always the followers

soil the essence

in following

sometimes i listen to kabir

and i wonder what the hell

i'm trying to say in my own words

fuck off if you think i need to legitimize this

i am compost. so there.

make what you want to make out of that.

equilibrium is a dream

repeatedly dies in wakefulness (is this that example of when i try hard to create impact, and my words suffocate in an overdose of intended poeticism? i did add the wakefulness upon revision. thought it contrasted well with the dream. that's what they teach in schools, after all.)

i came.

did you see me?

brr.

did you look away?

brr. brr.

repeat repeat

dryness

repeat drabness

there are no words today

that are round

no words to create juice

even to create predictable sounds

feels like yet another mode of deception

if anything

i feign a poem

in this

there is no poem

today thoughts are weary

the jackal hunts the vaccuum

and square is the shape that always confines me

a good poem is a bad dream

a bad poem is just awkward

it's awkward

this is awkard

this is so awkward

garbage in garbage out equilibrium

but even that. who am i kidding.

i can't even get away with a make-what-you-want-to-make-out-of-that.

too many evens betray an aura of oddness.

wit failure.

erm. awkward pause.

it can end you know.

even if it's not a poem. a poem. poem.

...something undignified about a poem that refuses to end.

that is not really a poem. a poem. poem.

of love

this

love is the delusion

that makes you hungry in the dark

this

what? what what what what what?

THIS!

here now

this is crap atop crap atop crap atop crap

you, me

between us this dangling compromise

we do not touch

not touch

think

thinking reveals

arched memories

and punctured minds

satisfaction

is always the otherside of the coin

the one that faces not us

we don't win

even in memory we don't grin

love is the sad byproduct

of an abundance of time

and space

and indulgent idleness

and the mastery of dubious self deception

the soul sleeps

and the soul is a whore

love is the tired

wind that passes

so softly

nothing shatters ever more

love is forlorn

crap is love

but this time

i saw your face

and felt my skin stretch to a half smile

and then i recognized

love is the deluision

that makes you snarl and drool

even when you're bellyfull

yuck! forget it!

who wants to write about love anyway!

---

the song pours

my ear twitches

love is a whore

love is a whore

delayed fading

a love that scars is a love that lasts.

love made permanent in scar.

so that even when memory fades,

remembrance is the name evoked by sleeping wounds.

ah!

"not right, not wrong,
this timeless face of yours."

the unintended

is memory the problem
or the procrastination of
keeping in mind

epiphany 0.1

it is, it is! it is possible to fall in love with, be in love with, remain in love with anyone and everyone except when the ego comes in the way.

and the ego always comes in the way.

invitation

who said this corridor is well lit, sparkly bright

no light shines at the end of this tunnel

but i'm interested enough to hope you'll keep me company in the dark

and if a mistletoe of pain awaits us

we shall kiss and then we shall part

title pending under indecision

i face the earth

you face the stars

and in our faces linger the yearning

of ageless hours

of fraught sunshine

and tangled moonbeams

and the rain choking

and the humiliated coffee bean

i smash the earth in your face

you smash the stars in mine

i go bright with disgrace

and you grow dark like the sun never shined

we claw at each other with the nails of our heart

we don't know how to part, my love,

we don't know how to part

we claw

and we wound

deliberately we beat

and we hack

and we wring and we strangle at every angle

we pull and we yank

and we slit and we stab

our follies have scarred every limb

every joint

every smile we shall smile

is stitched with a thousand lies

we groan and we moan

and we kick and we prick

and we smash-squeeze-shove-screw-PULVERIZE!

but you never die

and i never die

why all this fuss, my love,

why all this fuss

a flower loses a petal

but a flower does not bark

a flower does not bark

in daylight

or in the dark

but listen to me shriek, my love,

day and night

one loss of love, my love,

and an eternity of fright

what's left of you sits beside what's left of me

we don't know how to part, my love,

we don't know how to part

as petal-less flowers bloom in our heart

emptiness

and when there is emptiness

then there is scope for a lot of thinking

and deluding and the building of uncertainties

and then fear.

fear that precipitates,

tangible on the skin that i'd never felt before.

fear in my eyes,

behind the lids.

fear grasping, chaining my ankles.

fear everywhere - the rim that encases my glasses.

the tip of this pen that writes.

fear! fear! everywhere!

what do i do?

why does emptiness

so automatically get filled

with dark, brooding, sombre fear?

catharsis

I hate these pages

I hate what I write

Even more that I omit.

