Flashback: December 28, 1998

it is another day with
a wrong script have
i given in to
a wrong syntactic tactic:
a deliciously self-conscious
parodic exercise
in theoretical, discursive
meta-language with all its
shallowness.
otherwise
i would have said
`i love you madly'
if no-one ever said it
if no-one ever said that it was said
if no-one ever said that it was said was said
ad infinitum...
and all i needed was someone
who would smile devilishly
when i said
`i love you madly'
realizing it was said
and even the fact that
it was said was said
yet would smile even more
to let me know she knew
that it was said
and even the fact that
it was said was said
and would quote another line
from these cheesy romance novels
to keep the ball rolling...

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

I have been to the
geographical center of my soul

its streets twist and turn
just like any good story should
just wide enough for one or two
narrative at a time
jam packed with history:
the personal kind
under every cobble stone

come to think of it
every history is personal isn't?

worst place to be if
one has spent a whole lifetime
to get away from oneself

kinda futile
one might say

Friday, February 29, 2008

it wasn't supposed to be

i remember the dark days of my youth
living on a cultural fault line
disgusted by the past
afraid of the future

now
it is the desert of now
still disgusted by the past
knowing that there is no future

fault lines are still here

all drawn on my face
inked with my DNA

knowing that i do not fit
anywhere
that i will not fit
anywhere

sometime on one side
sometime on the other

knowing that there is no future

in my head
i can hear
PUNK IS NOT DEAD!
PUNK IS NOT DEAD!

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