Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Stains from Eden

I looked up
and saw
neon plastic staring
back at me
pale and stuck suspended
like an irrevocable beacon
thick with misery
from the discernible darkness
that coloured the specters
of metal and paint
in the spirit of
transparent ink, sinister
and perfumed in cool tints
bringing slow tears
to my eyes
caught by now, in the snare
of dog-eared yells
and wretched name-calling
floating smoothly like film sheets
peculiar and scar-tissued

As i draped a hand over my belly,
snaking it over my chest
under my clothes,
comforting my boring heartbeat
with the warmth of warm blood-under-skin
I dreamed of lying under the
flower glow of an endless celestial
sky, blundering its way across
it's own chameleon's coat

I draped the other hand
over my eyes
trying to leave blank spaces for light
to swill in the darkness of my crossbred nightmare
to arabesque and pivot like
heartbroken leaves
that travel the length
and breadth of my
measured in their unintended movement
and emulsified by the jars
of ardent Eden that i
lovingly bleed
almost smiling
into the cobbled roads
as i walk half-dead

I wondered about the touch of
my hands
to my lips
and then to my soul
and then

I went blind.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Occultus Malum

There was the night,
and buckets of transparent inebriation.
All the children
were dancing.
Vibrant and in-love.
The lights collided
with songs and voices.
angel-faced dolls,
and pure bred men.
All aflung into the arms of
a billowing fatality,
humming secret noises
from the trampled grass.
Drowsy and mixed with sweat.
Pulsing one. Two. Three to infinity,
at the crescendo of black thighs,
soft- whimsical feet,
and tall, tall anti-climaxes of personality.

They were all so fucked up,
mixed up.
In the harem of
time gone wrong.
And i roamed
made a mad woman.
All lose joints
and awkward head.
Mulish and lonely,
wide-eyed, wonderfully bewildered and sad too.
Envious in places,
near the gates and corridors.
Fidgeting with scarf,
morbid unfamiliarity
and exploding stories of aural textures.
Then back to bedlam
within my own body.
Ordinary in the illuminated sea of walking creatures.
Collapsing humorously from the edges into a defeated sigh.
Rendered fragile
and bartered copiously to feel
fully formed.
And broken open,
head to toe
from brown earth
and smoke-hidden sky.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Silence Was Insane

I have
nascent guilt under my wrists
and pink raw, nerve endings.
Each delicate,
and absconding,
from peace.

So great have these
pains been to my coward life,
that I have closed the lid over
your eyes,
and closed the lid over dustbins,
made out of all my speech,
and yours.
Dust collecting over your smile,
such a beautiful one.
And a catharsis, elusive of a future or a present.

Bit by bit,
my fingernails
are declining into their anemic shells,
and my breath is stalking whisper trees,
inward, inbound;
to the asylum of my own heartbeat.
While taxi cabs
brighter yellow than my teeth ever could be,
and lighter black than my despair,
coal-like with a veneer of cheap tears.
Like everything else about me,
roam fat and bold.
Louldly, like proud lovers
sheltered from shame and hidden hand-holding.
A little unlike me

I never held hands,
Only a mouth in mine.
Only to give it up too soon.

Adieu, dearest materialist.
Silence was insane

Friday, August 26, 2011

The True Ant

Fucking adorable man-boy of brim hat anarchy and handkerchiefs that itched his nose.
Why pile all that anger in your eyes
and walk around selling it to the naive strangers
that worship you like the circus freak you are
so uncomfortable in your own skin and bone marrow
tired of rusty bubblegum talk
and narrow digressing roads to the park
your cloth handbag
and true moon eyes
cloud of Pandora hair
and molested lips
you shine like a beacon of animosity
on the universe's tides
the brick lighthouse with linear, stale beams
deserted iron over the lenses of your tea-shades
Pure maudlin
pure maudlin
rushing out of schoolboy arms
brushing against your cynical palms
carmine red vermillion streams
picking docilely at your childish brood
swaying violently with your volatile mood
you're a fetus in the scheme of things
I'm a watcher with visual endings