I hate myself

And I hate the core of your being.

I hate this universe

For the lack of a better reaction.

I hate everything that comes my way.

I hate boys

I hate women even more.

I hate that I'm funny

even when I'm sore, sore, sore.

I hate that I rhyme

My poetry with time.

I hate that I'm sick sick sick of myself!

I hate, I hate

And in hate I create.

so...

i waited

wanting

to hear a word

you were my muse

but without excuse

you took your leave

i waited

and degenerated

this bird has flown

Dearest, you're the nearest to my heart

heart-

Am I taking too much for granted?

Peacock feather blue

Nobody will miss me when I'm gone

But is that what I'm supposed to be greiving about

While I'm still alive?

So we part

And I so bold

Standing in this corner

Smugly turned away

As if I do not know which bird's name love is.

i start to sweat before you feel the warmth

Environmental activism

Is not environmental optimism.

It is the voice of greed

And it bleeds with the fear, the sorrow

Of human incapacity

to see

Beyond itself.

We die

Without grace

Clinging onto hope as if it were life.

Clinging onto self as if that alone were life.

But life amiss -

A mass of regret, our body and our soul

We take from this earth, all that we never owned.

Environmental activism

Is political propaganda

Unless you want to hear the earth's agenda

And the earth has none.

Yet why do we go on and on and on and on?

the elemental zoo

Blindness

Crippled blindness

then must mean that you can see

But what I see is glory

Without an ounce of mystery.

Glory glorified

is too much to see.

I wish I could go back to being wholly blind

To gain a little bit of that mystery

And return to the unexalted

So that seeing, again, would not make me believe.

pedagogy

When they told me emotions are dispensible

And confidence needs to be made permanent

And suddenly so much of distanced alertness

All this alertness

Makes me forget who I am

What am I expending my focus on?

A filthy, wasted bargain.

So they tell me love is an object

"Make an object out of love!"

And I try and peek in to see if it's my heart

Or my crotch they're talking about.

inclinations

on the edge of disaster. and life is back to being beautiful again.

even in death we are a little inconsistent

the exhibitionist

"i want to spread myself out for you

i want you to see

all of me"

and when i say this,

i excite you

i arouse you

i make a new man out of you

don't i?

i start shedding,

revealing

unconcealing.

my sensual body

is clothed only in your gasp and your stare

and the look on your face

is enough to arouse me as well

touch me with your naked hand

all my clothes undone

you think i am done

but not yet

for i havent shed anything yet

in unintentional ingenuity

(but oh what ingenuity!)

i shed

and i shed

shed skin and flesh and bone

in front of your eyes

until i am nothing more

than just the vaguest memory of somebody dead

i wanted to show

i wanted to tell

i wanted to reveal

and leave nothing behind for you to misunderstand

i left nothing behind

you saw

you saw all of me

but what you saw

you couldn't make out

as me

because you knew, i know, you too are what i am on the inside

the same flesh, the same blood, the same gory biological detail nobody wants to pay attention to -

ugly, intolerable truth.

but why must it be told?

why must it be shown?

when it's in all of us

and showing thus, it keeps us from remaining alive.

in showing all that can be seen

there was nothing left of me.

we all want to see

we all want to be shown

i think you got more than you asked for

but i wanted to show more

i wanted to show so much more

but i was gone before i was done

so maybe you did misunderstand me, after all.

and just to be fair

i hope you'll keep a lock of my hair.

something is not quite right with this poem...

there is no power in what you are going to say

because the future is in yesterday

so when you procrastinate

(line missing)

but a blog imprinted with memories of loss.

creation submerges in loss

emerges as pain

repeatedly.

it is almost always barren

where only tomorrows exist.

