as insignificant
for its uncertainty on
everything it reflects.

sometimes i envy those sufis
who had the luxury of
treating themselves with
long intervals of silence and
solitude
away from the maddening crowd
for their firm belief that
escape, to where ever it may be,
is a solution
or, for that matter,
for any belief they had had.

it is an infuriating realization that
this baseless and unhappy
existence is my only solace
in a universe which
reveals itself through silence
asserts itself through incoherence

infuriating because
my sorrow became my solace
my sadness became my happiness
emptiness became my substance
and silence became my voice

i can't even ask myself
`where had i gone wrong?'

Sunday, November 18, 2007

it is a feeling of an impending doom
a feeling of one's luck running out

and at the same time
washing away any remnant of hope
night falls in
swallowing sinners and saints alike

night falls in
with its soldiers in formation
with their bloody knives hidden
under their finger nails
ready to brandish at moment's notice
with the eagerness of the unstoppable
erection of my teenage-self
i remember from the pictures

from where i lay
i see
an unpenetrable wall of forgetfullness
and that thick forests of bloody knives
bearing their fruits of bloody damnation:
the big mistakes and the big regrets

the impending doom
my luck
my time
my space running out

breath...
air...

Sunday, November 11, 2007

a train was hiding in my dreams
right beneath the surface
in the wrinkles of a
detective story
i was carrying
in my pocket
unaware
with dissonant and brutal chords
from a very unhappy viola

it is a cold day in a city
i do not know well
and hiding stories here
is treason punishable by
the most heinous act imaginable:
death by being erased
from the memory of
the living

i am still listening to those
dissonant chords and
i am melting
melting
melt

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

the return of a methodical madness
is all i can afford at the moment
going through
lifeless pages of my old words
one after another
with a conscientious silence
of the sort henry miller would have liked
all the while
listening to sounds that ended
a thousand year of drought

meanwhile
winter died on the footsteps of my discontent
(did it? really?)
on a perfect day

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

Sunday, November 4, 2007 (1)

wind plows
when the season draws to a close
remembering and
fingering the grooves
shooting the dark skies with old wounds
(oh, stop!)

time, after all, is the bearer of
all fucked up things old and new

but
i have seen runaway trains
sugar high
stark naked and raving mad
acting at a distance entangled
with things clever and sad
(not, again!)

my generation has yet to
produce its best and brightest
and might i suggest also
the most fucked up

not that we needed any more of
those
(amen!)