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Lacuna Child

the world
and the snakeskin it has covered you with,
the beams
of hunger you have slept under,
the grit in your ears,
the noise
exploding in your gut,
the fingernails of men arresting your essence.
Forget, that you ever wore your jejune like a perfume,
the heat of your mercury skull,
the soap bubble soup of
shedding age in your tub.
Forget the punches to your rhythm,
the bile of youth covering your eyes,
the density of wide-eyed, gulped-down shock in your blood,
the kilern of madness soaked in your spine.
Forget, my pet insect,
about your tryst with the universe,
your ticket to the illuminated camps,
the cost of roses to your teeth,
or the dew in your sooty eyes.

Your vellum is a ransom.
Only a ransom
for bartering the inner-skinned
punishment of some day long gone, to come.
To only remember
is this, then
that which cannot be dismembered
or forgotten
or rubbed into any ears and curved ribs
is your truth and misfortune
lacuna child.

Friday, August 12, 2011


Surreptitious cartons
of well being
thrown about by all the strange strange-lings
parceled, picked
destroyed unending
pigeon holed condemning
bristling whistling
drunk dizzy
money money
old broad
broad stood asking for the right questions
out of the brain sockets
into the minor ones
golden footed
raven mouthed
your karma is a brainless trout
possessed of carnal interruptions
and booming instructions
with which to end the water's world
I am the minstrel of joyous deceit
so hand me some alms
for my popular hands
done ditched
done lone
done forgone
all her vicious moans
I'-m traveling like bold thunder
all over the land
now booted foot here
here under her skirt
now a rolling for dice of mirth
now here, again a see through fate
now her again on the stairs content
waiting, like the rust speckled candelabrum,
joy divine
upholding the light
from the grinning
garters of all those i buried
in my pockets
laughing carelessly
as i did

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

The Sham

The musk from your armpits, the stale breath of toast swirling slightly in your morning-mouth, your black shoes moving hurriedly in a personal familiar stride, you carry all these with you wherever you go. Your ordinary hands and woman's body are placed in the world's rapid waves, as you roam ashamed, covered in a thin sheet of another's skin, akin to a large spandex glove of ghostly epidermis. It's as if the road is eating up the miles from your feet and your eyes are the awkward and lost ellipticals of a nervous breach through life's eggshell womb. And still, you are moving and touching doors...handlebars of trains at 6:00 am...inhaling the sea, that slashes foam across rocks on an uneventful evening...laughing contentedly with a fidgety mouth, all with the dull thud of his body moving phantasmagorical within yours. He moves his hands, when you pick up your 35 rupee glass of iced tea. He squats to piss in the ladies loo with you, as you sit in awkward angles trying not to ruin your shoes.His hair is twined in yours, it's unwashed familiar smell weaved shabbily in the knots. His eyes are stitched into yours. Burnt sealed and nailed tight to your brain. So that they may never escape their prison of sickly-sweet surface tension. You hear the thrilling romanticism of music in the train, in the rickshaw. You see life through the black-blurred corners of an old photograph. You try to see beauty in your world because you want it to be convulsing with the satisfaction of a battle won. You want to stand on the curb and scream and scream and scream in the black and white high-contrast glory of poetic justice that "I am better than you. I will always be better. I always was better and you, you are nothing, you are no where, you will be no one and I am the greatest warrior, conqueror, queen, messiah, hero, pundit, saviour what-have-you-not-ever! And you, are nothing and never will be."

"But the truth" is, he replies, "I am everything because there is no other like me, unlike you....who is like everyone else."