(hmm...reading a poem with a missing line can be awkward...)

while nothing came our way

we waited

and created

"i experimented with love

the result: burnt petals in the rain. oh so unwashable.

i experimented with desire

but my body language

contained too many grammatical errors

i experimented with satire

and oh ya...i got a lot of laughs-

i do not want to go into exactly why that happened

i experimented with pain

and how my heart burned

but heart burn is really just belly acid rising up to the oesophagus

it's belchy, it's bilish,

it has no room in poetry.

i experimented with pain

and waited for the rain

but it was the wind that finally set me free.

i experimented with fire

as flames poked my gut

a sensation unrivaled.

and while i experimented with fire

i discovered i was unable to disappear into the smoke"

we created

and waited

are you my marygold?

yes. no. bitch. whore. too many fucking lies. everyone denies. you are a fucking pink pig that does not cry. no, bitch. you are not my marygold.

leave

i hate you

anonymous reader

i hate that i have to speak to you

with a voice

full of deliberation

with words

full of meaning

i hate that i have to put you first

in order to see myself

i hate that i have to be something

before you

in order to be myself

i hate that

you have to be there for me to make sense

of myself

you critic 

a sleeze

you judge

and sit in your comfortable world

created out of judgements

that need to be made

as my insecurities create your comfort

you, too, must know that it will not last.

you that reads

and understands

and shoves meaning into my words

that attempt to define no truth

you anonymous reader

you are forever gone

watch yourself diminish

as my words expand

into a silence that you will never comprehend

as they contract

into an absence that you intend

to dismiss

it is not for you i write

if you come again

you will derive no strength

no self esteem

your ego is the gunk that rots at the bottom of a pile

of self made lies

your ego is yours

without beauty

you speak

without love

you think

and pollute this universe without care.

you are one daring creature

but you dare

to do all the things

that make you unreal

and i am your queen

but i am your loser

motherfuckingfailurefiascoshunnedmarredjustnotenoughbutalwaystheballinthemiddleoftheroomthatdoesntrollandhowcometheshadowisyourhippieandiamyourcarnivalbutlifeissomethingthatdoesntmoveevenwhenitgoesonandwhatdoesitmeanwhenyoumeanandyoumeanandyoufuckingmeanallthetimeandiwonderwhyidontsmileanymoreandwhetherthathasanythingtodowithyouandhowyoudontlivemylieyouwhoreoftheuniversethatrepellsthesmoothlimitlesscategoriesofsunshinethatdishevellmybrainmylordiamyourfuckinglordfuckingtryandseewhatyouseewhatdoyouseeyoucrazymotherfuckerthatpretendstobeblindonlytobesafehidingfromyourselfevenwhenyouarenotfearfulandalwayscrappinginmybackyardasifprivatepropertywereathingofthepastfuturefuckfacewhatthewalkwelliamnotyourlieamiyourtruthbutmaybesomedayweshallalllivetoseethestarssmileinthedarkwhennobodyisreallywatching

you

you

look at how the word doesn't seem to like the way it stands

it makes a stand even while it stands

and instead of standing straight,

it slants

as if it were pointing towards something that has been unknown to us

for far too long

you

i fail

every time i try to define who you are,

the boundaries blur

you and me and us and them and so much more

are none

y-o-u

yes, every character seems to have its own story

y is like a dance,

o an expression

and u something crouching, as if it wants to remain hidden

you

i like most

when it encapsulates a crazy 

yapping, freakshow of a person,

passionate to the ends of her hair,

spiraling out into the universe at the rate of 55 epiphanies an hour,

and mostly,

dwelling on one word

as if understanding the weight of it on this world meant

salvation itself

you

asking me to build on this word

makes for good poetry...

apple

An apple

red, round, supple

glistening, glowing,

shapes and shades merge and glide over this bulbous thing

called a fruit.

An apple

i am told not to touch

so i stare at it longingly. 

I watch from far because

i am not to touch.

That apple!

I long for, but i know i would not want to eat.

Bloody apple, i dont even like.

But long for

only because it is the forbidden fruit

that apple – a festering fruit

an earthly, elemental dome for maggots, squirming, swarming, 

devouring the core

why is it so forbidden

suddenly

when my own core is a family of maggots,

curling comfortably,

waiting to make contact with distant relatives.

untitled

I found a way to make you smile.

I miss you whenever my hand creates your writing.

I miss you.

I miss you.

Always, in my writing, I'm talking to you.

Saying things that you may never hear.

And while I'm alone here,

You, too, must be alone somewhere.

If only I could know what you were saying to me.

