Saturday, July 26, 2008

in this town of glorious cathedrals
houses of god
the beggars seem to be avoiding
his gaze by hiding below over-passes
as if they are ashamed
not wanting to "crap his style"

and on the other corner
was a puppet master displaying his craft
to a mesmerized audience

the irony...

i kept on walking

Flashback: January 10, 1998

when ancient times gave birth to
philo-sophers
there were only stars to witness

now that we all are
misanthropic spectators
we all behold
everyday
the despair of
the deteriorated and insentient
human condition
in glorified happy masks
without even stirring a nerve

and nothing perforates through
our skins anymore

is it because
nothing left under to be penetrated
or because
we bargained our souls for
everything that perishes before ourselves
as a vengeance, a retribution
of being mortal?

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

i sat by my bed in a foreign land
was a republic of one but kingdom of none

listening a song about a wicked medicine man

who spoke about men rummage through
the desolate crowd
broken and mad
and saw them breathing dust
and loneliness and vast vistas of
desperation in sparse stories and
praying in pain

waiting for the hard rain to fall down

rain never came down

and we all were condemned to live
the collective failure of a whole generation

rummaging through desolate crowds
speaking to ourselves with voices ever so faint

shackled within our republic of one
but kingdom of none

Sunday, June 29, 2008

my hunger is lost in between my teeth and the sky
in search of a city i used to remember somewhere
from my college graduation to
an awkward dance in a wedding

what i found was
cities of death, and sad autumns,
and cheap street food, and clever puns
and drunken calamities, and tripe soup

yet
in their well rehearsed stupor
on the minds of the streets of these cities
stale cliches are repeated until
they are stretched wafer thin and
worn like cheap suits, cheap perfumes,
cheap lives and cheap dreams
but laced with smoke laden and lust ridden
distasteful songs of once respectable
old world aristocracy
only suggesting a shallow ignorant political drama
thrown in between two continents

oh how i wanted to sing
the streets of sparring punches
with a nice bottle of chardonnay!

Flashback: May 15, 2002

look at the way the words form
in my shadow

a legacy of a silent past
rips through the dark and the sound

the streets get empty
bowels of the city shriek
hurricanes plow the roots of my
disaffection of anything human
as i sip a glass of warming beer
in a bar not far from the house
a once famous poet killed himself

i try to remember his lines in this
late afternoon
early evening sun

remembrance once was the way the dead
talked to us
but the dead behind me talked through
shadows on pale white pages
i carry around jealously

and today they say nothing

i take another sip
get up and walk towards the door

shadows dissolve

the hustle-bustle of the city surrounds me

i smile and drag my past out of the door
the dead in my pocket

no one notices an old man carrying
the over-bearing scars of
long-forgotten words
because it is an old city
and there are too many dead
walking on its streets at this hour

gargoyles laugh loud in rain
and gutters too quick to dispose the words
formed and forgotten in shadows too

"the dead can't complain, you know!" shouts
the poet from his apartment
and as i pass i whisper
"to the gallows
once more my dear friends
to the gallows..."

Flashback: June 15, 2000

there are pale aphorisms in one's mind
woven in parallel narratives of one's identity
such as `non serviam'
and today i am speaking as a disillusioned
post-anarchist, neo-idealist, post-marxist
post-modernist and neo-critical agent
who is lost among all the jargon
and centuries old debates of
just versus unjust
right versus wrong
true versus false
beautiful versus ugly.
i wish i had a moral firm ground
on which i could claim what i believe
in my fullest knowledge and best intentions
is just, right, true and beautiful.
but i don't know much and often
i don't act on my best intentions.
in my usual imperfection
what i have believed to be
just, right, true and beautiful,
a glimpse of what ought to be,
may equally become
unjust, wrong, false and ugly,
burdens of a troubled past to be
dismantled, reconstructed and justified.
in an age where
thought is reduced to a function,
language to a game and
reason to an all purpose justification agent
conditioned by genes, culture and economics
nothing i have said or done has any
chance of being
significant, relevant or legitimate
for all the prophets of my age
can't be anything but
cynical and disillusioned.
i am, like thousands before me,
one of those who are about to die of
shortage of breath in the ocean of
insignificance.

scratch and ye shall find a disappointed
idealist under every pessimistic critic.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

break a sheath
break it over your skin
to share between us
as i gasp
desperate
yearning for something
anything

an unhappy and angry ghost
scornfully whispers
"what you need is what you are
what you want is who you are"
only half-joking with a smug smile

i have no hart to tell him
to fornicate with himself
for i know i get angry
only when i am told a truth
i do not like

so, we arrive here: an impasse
and i hear from far away
a lovely yet a very sad song
about loving a broken woman
in a broken bed

i will start humming
as soon as i forget what i am