Wake up.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Cut Open

I need a shot of the lipid,
some bursting of giddiness in my brain.
I need a soothing shock,
to disfigure all the noise.
I need you,
and your flame.
I need your charming compass,
pointing me to the directionless,
directionless hours, through the feet of turmoiled, turn-stiled, passing time.
An incidental clock, pockmarked and walking free inside,
the doors and rooms of my black and white shadowed eye.
Little cursive bent of corporeal mutiny,
little pieces of child-like aim.
Tender, gentle hands with veins,
crisscrossing the raised flesh.
Tender stomach made of warmth and suede,
under a cheek of mine.
Lips like meaningful sockets of truth and stale breath,
courting a lava tongue and specks of lust on the corners of the mouth.
Hauling me deeper,
deeper into the corkscrew vortex of,
spinning hands and hair,
talking guiltily of love,
not much else.
Give me your flame.
I need your charming compass.
I will be alive tomorrow,

Saturday, July 30, 2011


A tourniquet bed
tarnished and scented sheets
moth eaten cloth of heady, anticipation
dull static flicker from the TV
shaping your face with its
attention seeking vortex
damp walls and a wet heart
flooding inside your shirt
you, holding steady and prepared
you, touching lightly to prepare
I, only a broken gloom of skin
I only a faceless pity within
You, with your soft lips
and softer hands
you with your
dreamy earlobes
and your metal earring
you, are so beautiful
you are so doomed
Here in my arms you are doomed
as i am
without the knowledge that climbs into my eyes
like vomit
ready to upturn violently, but surely
upon your poetry
of this and that wisdom
this and that cunt
this and that country
this and that cock
and bull
this and that pubic enlightenment
of un-shy words.
you asked for an open can
an open woman
an open book
of an anal girl
stuck inside her own ass with her head in between
her head swimming in her rectum maybe
looking for all the value punched inside
her intestine
punched in,
pulped in.
gulped down,
bent down.
Her beautiful breasts
Her beautiful body
her humming skin.
The little noises
she makes when she kisses your memory
of some day you are speaking of
between your ribs
She is so safe
and warm
so very slumberous
and encompassing
In out
In out
The world contracts and devours
In out
In out
In out
The heap of her hollowness
Her empty giving
Her empty sharing
Her emptiness
Fills you
Fills you
with pride
fills you
It fills you
And then you empty her emptiness
In some other thigh.
On some other night
So unlike that one
So like her own
with her anal ways
her anal hide
swimming up her anal,anti-kind

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Auburn Insomniac

The auburn insomniac,
in his shell,
in his shoes,
with a hairy belly,
and not much to do.
Old monk on his bed,
and a restless head,
he sets out towards his window's gloom.
The night falls flat,
on boot and hat,
on floor and street,
the bars open or discreet.
And he loses some clear air,
with his cigarette about,
and no one to shout,
at his face splashed with serenity.
He lost his troubles,
and all his gambles,
to a constant state of temerity.
Such a man of the night,
such a spirit with fight,
But alas he sold off his dignity.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall

The smell of phenyl chokes the room and all its other smells. The smell of shit and pain and newspapers. The claustrophobia of my childhood inches closer and closer as the walls coloured with jaundice and 'aesthetic' yellow light, snake cool and familiar along my blind hands.The scarlet screams of mother and her nocturnal bathroom operas are just another routine, a sleepless scribble of sounds in the house. The cats theatrically stare at the furniture, the dogs run in epileptic vigour, chasing a figment of the REM cycle, and I sit down on my pot, wash my hands dutifully and take slow, careful steps avoiding toe-stubs across the living room. A hard rain's gonna fall

Saturday, July 2, 2011


I being the misnomer of a body
that I am
and you the green billowing
fruit of some tragedy
have places to trounce unending
fledgeling into the crust
of some songs
and gimlet buttons

I have painted your shadows with the colour
of waiting,heartfelt skin
I have improved the texture of my voice
so that you may fall in love
with its husky whoredom
of romance
I have prayed upon the teeth of
shifting darkness
to swallow my insipid curious eyes
as they fall upon you
meandering into some corridor
foreign and
with flowing hair
near its beads
of tepid, stale air
with clear, radiant cheeks
with perfect, contours for thighs
and lips, the pinch of some
Coraline watercolour
dignified and virginal

