Poem: Better Days

I woke up in a sad airless room, 
the smell was nocturnal – –  a lover unwashed – –
eyes as rheumy as the sun was callow.

My bed,  a pallet of sisal and dried tears, 
crawled with plagues and woes
I couldn’t abhor unless utterly sallow.

I was spared,  the desolate walls tell me, 
but I can’t make escape,
my blundering he never seemed so hollow – –

The famine of better days and easier childhood, 
is an illusion us orphans of motherless bastards
harbour as poison too thin to swallow.

The wet bodies,  dead remnant eyes, bemoan
broken biers, dry incense bowls,  wickless candles – – 
God’s meagre fallow.

A bloodied sandal, clipped toenail,
pale lipstick smudged on creaky floorboard,
the tongueless robber says,  hullo.


Poem: I Long For Distress

I admit, the thorn in my
rosy bush of desires
stifles me no longer.
Its prickling, uncompromising
disassembly of nerves
is nothing but brutal coquetry

Over time, with my thresholds,
winced and climbed over,
by ladders of tolerance, intolerable —
my longing for distress
has been cultivated,
and it’s no longer just a garden.
for, comfort is like a blanket
that doesn’t cover my feet fully,
even if it did,
I wouldn’t abide it.

My better self disowns my virtues
for, my baser self brings
the kind of satisfaction
that balms the craving. in my
marrow, my maw.

I admit, that the darkness
strays not from questioning eyes —
for what can they do me?
beyond shunning me and judging themselves
So I let this near-dark fright, fragrance
the impure air of my hypocrisy

POEM: A Reckoning

I find respite in the restlessness,
the faceless bow
Going in circles, on and on,
on and on. Anon.
Following the roads that follow back
to this place I never really knew.
I mount on a steed of nostalgia,
ride to memories
I never had, but run I do,
Running only where I can crawl
Crawling only where I can run
Haunting where I could dwell,
Dwelling where I could haunt
I become the god and the subject
The marble and the sculptor
The church and the cornerstone—
I’m the faith that’s broken
By a congregation that won’t bend
I’m the sun that dies for the moon—
I’m the echoing silence of Reckoning,
I’m tortured and torturer,
I don’t know what has become of me?
Or if there was even a me to become?

POEM: No Time To Grieve

I feel the rumble of the clouds—
they jar like the recoil of a whip;
They crack the frame along the path
which the lightening fragments its own motion.
I see the light, forming like the stir
of raucous rivers mirroring the swift
vibration of stars jangling
in their haloed coronas,
somehow the sun still comes out and
draws in on this ceaseless lament;
And it’s rays rush down like little child soldiers,
errant and petty—
the world seems to be unbecoming
from Generations to Revelations in seconds,
And then, I realize,
that I’m grieving for the flower of life
When the forest of aesthetic is burning.

POEM: Birds With Gills.

We rode to the banquet
like the harlequin of death,
in a piebald stallion of jest—
we made shame where shame couldn’t make itself—
we danced around a stump
celebrating the betrothal of fire and ice,
of flesh and sword;
and like madmen,
we danced on the sinking titanic—
And down we went,
on waves of their screaming—

We rocked their uncertain boats and their sodden cruelty
till we breached their sallow liveliness
And all these branches
stood out over the driftwood of our supplicating hands
where we struggled like ghosts
haunting our own shadows.

Crying like birds in windless—cloudless voids,
our wings were basal, daunted by sturdiness,
And we dreamed of a fall, we flapped our gauntlets,
and filled the silhouette of infamy
with the leather landscape of our dim argent moons,

We were Icarus—flying past the sun—
Buoying towards the smoldering ash of
our own contrition—
we were the birds born to swim,
birds born not to soar.

POEM: Plunges Into Pathos

History holds more than its seams.
Its truces are hemmed by the tatter of abandoned ideals,
the nightmares of the sightless,
hobbling upon the dark leeway
of pale ghosts and dim street-lights, to
break the loop of passing,
if only for its begotten wonders.

With eyes turned from the future
I walk towards the past and dream the
dreams of passing solitude,
dreams colourless and longer than I want remember.
I notarize the passing,
the transition
with words I feed my mind
and the gestures that mold my reality.

I’m my past, bereft of my present
no scribe can tell these plunges into pathos apart
no do I want them to.
For, I’ve seen the eyes of promise in a
newborn’s blind eyes
I’ve held my fate in the tepid caul of its birth.
I’ve seen the same cold enthusiasm in the eyes
Of my senile friend Alfonso.
I’m the leeway, between these two extremes
I’m the large boulder upon 
Which circumstance places the lever
And my will skewered, seesaws between the
Squealing baby and the sighing Alphonso
And I balance my world through theirs—
I’m Archimedes of finitude
I’m history that is yet to happen;
A faith collapsible under the burden of waiting.

POEM: The Dawning Hour.

The darkest hour preceding dawn,
when the stars shine dimmest—
When silences are frozen
and dew, like pre-cum,
nears its keenest scent
dreams, mist and climax peak their harrowing.
when lovers clutch tighter,
when grave robbers, buglers  and clear heel stilettos retire.

The dawn, the breaking of its fragile shell of light;
grey, then aurora, leafing through sleeping trees
then the splash of lights other-worldly, jangling and
shinning the world back to a repeated clamour;
A new day to make me feel older, in passing
and as dreary as a fat person’s chin up—
more effort that endeavor.

Then the alarm goes and I feel older already;
my life thrown in the loop of finite eternity—
A stone rippling through the shore;
The shore turned to stone by prevailing gales of rut.

The morning paper reminds me this planet isn’t made
for dreamers—social liabilities is what we are.
another scandal, another death,
another hell another jest, living the wrongness of it—
All nightmares tentatively individualized.
I wait for night to return
that hour before dawn where
my endless sighs crescendo