All My Reflections

If music could be made,
Then all rhythms would need a roof.

I am just a quiet kid walking on a silent sidewalk,
Measuring the distance between two tiles,
Counting yellow leaves amongst green,
Ticketing my thoughts beside the traffic light,
And being a lamppost to remain unseen.

My eraser is razor sharp
And my pencilled Picassos
Burn without vapours,
Leaving white carbon,
Like an unprinted newspaper.

This is the heading of the day:
“Do you not do not believe what you say.”
(Was that a question. 
And…was that a question too?
Yes, two.
Perhaps.
Who am I to question…)

They brought me from zero
And they taught me infinity,
So I could extrapolate
The contraption called concession,
That middle ground
Where, no one is around,
To plant a seed,
Or to paint a shade.

So, my mind, like every mind has come 
To a common conclusion:
That each drawing needs
The name of an artist,
For then, the art can be torn apart.
You cannot hang an anonymous, can you?

It’s the way of the world, boy,
It’s the task of time.
If you divide your days
Between work and play,
You can have coffee at eight, 
And your wine at nine.

I am writing like a maniac,
Mesmerised by my own vanity.

Didn’t once, amongst scientists posing as philosophers,
In a shivering old shanty
By the backdoor of my dream,
I said that needle is the greatest weapon ever invented;
For it sews together torn men
And sends them back to be torn apart again,
Stitch by violent stitch,
Till it cannot know which is which:
Cain or Abel,
Bible or Aesop’s Fable,
Eliot or Gertrude Stein,
The Monster or Frankenstein.

Often, when my mind stills,
I can smell my nostrils
And taste my tongue,
Draw mirrors with my eyes,
And make my face go young.

It is a miracle that in silence
One can hear more of all:
The cocoon breathing for caterpillar,
And incense stick in the prayer hall.

I have toothache since yesterday,
So pardon if I seem to mumble,
Bottling sulphur in my philosophy
And murder whilst being humble.

I am a student of disguise;
To believe me is to mimic surprise.