I am a thief of absurdity
a disciple of inane things
I am
an imperfect wisp of
polluted words
A nubile assortment
of overgrown years
tired years
years pulsing
with the harpoon
of fists
and table top edges
and borderline regret
shining starkly,
the oil on my skin
my heartfelt skin
skin, brown
and choked with
cystic dots of longing
skin howling
skin starving
curling skin
jutting out
as hands
and lips
and then waiting
waiting in its colours
in its covers
of your unknown
loath to
a pauper's demise
Not an animal's

Friday, July 1, 2011


We are splitting,
like light,
and the death of the afternoon.
We are sitting,
with our books,
and broods,
we are winning,
with our thought-like balloons.
We are spinning,
like orphaned moons.
like charcoal,
So very deep.
and dream heaped.

Monday, June 20, 2011

The Non - Gentleman

I love
how you throw your coins at me
Like I'm a circus pet
with a cirrus hook
near my collarbone
How you ask
i am fine
how you ask
I'd like some tea
when actually I'd like to
slowly push my blunt foot
inside your stomach
and see it coming out the other end
maybe, breaking your spinal cord
But then you are just sitting there
blandly affectionate
inspidly so
like a cucumber
like a detached parent
meeting with their fully grown seed
after many years
You think that i am a good woman
a beautiful girl
a gifted wordsmith
and such a pain in the ass
and i think that you're
negative space
that you're a fetish
a long dead flash of incineration
in the ashtray
a stain of monsoon shoes
on my anti-septic tiles
You are only the ache
of some pig punched sorrow
nothing but a yarn jutting out
of my mind's
old salty
You are husky trash
and a dustbin rhapsody
No gentleman
no minstrel
no poet extraordinaire
but a worm infested bowler hat.

Train Wreck Romeo

We were young Gods lixeen
the greatest ever machines
right by living
high sex psy ches
We're train wreck summers
and vogue covers
Filled with the season
and what a season it is
You were paradise
but lost my eyes
the day she met my
castle queens
I care to regret
any crimes I get
accused for
When I love
We were young and old
She's an angel I'm told
When we fucked
I saw her fly
Yes the spots in the room
Oh the cupboard and the broom
The kitchen and stairs
We've been everywhere
and Nibbling
our Godly selves
On the kingdom shelves

Saturday, June 18, 2011

My Howl

I'm afraid of touching its crumbling pages
its soft dog eared folds
its a valuable relic
its old
its old
my soul twisted like a rope,
of miniscule springs
that spring in its spine
its mine
its mine
that little orgasm of textual destiny is mine
how lovingly i have upturned its face
each unreal black and white
my saliva leaving traces of ownership
every single time
i have drowned it in my nights
of lonely blank headaches
I have swum it with me through
the channels of yellow mediocre light
i have tied it to my throat of slow breathing spite
and always it has been my lover
never out of sight
it contorts with the humid rustle of
rain upon its sleeve
it shrivels like wet fingers
soaked overnight in sleep
And ah, this urchin tome
such a beggar for lack of clothes
my only
my only
Its an only thing
on my days unending
lying in wait patiently
Lying in cupboards
cold boxes,
boxes with mold boxes
on the threshold
of being evicted from their homes
And yet it smells like
the sweat from my hands
like some reclusive tea
and maybe some smoke on command
from the bloke
who came with packages and the draft
of such and such things
Some obscure evening
Ah my love
my gray scaled God
My independent song
You are the last of your kind
Loosened and stroked by fingernails and palms
opened and touched by fingernails and palms
held naked indignant by fingernails and palms
and yet
you are my Madonna
voodoo black
and virginal white.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


