Why cry about things you can laugh at Said the quote on my bathroom mirror It wasn’t funny I thought And smiled to myself
The nights have been short Or perhaps it was I who has been stretched thin Between two impossibilities Of being here and being there An almost everywhere Every thought of mine now Feels like a bullet through the brain The very last; and in a way everlasting But new ones creep out Out of this philosophical yeast Growing in the dark keeps of my mind Nurtured with cold sweat And self taught paralysis
The toothpaste tastes funny Like old age These are those days of winter When sadness feels warm Like a hug or a cup of coffee Something to snuggle into and fall asleep Sadness; the elixir of a dying man Sadness, yes And melancholy (Pretty word) Made of me and the unholy: Thoughts, dreams, desires Snails creeping on a wet wire
I remember a time When I dreamt of being a dog And lie on the carpet Of fallen leaves Dogs can dream, can’t they? (Yes) And so I dreamt of being a dog To come full circle A perfection My being complete A zero
The wind from the window Touches my face And I blush; Love is in the air Or is it despair? How can one compare? When being utterly unaware… (I rhymed on purpose For they say poetry must taste like a painting) I gargle and gag There is blood in my spit A rose line Branching out like a symphony Clarinet and timpani Violins and bassoons Bach and Beethoven Mozart who died too soon The tap turns A thunder The tap turns All silence
I sleep upon the windowpane And the glass cracks under my face Like lightning from my breath The night below is strange; Captured stars howling On streets and in houses As people dance To hide the shadow of their shame I can smell their perfume here Thirty stories high Scent filled with lost sleep and sadness It numbs me My throat, my voice And I choke without a choice (Should I shift? Should I turn? I do…and the thunder swims to my belly The glass gasps But the shattering never comes)
Sound of a million footsteps Collapse into a single chord Time’s thread This linear, pinpoint eternity Do I merge or do I dare Far foolish when being aware That there are no ripples in the ocean Just reflections of the air Lives, candles Last days in wreath Desire turned dream Dream turned to death
I now see the eyelashes Left by a lost time For cinders on the shore For hearts saying no more For children born sans choice Once people now toys And so the dying swans dance Vying for a chance To nibble the breadcrumbs Of broken down plans And I, this vain, stitched flesh in pain Lie supine, and divine, my tears through rain And sing against the chorus Those verses that say Ask and you shall get And to get you must pray As if prayers are questions As if questions would find a way As if ways would take me home As if home is for what I pray
So I await Under the cold sun of midnight Watching myself Falling out of sight First a man Then a memory Now a stranger Forever a stray A silhouette Some shadow All silence Is what I say
I rest my faults on my tongue And though it is textured as glass The taste is of raspberry Or blood I fail to distinguish My throat hurts From the cuts The bed is warm Like unwavering ash Like a tired pyre And I search with numb fingers My eyes; closed now For this is a dream I am not dead For this is a dream There is no bed The room I wake up to is all ochre And I am naked waist up Breath fills my belly And I shiver as the cold air claims my hunger My lungs, this ribcage holding together Heartbeats tearing to escape Stands out Like fingers from my skin I am a man no more Just random thoughts on a paper And my infinitesimal existence Like rings of rising vapour I remember being beautiful I remember being a being I remember writing those lyrics Which no man could ever sing But it is cold now And I feel I am too old to be young Now it is cold And I know I am too young to be old The winter is at the window And it is not going to wait The fire is long gone Now I am just a butterfly under the blanket And I would have closed my eyes Had the pillow not snored back Whispering to me All the things that I lack Privy to my dreams It does so on my behalf So when my dream does shatters I am not alone when I laugh
Dry twigs wrestle the wind Shadows burn on the ground Here I stand in the center And the world turns around With yellow leaves laughing White sand dyed brown In Nameless nothingness I named a pronoun All of me All of me At the bottom of this sea Sand dunes shrunk to seashell Like past framed into memory
I watch dazed morning Walk drunk upon the shore Where my footsteps on the sand Leave footprints no more As if all of my life Was a mirage from the start A mirror holding together A man falling apart
All of me All of me At the bottom of this sea In the sky a sun wrinkled And stars breaking free Am I drowning Am I drowning Should I breathe this darkness and lay As a dead man in a dying womb being fed everyday The same old desires The same old silver songs The same old praise and promises That nothing would go wrong
