THE HUMAN ANVIL

Tag: man

  • Saints Of The Cynics

    How can you be so happy?
    Asked the fools to the wise:
    They said for we are people who do not believe in a paradise

  • The Pulse of A Petal

    I dissolve in the potpourri
    A green leaf amidst dead petal
    Lost men flock the streetcar
    And only I fight for the aisle
    Knowing far too well that the bespectacled windows
    Shall turn some blind in a while
    For the tapestry towns
    Stitched with dancing lights
    Is not for them to claim
    Who lick the darkness between two tungsten tongues
    And know no aftertaste to blame
    But the raindrop feet on cobbled streets
    Paper skin behind display glass
    Torn faces through the Venetian Blinds
    A world watered in a vase
    Are all akin
    To a bargained win
    For those with mundane affair
    Of humble hands with seawater veins
    Wading waves of deep despair
    But I of charlatan choice
    Of parched lips moisturised with the mud
    I know far too well of flowerpots
    And the fate of dreaming bud
    So I dissolve in the potpourri
    A green leaf amidst dead petal
    Growing gardens beneath empty graves
    Waiting for the dust to settle

  • Wind In The Veins

    Soon our bones shall sing
    And words once said would wander
    Aimlessly, answer-less, as a
    Bee buzzing in the desert
    For a flower under a rock
    And all they who could hear shall know
    That the heaven silent above is but a symptom of a world

    Holding it’s breath below

  • Light From Another Star

    The tommorow lingers far,
    Like light from another star,
    And there is mist,
    With eyes in the middle,
    That speaks with tears,
    Of smoke and tar.

    I talk not of human,
    And their negligible nuisance of narcissistic necessity,
    Nor of the world with it’s viscous veracity,
    I speak of nectar, world of gods,
    Poets and paramours, artists and art,
    Of the innumerable sand,
    Dreaming upon the beach,
    And those stars falling every night,
    Who never truly reach.

    I speak of the brilliant acting dumb,
    The sensitive roughened numb,
    Blind men holding hands,
    Children without a stand,
    And oasis with scarlet seas,
    Gold honey, dead bees.

    I invoke the untamed,
    I call the wild,
    Into this land of frozen blood,
    Where once were sowed diamonds,
    Now remains but dried mud.

    I know, my voice is hoarse,
    And these sharp words are truly coarse,
    For I too am of your kind,
    The omniscient God without a mind.

  • Fairytale

    Permit me to say a few,
    Words of my choice,
    Before the whispers that they all echo,
    Replace my own voice.

    Ye tremble truly,
    Come day, come night,
    And lay woe on passing feet,
    Who knows you as a leaf to scribble,
    And leave in wind to never meet.

    In dreams you rule the dawn and dusk,
    Alive, you pick no pebble,
    You turn to stone when the time is ripe,
    Afraid of being unable,
    This place, it’s a wilderness,
    And the wild are lurking low,
    Here all shapes are drawn as one,
    Here your foe is friend and friend a foe.

    You aim to swim from shore to shore,
    And bare the ocean upon thy palm,
    Eye tempests for it’s hollowness,
    Dive deep in her bloodless calm,
    But the ship you choose,
    Have no mast, nor sail,
    There be no oars to row,
    Deep in desert thy anchor sinks,
    And the wind; she seldom blow.

    The hands you lay,
    Against the sky,
    With the hope that they will hold,
    Will you shatter too, like others before,
    When those pillars of pride grow old.
    For if so then they will come for you,
    Wherever you may roam,
    And put thou in a cage, and say,
    Now you have a home.

    For this fairy world,
    This wilderness,
    Tries one at every turn,
    Here reigns he who knows the truth;
    To shine one has to burn.

    ( To those of us who dream but never do.)

  • Magnum

    Deep into this journey,
    Long after the deep susurration of life,
    And the sense of longing,
    Of natal desire,
    Is dried and shorn as bark and wool,
    And bright as the nectar corals,
    Burnt with tired timber,
    Does the dull truth of things,
    Worm in.

    Baleful eyes, kissed with Kohl yet
    Empty inside,
    Burrowed by the undoing of this ethereal Magnum,
    This caustic world,
    With it’s walls of freedom, aching,
    Breaking against blindness,
    Seek,
    Weep,
    And speak, no more than what the silence taught them in form of tears.

    A panacea,
    To all immutable happenstance. Measured, immeasurable,
    Paraded or parodied,
    Through one life iterated, in many lives over,
    Rags and rags, covering a bareness,
    That reflects in no light,
    But unfurls in each darkness,
    Like moon upon lotus lips,
    Of philosophers and Pharaohs,
    Of travellers and treasurers,
    Of hunters and hoarders.

    Unceasingly mitigated,
    Yet never really moving,
    Until stillness itself stills,
    And all forms, wither into one,
    And all one’s merge into none.

    Panacea,
    The answer to no question.

  • The Outcast.

    Through you,
    My empty hands,
    I know the shape of this world.