are like sellers of crisp lust
clad in nothing but velvet osmosis,
possession of a young dream
and old craving
aeons of livid abrasions of the mind
panting in the iota of a chance to touch-corrupt
to turn inward the world and its Gothic pain
to turn and crush the fabric of sanity
in one blink of a dilated pupil
and surprise of the century's grandfather clock
i'm here witnessing all the gushing
and thickening acids of the human ambition
all the soiled usurped naivette of endless eternity
every mortar stained synthesis of blood
every echo of pardoned displacement
and everything is a sorry or thankyou
and everything is a give or take
and i feel a thousand cold steels
of hungry harlot heels
bleed my atlas back
demand the fullness of pregnant hearts
brimming with fluids of release
what can i give these, wishes
who trade in elephantine caskets of fickle greed
who can i ask them for?
you, will you give me a wish?
she wears hells heels
and a little skirt?
you, can you buy me a wish?
she is very charming
and she likes my company?
i am the world's man
wanting to touch that serpent
reeking of
children's happiness
and entrench
divine fucking
of ego and fate

Sunday, May 15, 2011


There are days now,

when there is no air

entering the wood.

There is no loss,

of the afternoon sun.

No argument,

about the bed's softness.

There is no spilling of water,

no wires hanging free.

No stories written nervously,

or read out.

There is no understanding.

No knowledge.

There is no death.

And it's soft stabs,


There are no walls,

to run parallell,

to salt lines.

Books, all burned.

All tokens given away,

All hatred sealed,

in the abyss,

of cultivated mornings.

A pill of,

discreet illness,


There is freedom,

from the crime,

of stepping over,

the labels;


Cast away paper bags,

thrown in the thickness,

of disposable truths.

These objects,

have become a witness.

To my carvings of error,

on each surface, attached to my routine.

Here in this room,

are locked away,

the tenacious breaths,

of my belief.

Here in this room,

is locked away,

the brown colour of my skin,

mingling with,

the poetry of an exchange.


like the threads of,

a braided secret.

Crushed now,


to fine,

twinkles of oppressed,


Nothing remains here,

in this theatre of,

jute nooses,

and mute noises.

The incidents,

all browning with the,

shape of decay.

Only the pain,

a solid and real thing.

Alive sometimes,

and sometimes,

lying in wait,

for a plastic nod.

To enter its owner's


Caked with the lime of grief and,

two coins for moons.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Messiah Skirts

Little messiah skirts
and picture perfect teeth.
Grins, sadness made of praying mantis hands
and sugar nostalgia gardens.
Percolating water moccasins,
feeding on your brain waves,
and thunder shoes.
Have you pickled that music
somewhere in the wasp
Have you given yourself to the breeding,
breeding shrines of faith?
That demand your lava blood
and soft, mortal liver?
I walk at night sometimes.
Places to hide my crimes,
Looking for a shot of my seven year old smile,
when it was stolen.
Years ago.
Damn these pagan- smelling words.
Damn the hydrogen tears.
They are Goliaths,
and I'm a wink of dust,
and you're still selling yourself,
to faith and its labia lipped imps.
my friends-
they are naught.
They are few,
and live far, upon the curtains of shame.
and yet we are comrades and kin.
To battle, and bread, and bed.

The world,
it is a child parasite.
Whim worm,
eating a map of life-
through my cavernous hide.
Care for some scones?
Made from lesson number one?
Or a little juice,
of the first slivers of lust?
I touch myself
to know what it is to die.
I touch the world,
with the gloves of skin,
and i touch the threads.
Each silver, warm, painful, hard, wet
Swallow it.
Spill it.
Weave it.

Friday, March 18, 2011

June Flower

Obnoxious little June flower
with moon eyes
and cupid bow lips
Where have you gone with your veins
And sadness in the pools
of your alpine-stone heart
Where have you gone with your pictures
of black and white tragedy
Where are you sitting now?
touching the ends of tables and chairs
Touching the ends of her lips?