And only if only I could no longer be here Be a past that never happened And a future always near But never coming together With the rhythm of our heart An end that is unending A beginning that never did start You and me, you and me The Sand and the sea Away forever Our little infinity
The edges of the world Like pages from a play A Recurring razzmatazz Occurring everyday The blue’s beats Jarring jazz And ballads on the way Razzmatazz, razzmatazz As Liquored lovers say “You be thought and I the mind To reminisce and remind That love is not litmus To be tested everyday Let it flower, let it grow Be careful what you sow For the soil takes it all Your flight and your fall And it’s the way of the crowd To take as truth what is loud While our love is all silence Strong sans the violence So take care of the petals They are flesh and not metal And do not look for reflection Till the water; it has settled”
Dry twigs wrestle the wind Shadows burn on the ground Here I stand at the edge And the world is not round Black leaves moan Under heels; trodden down In Nameless nothingness I named a pronoun All of me All of me At the bottom of this sea Falling nowhere With two skies above me All of me All of me At the bottom of this sea Fading in the distance Once man now memory
Thoughts of you A wounded prism Bleeding rainbow blood From skin the colour of acrylic Water upon water Wet upon wet (Random noise; My pseudo poetry, Commas and semicolons limping across the verses In a desolate frequency Like an empty road echoing; The silhouettes of silent wheels The smell of burnt rubber And the touch of gasoline) I long to stare at your face that stands stark against the sky A newborn moon; unblemished Rolling upon tethered horizons Like a dime in the dark
O how I ache to be in your arms now To be your ice and your fire Your utter despair and open desire I wish I could hold you Like ink in my paper palm Like an unformed word Like a fleeting thought I wish I could know how you see me Am I an anchor that keeps you calm Or wings that sets you free? I know I heal as an afterthought And you are careful in remembrance And although we have met few times These moments that pass This liquid life Is reshaped by our every touch For the fire that burns us feels the same Today, tomorrow, after an eternity again
I remember being Your dream When you were wide awake A flower trapped within sunshine And I know I am not destiny’s choice For my voice That dark tobacco of my baritone Is neither honey nor nectar And my eyes that reach out Through the veiled carcass of some velveteen night Belongs to shadow and to spectre But love Through the shards of slow time That ebbed our feet away for many days Now we walk With our two hearts disguised as one
The ocean does not speak of sadness For sadness has no voice that can say That being empty is like being filled forever An infinite without a way And when I with my eyes look out At a world where each face has a place I wonder who really wins If it’s in a circle that everyone does race True it is tragic that in the end There is no magic that holds all the cards For his is the glory of the game Who plays his joker as ace when it’s hard And I know in this mesmerizing madness For the follicle of that forever fame People play their pieces for practice Unaware that they will never be the same And so do I yearn to sit By the shore where horizons do cease And thank the seed of silence For this life that I had on a lease
The sound of your senses Breaks over me And I drink your waterfall words With it’s torrent of charcoal images To the last drop So others may never know How you, of cinnamon soul, sell poisoned dreams Manicured with epidermal perfection The rag doll fantasy Of jazz love To strangers in quiet bars; Those people unaware of the everyday almanac The self-help lies written on bruised pages By every Adonis who felt Being closer to you Would suffice
But I watch as you walk on water Just so to show you can And laugh At all those speechless spectators Now followers of your riptide wisdom Pledged to play their heartstrings So you may dance upon their demise Dressed in funeral face And be beautiful Like a child on Christmas Suffocating With joy
The wind it whistles Swallows and sells Your perfume; twigs of spring broken underfoot Ashes in the air; this midnight snow, And still figures, lifeless statues, staring in envy at The echo of our footsteps We walk, in discord, my toe timed to your heel Crude judgement Capricious To mock the pedestal born So frozen in time that a grey hair Succumbs only once in a millennia
You see, I see The lights red and yellow Bleeding fireflies Resting upon rooftops In mechanical merriment Happy at the thought of being happy And you now know you cannot see more than you know And thus you cry At the anomaly of your eye And I do not have a handkerchief To spare For I care no more of your other face Or the one within That exists only to dream The desires So I leave you at the crossroads Knowing sooner or later An Adonis shall pass Dressed in angel dust God forbidden
If all the nights And all the days Of my life Condense In one epiphany without end Then friend hear well That the clock, when it strikes midnight, Will not be pointing at twelve