- - -

“I, too, am heartbroken. But won't say it.”

woman

Woman

don't make believe that

liking is loving

or loving is to act upon

or to feel is to define

or to define is to understand

or to understand is to experience

don't ever make believe that

to love is to dignify it.

Woman

don't be such a man!

gender

Gender

is demorphed humanity

gender

constructed; but constructed on wooden planks and stainless steel and iron rods and plaster and concrete and timber and and plywood and bricks and glasses and smoothness and straightness and vertical and horizontal and parallels and perpendiculars and blue prints and masterminds and the accumulation of architectures together called culture.

And order; solid, permanent, inescapable order.

All manmade.

the smell of sweet lime

I am captured by this zone of purity.

A purity that does not allow in

the smell of sweet lime

that penetrates

nevertheless

pungent, putrid, reeking with obscenity

unless, of course,

you know of acquired taste.

And know also that the thing to eat

is not the fleshy juicy inside

but the coarse and bitter rind.

untitled

Red pen

black rim

And a nib that colour cannot ordain

Steel, silver or eye

Not colours

But marked by glint, sparkle, shimmer and shine.

What is written

is black block letters

blackness in colour.

Not blackness – the absence of light.

But black against white

as silver shimmering adds to the glint in the eye.

glass

I am transparent;

I'm like stained glass.

I cannot

do anything but break.

---

Exasperated

Glass: there is so much drama in glass.

Oh! That it shatters.

Into cold colour coordinated pieces.

Cold brilliant sparkling icicles

On the floor.

Flat fraudulent floor.

It lies

So desperately it tells

all the secrets

of the glass that ought not to have shattered.

---

The glass that breaks of its own volition;

how is it blasphemous?

It falls and breaks

But not to fall prey to gravity.

Awkward shapes

incline, recline, or stand on their tippie-toes

sideways.

Always, there is poise

In each broken piece

That cannot be put together.

the afterthought

whenever i talk to you...
i feel like i'm slithering down a rainbow laid out with banana peels.
i feel like i'm trickling down a cloud in the afterrain.
and the moonshines. and the sunsmiles,
and happiness is a creature i can hold in my palms.
it crawls. it lingers.

i think you're the ribbon that makes a bow around my universe...
so red...
and so lovely.

why, yes!

we must have been made this way

imperfect

so that love could be possible

be water (ii)

and while the mind neglects,

water flows, on the other side of the glass,

unable to wash.

be water

For a moment,

I was a song and I lay beside raindrops

And while they heard not a sound,

Pearls danced in my eyes.

But here this fume,

And chaos is imprinted in my soul.

error #256

"You're living for nothing now
I hope you're keeping some kind of record"

Yes, dearest, I am.

lies

if you want to talk matter over mind
come
lay your cheek against mine
feel the crisp pulsating rhythm
of silence
as heartbeats build up

not as sounds
but as insurmountable experience
piled one against another

i am
and there is a voice in me
and everything i speak is a lie
a lie!
i am

and as i go farther from you
i witness my own truth vanish
diminish first
but gone, eventually

am i a flake of your life
am i the darkness that almost surrounds your light?
as i let flake fall into darkness

no, it is not emptiness i find

everywhere groping, grasping
these lies...

gold

I'm back out of track

the tragedies you breed in the farm of your heart
keep me alive
living
amidst the songs of L. Cohen
in between lines sung by a voice
that almost wishes it had not spoken

You send me regards
I send you regrets

I'm always glad you stand in my way

the clashing of gold and diamond
produces no metal
no stone
only music
that sparkles like a diamond
and glistens like gold

blog

what is a blog?
is it a log with wings
can it sing
the thing
that makes me cringe

since when did the blog
become
the thing
without wings
or song
or silence
confounding all senses

the thing
that is always 'in'
when it comes to written words on the net

what is a blog
a noun
that is no use
to a clown
like me

i mean what do people write
when they write a blog

and when they blog
(a verb it is)
what is it that is being done

the blog
is my ultimate blockage
serving no good purpose
abundant, profuse
proliferation of ideas
the unleashing of all creativities
earlier clogged
gooey journalism - an arm's length away
sticky, smelly, messy, slimy

a blog
is a weblog
is not the coming together of two constituent parts
we
blog
but of
web
and
log

and yet, all the time, we blog
not knowing what means the web and what means the log.