Why do you travel upon seas of bedlam
everyday to sit behind my shoulders
in some dismal pool of light
i see your stranded gaze
and i wonder about the dew in your eyes
your colours are all gone
usurped by the melancholy of loss
and the blizzard inside my bones
has melted you inside the black spaces
of my window

Open your mouth and tell me
Another story from the book of your mind
tell me of all the things that fly
like you into skies
of destiny and fading regret
bring your hands to my forehead and test the
fever of my madness
test it to see how much I've learned from
falling on my knees

I have lost you June flower,
You have left,
And i think of you often.
Under the death of the sun.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Kiss Me

I'm just trying to be profound.
but I'm in a box,
of boxes and little Mary Janes.
Ever dwindling lights of shiny dog tags,
and loafs of ardent newspaper gibberish
floating by your nullahs and basin.
Too thin is your bubble gum wall.
Pop it goes,
when i whisper love into your heart.
And bomb you go,
imploding with all the sugar-knives.
Rolling stones and combat boots
make up your
Sky lark, stop the arrow shoots.
And the stubble, unseen with foam kisses
is just a paradox for beauty.

Crumble a little, allowing
the alien white teeth to bite non-space,
To touch a lymph and to touch my vein.
Bathe naked in the abandonment of the hill
and sink into the earth with your tarps.
Run and hide under some opaque skin.
Kiss me.

I am nothingness,
I am faulty,
And disappearing.
Kiss me.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Naked Thief

Vagabond irises drifting closed,
Burnt with a little oil, bleeding out of both palms.
Floating, disturbed and irate
And so very disdainful.
Curling and cursing into hooks of melancholy oddity.
A shallow dweller in the eyes of a sorrow-headed woman,
Corrupt and agile, animated plume of mortification.
Guarding all spades in a crumpled fist,
Too open-ended and naked to be valuable.
And they laugh-
At her thief's cloak.
Her shade's feet and eyes,
Running over everything in her world.
Touched and untouched.
Fucked and unfucked.
Loved and unloved.
Done and undone.
It will follow,
The sprite's shoes bending over the roof of crime.

Hold her hand and pinch the flesh,
To bruise reality into the childish skin,
In all the places left without scars.
Everyone must know the artwork of a thief's body,
Her lovely naked edible mistakes.
Her lovely naked edible misery.
And they must have a trifle of the fount,
An immortal fount of circular supply.
Eternally lovely and edible.
That leaves only faint traces of decay on the corners of the mouth.
No price to pay for the lovely nakedness
No price to pay for the thief's crime.
A punishment in glee to naked, vagabond irises.
Drifting closed.
Burnt, with a little oil bleeding out of both palms.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

The Memory Ruin

She was visiting the ruins for the first time since the death of her dream. It was so vague and yet she feels like it died upon her lips. Her lips. They were the colour of unspoken memories. Those memories a mixture of the sadness in her eyes and the cynical lines around them. That was their colour yes. The ruins looked like ethereal ghosts now as she touched them with her gaze. Standing mute with their decaying footprints on the edge of the world. At least the only world that she had ever known. But it was far-away now. The world. Gone like an absentee parent. Like adolescence. Like the first kiss she doesn’t remember. It only existed now, looming like the place between death and salvation, but not quite. What were his words again? Yes, she remembers he had spoken like the void that filled her now. His voice was like the shadows of empty tins that clanged but were never heard or seen. She could not even see his voice anymore, she could not even picture it in her mind’s eye. Because her mind was an abstract thing now. An abstract, metaphysical, non-existent thing ,unlike him. He was never non-existent for her. He was her blue vein. The one that runs deepest. The poisoned one. The fatal bleed. And God knows he had bled her to a million deaths already. Always blue. The blood was always blue.

