The Ash Blanket

Last night
In dim light
Of half closed fridge
My pale skin
Shone
Like snow on fire
And the blunt desire
To bruise
And break
These filial bonds
Of flesh and bones
Rose, untainted
Like waves on sea
Like a dream disguised as a memory

I was sleeping
Under the cold warmth
Of the ash blanket
Till people appeared
By my bedside
Beings sulphurous
Silhouettes of silver smoke
Which spoke:
‘Come to us
You child of gravity
There is a world beyond the world
Shaped by chaos and clarity
A latticework of lyrics
A synagogue sans any saint
A cosmos acclaimed by cynics
A painting without the paint’
And I alive in tenuous thoughts
Of nevermore and forever
Could only see and be
A shadow of a reflection
Unborn thus free
And so those excelsior people
With ghost hands bore me away
Astride the light they had saved
Back from their leftover days

What I saw thence I cannot say
There is nothing to remember
Between the first dawn of January
And the last night of December
But there are those half dreamt moments
When I seem to know
The truth breathed upon me:
That Soul is what the light don’t show

But last night
In dim light
Of half closed fridge
My pale skin
Shone
Like snow on fire…

Streetside Socrates

Flesh and light
Bone and stone
Are same, similar; a synonym
Of everything

I gazed into the night
Fragmented by the city lights
Knifing the dreams dead in their tracks

Scalped thoughts
Hanging from the cumerbund
Of the comedian
Laugh with the wind

There is no framework for fame
Nietzsche is not a name
And all that I know of shame
Came from the fingers that blame;
Et tu?
Fuck you
Bad words don’t exist
At all
For thoughts know not their origin
But only the sin
Of being
The way they are

Broken mirrors
Cannot mend the man
And broken man
Never has a mirror

Everything is going to disappear soon
And the leftover void shall know
There is nothing known as nothingness
For even in silence the silence shall grow

Death, Dear Friend

Image by Dave Hoefler @ Unsplash

Death, do not cry
I know; you are no one’s friend
But that does not make you; a foe
Like all who have been and are being swept away
Like a clove leaf upon a current
You too are destined by design
To sow and grow; sorrow
That abandoned thistle tree
Which all passes and pretends not to see

Death, do not cry
When your choices go wrong
There are so many voices asking
To add another verse to their swan song
But you know as do I
That music is sweet only for so long
And it starts with no cymbals and shall end with no gong

Death, do not cry
People do care about you a lot
You may not always be the fountainhead
But you are almost always an afterthought
And we may not think of you as we breathe
Or when we play the games of Holy Land
But we do rehearse our union every night
Though not all of us understand

Death, do not cry
We shall meet for once and forever
But before that I must ask an honest, humble favor:
Of all the places for us to meet
And greet, if you could visit me when I am fast asleep
Then there shall be nothing for me to weep
As I skip; the curtain call of my every emotion
And be like a nameless raindrop falling into an aimless ocean

Last of the Living

@Unsplash Hoach Le Dinh


I can hear the roots tear
Across the breast of resting soil
Like blind fingers, stretching the
Depths of darkness,
Those long forgotten by time
For the hours; they fly only above the ground
The black womb is all silence
And frozen thoughts:
Except those murmurs of memories
Left by faded footsteps
And shadows parched under the sun
Of people who could not turn, away.
I hear them too, their thoughts,
In the leaves yawning with the wind
And fruits falling with the same
It’s bittersweet syrup; tears and sweat of toil gone unremembered
A destiny dismembered
Like roots they yearn no reason
Nor do they desire
The crystal sunlight reserved for carving men
All that is needed for the flower to bloom
And the fruit to bubble without bursting
Is this truth soaked with pain
That they stand alive and upright
On the shoulders of hanging men

Tenants

We both are tenants
Trapped within the rubik cube love
Shaped by our shoulders
Resting against each other
And there is no escape;
For our landlocked lips
Shifting like dry grass
Under the music of sorrel wind
Other than lying on different shores
Waiting for the same tide
To ferry us away
Towards a sunset and a sunrise
Splitting our world; two indifferent ways.

You count the stars between your fingers
And I vanish, like a thin piece of ice
A spectre, yet unfound, in the jigsaw world
Left alone to wander the newspaper streets
Those daily retreats of hourly love
Bought with midnight mascara and silk stockings
Rubbed raw between the eyes and thighs
Of mad men and maddening women
Looking for a cheap trip to the paradise

I hear the tea cup tinkle
And know you have taken a sip
Of the warm clove water
Left upon the doorstep
By the lonely wood worshipper
Whistling for words
And I am content that you did your prayer
Much like my daily dead affair
To show how much for each we care
By being willfully unaware

Thus there is food upon the table
And smile upon our faces
And though the roof is leaking
And the floor is unswept
And there are holes in our clothes
And scarce money in our pockets left
We know we shall scrounge through
Past the ups and downs and ifs and buts
Of everyday euthanization
By lying wide awake
Half dead with escapist desire
In some strangers arms
And murmuring through their skin
The leftover vows
We kept for ourselves
By scribbling away the love
Not meant for each other

Through The Lips Of Living Ghosts

I live my life
Through those who lived before me
And triumphed,
For mine are eggshell victories
Inchoate brush strokes of the blind
Left behind, listening to the faceless sounds
Dreamt by dead branches and wayside stones
Alone in their darkness
Wherein all ashes intone
The pleasure of being burned alive
Only to never feel, another touch of life.