She always sought the ruins when he bled her like that. Though the ocean reminded her of his blueness, his vile beauty. With those eyes of his, like the azure horizon. A pale thing of immense splendor almost pagan in their shamelessness. she remembers the blueness now like a vague and trivial detail. Those colours of humanity are long gone. All that exists is this weightless temerity. The vaccum has turned inwards and echoes the weightlessness. She holds the sounds of her mourning in her mouth like a pregnant mother, but like an aborted anomaly they are never heard. She is peaceful like the insane are. With no ties of kinship to man or beast anymore. Their significance long lost in the webs of her inner void.

She remembers the faint essence of prayer. The sweet bitterness in her mouth ,every time she took his name before the travesty of her supreme illusion. Illusions, how do they exist with the non-existent? How do they create their identity with the salt of nothingness? She thinks about it. About the salt of her nothingness. Does she even care now? Care. What does it mean? Nothing in the non-existing specter of her memories. And all because…..She Loved. He Lost. She died

Monday, February 7, 2011


black holes of sensation
painted with invasions of velvet and a scream
and key holes of dust and fear
into rooms
with the
cavernous decay of rain and wetness
inside, surrounding,
Alone, not lonely.
In togetherness
in illness
in stillness
in caress
It's a mess
Yes such a glorious mess
It's a blur
Of black-hole shine and heat scrapes
and abused thighs
and love letters of the body
incomplete anticipation
and clay centers
moulded, folded
goaded, exploded.
Running pain of the blood
and the madness thinning it
within it all
in a mausoleum
of history
and futures
of spread legs
and two fingers
tracing your lips
and a restless
sheet of bed
soaking the cyanide
sweetness of feeling
and confessions in the darkness
of innocence bartered
and battered
and scattered on the wind
gambled and lost
to adult hands
and moans
that never give freedom
but only fountains
of reluctant affection
in a memory
disturbed and raped with
holier than thou
and whispers and
fingers that
are profane.
More than a whore's trade
a shallow grave
more than
and less
than love
and pure
in its corruption
and conquest
flower of nubile
growing under the
belly button with other
golden cabaret flowers
and the eulogy
of love.

Friday, February 4, 2011

World Pin

feels like a thousand hands plucking
your skin out of your ears
the jarring noises of the living dead
walking dazed
under the wounds of the world
and the sun and dried aging
meeting points of time lined
little streets of churlish possession
under bombs and limbs
and desert hearts
and what does faith have to give
what indeed does the disease of the mind
have, to call me names
of selling and sold
and fleeting kisses in the rain
when I've drowned and died and
and seen everything
in nothing but blood
and a scream

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Black and White Rain

I said to myself tonight
there will be no pain tonight
there will be nothing
just clutching of pillows
and a blanket to cover me
black and white
it covers everything
and there is a sheen of black and white rain on the table
on the street
on the neon sign of this night-time animal farm
black rain and white
staining my pillow
staining my bed sheet
leaving traces
without colour
just a sheen
nothing to notice
nothing to know
where it fell
on the dog's chin
near my feet
making all that is there
into all that isn't
like a vineyard of age
it's eating through reality
a starkness
a way of the eyes
a way of the mind
a way of wishing
it is there in these
the hollowness is heavy now
with this rain
purity and decrepit non-understanding
a solemn end
and deadness of living-ness
reflection of
a snobbish knowledge
of bourgeois death
i said to myself
i will live with this rain
this primordial creature
this only being
of honour in a dirty shuffling place
to be or not to be
is in its non-purple or non-pinkness
nothingness and its anti-thesis
cut out so velvet
and dearly from all knowing hands
kept aside like sugar cubes from chaos
there is black and white rain falling
you cant see it
you have covered your eyes with sleep
i wake up in puddles of it's departure
waiting for another cloudy day in the ceiling and numb mind.
black and white
there will be no pain tonight
there will be nothing.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

A Picture of You

I will draw a picture of you.....A picture of your petulant,socked feet. The black shadow of your nose ring...Your noir eyes of luminous contempt...Your full lips that are the curves of some anonymous fantasy.A little too full i think. "Don't tell my husband", she said.

Your artist's hands, with their colorful scar tissue and rivulets of veins....Your musician's hands,holding onto manifestations of the world.....Your self- proclaimed skinny body with it's heart falling to it's feet.....I will draw your ears,that await a question mark ear-ring. And your black hair....that is an ordinary black...with an extra-ordinary history.

I will draw you....The dual arches of your nose, flaring with the scent of a woman....Your neck, holding a head that is always floating.... Your teeth that have bitten lips..... and a pencil....maybe. A mundane tongue that has devoured, destroyed or amused with a lick....or a word.

I will draw a picture of you.....Your jaw-line and chin that have been stained with the misery of a lover and have slept in the womb of a pillow.....or a woman's breast....I will draw a picture of you, painted in the colour of flesh, of a pseudonym, and a pinch of smoke.....A picture of words sewn.... and.... erased and.... re-written in surrender to the thought of drawing....A picture....Of you.

Your Eyes Are The Windows To A Secret Gutter

Monday, January 31, 2011

Love Burns

I sit and write this. This. And I'm the last fish in the universe i feel. I feel. So much. Like wind running beside some cave and echoing its hollowness. Like barefooted ghosts of clothes that we once wore. Like the shy disclosure on the lips of young love. Like the lost days when we were hunted by madness and despair. Like the fulfillment i saw in your toppling head on the pillow of the first sonnet you said to me. Lies are the most painful thing in the world when dreams are built on the beating drums of sand and paper boats in dry rivers. Its the most painful memory that brings a man to his knees and the woman too. Like a lightening blade between the shoulders. My chest hurts with so much crunching. Crunching of fingers under my teeth. And for the regrets that we have had, i will be sorry. For all the songs you gave me,i will mourn and for all the easy deaths in this world, I'm the only non-recipient. Because i have no creed for the absorbing of this pain. I have no strength. I am no warrior of madness or of the heart. Or of any soul that is left in a human being. I am only filled with words and words and words and words and my eyes that never let me sleep or breathe without taking your name. For i am a slave now. To eternal searching. Lonely in my skin of broken glass and pigmentation, some scars and the impression of your lips on my soul. When you sucked it right into your jacket.Your jacket, to be sold to another bidder of love. I am hanging there like a sliver. The essence completely concentrated in that coat of yours. In the threads of a careless amnesia that you cover your heart with. I have bled. I have bled each day with your smiles running down my eyes and i have bled from my throat, screaming. Screaming your name into silence. Open mouthed bleakness of an empty shell. This pedestal where i stand, precariously. Built by the visceral naivete of love, is just a paper of sadness, tilting each day towards its plummet into some cynical gutter of being. And i can say that I'm not proud. Not proud of my fear or love. Not proud of my mistakes and the things I've said. Or done in this landmine of a world. You will walk with hands holding you and kissing your gypsy feet. And i will crawl because i have no feet. Only knees and palms to find peace again. I will drag myself every day. Inch by inch into my little hole of peace. Small and imperfect, away from your world of beauty and myth and the pain of living. Your world is profound. Injected with meaning and the arms of a soul mate. My world is beautiful too in its own cradle, of unceasing fire. Love burns.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Purple Skin Rose Bloom

wet charcoal dress drug
of schisms and tiny water ants
gutter goblin walled leaking windows
utter desolation and dampness
and psychedelia
and earth
pitter patter rain drops
pitter patter rain drops
falling fat and scattered
all around
vellum of un-opaque yards, stretching
covering two hands
two feet
quarter of a heart
leper's stash of happiness
brilliant young smile
jaded eyes and
cynical ways of making love
a bastard darkling of the summer sky
angry and wronged
roaring like a Hell's Angel on a Harley Davidson
crushing the lovely girl
crushing her ugly beauty
crushing the purple skin rose bloom