Threads

Our tales marinating in dry youth
I feel are incomplete lines of poetry
Do you remember our cocooned dreams
As I would, O' beloved life?

You would laugh at this coy man
you won't have to tell me twice
I know the dreams are only mine,
To create, contort and shape
My chest has held the glue to mend

My longing has known all bounds, as I stare
I see, a pair of grainy faces melting in the dusty photograph
on this relentless march of approaching wrinkles

This realm of vacations we never wanted
The men we idolized, singing six feet under
The women we broke our hearts for,
I told you about them, would you remember?

Existence is defined by the sun being too late,
And the changing nights and bottles
O life, reanimate me. Meet me far away,
for I have dug my feet into the sand
Threaded in me all of these thoughts
Sewn together with blanks I remain to fill.

Satisfactory Biped Troubles

The conversations and cuddles starting over the brewing clouds have lingered,

long enough to be a part of my sweat and clothes, of the last cigarette and the agitated loins.

Blanket as my fortress provides me juvenile courage to chase the elusive catch,

which is all but vanished as it bypasses the law of diminishing returns.

How luring the sustained high of cogent words, of toes touching, of warped thoughts,

and wrapped finger webs; vivid as a lucid dream.

Burning papers survive by the descendant ash I have kept safe,

it holds the talks, it cradles my dreams and the heat of the present,

of the moments spiked through a perennial presence, a mounting one,

a molded one cast in the shadow of a familiar figure.

Pristine as glass shards and ghostly ice knives has been my desire,

penetrating gently under your colored skin, try slowly and unsightly.

I've always been the dying ink for a paper in the time of need,

don't accept me but lie down and listen; casually.

The shoulders are going to disappear, the mountains hide bruises you have not seen,

as strong have a reputation to implode and be judged,

the weak of us are already dead, and the dreamers;

we are too scared, of our longings and our non-existent boundaries,

Too immersed in our own pacifism,

Too immoral to justify our hedonistic tendencies,

Troubling the world inch by inch but petrified,

to exchange our love.

4 AM

That villain of an hour where

Sleep and woken mess transgress

Where minds are naked parading 

Pasts are being exhaled in every breath

While present glides over ignored

And the clock hands are so loud

Your egotistical thoughts equal the sound

This villain of an hour where

spirit has the strength to be a vigilante

Bodies pierce and breaths shared

The answers are beyond honest

Brutal remain the questions 

White noise seeps in and walls collide

Calls hesitantly made and drowned

4 AM, the cradle between day and night

My time and your time to meet

The only time where time trickles

The start dissolves into a rapid end

I pick up the paper and smatter the ink

Spatter always takes your shape

Why is it so? The answer is not honest!

The clock has run it's time now

My head swings towards the ground

Drooping eyes, flashes of memories

The day becomes one, good and bad

I realize in my faintest of senses

This villain of an hour is the reason

I turn into a protagonist.

Ring of Latent Fire

Every precarious moment I indulge myself
Thinking of your presence or the lack of it
I visit the mirror to gauge the staring face
I see veins clawing their way out of my forehead, begging and praying to be loose
Bursting to finally reveal you, my obsession, my self proclaimed possession
You, my deepest secret. My untold desire.

One which I shoveled my skin so deep
to hide into, one which even evisceration fails to discover, one which got so latent that it hid itself from me, one which I pretended didn't bother me, a lie which morphed to unwavering belief.

You know, I feel a cycle of forlorn calm and waves of molten chest forcing it's way out to spew.
And I speak, barely though; in squeaks of cowardice, I tell a story of my love which cannot even pronounce itself, such woebegone bravery.

This was my gift and certainly my creation
I am happy in sporadic spurts, the slopes leading down are too steep until I think,
Of your unrepentant presence in my mind
Or the lack of it.

Timbre

I wish our voices had hands

So mine could hold your timbre

With mighty strength and let it go

To reverberate in these walls

Echoing your breathless stories

And silent moans building my name

Slowly etching your face in my skin

Dripping in untold desires you term sin

Nights unravel in a spiral 

Converging towards your absence

Remoulding situations with dead ends 

Leaving behind invisible tremors

Only you and me could see

Money

Money is the paper, for which

You and I devour each other

The white knight looked at me

Labelled me as an inferior

I caught the bug and did the same

To everyone I considered brother

Trees built on our collective grave

Laughed at us producing more paper

October Wind

O mighty October wind

What are you laying down

With your gentle strokes of fragrance

What answers reside in you

Those I cannot seem to understand 

As I lay these paper crumbs

Galloping in the air, riding your strength

A deep sense of wonder takes birth

I realize, the answers will be mine

The need to run is diminished

They were born in me, are a part of me

My anxious molecules. Her face,

Ever glowing is even brighter

This moment is in my hands

I clench it tighter and then I let it go

As you whisper softly, O October wind.

Stimulus

Homes can and will change. 

Ugliness is in the heart of the beholder.

Birds and crickets have all the music.

Real bed is the earth.

Wet paint has no friends.

Marking trees leads you to civilization.

Love has infinite definitions. 

Infidelity is bred in the basement.

Prettiest smile is unachievable.

Longing is art.

Science has spoiled sex.

Lost time is made up in grave.

Empathy is slow poison and so is oxygen.

Narcissists live longer.

Thinkers are late bloomers.

Thinkers are taking pills.

Friendship is the only pure relation.

Cigarettes kill and make you smile.

Music is your lover and wife.

Women have relapse with men.

Men have no rehab from women.

Entropy is increasing in your head.

Words are slippery and opportunistic.

She is beauty and wandering.

Writing is all about the writer.

And about longing for her,

A variable of mystical properties.

Funk

I see everything today, all the minuscule details. I woke up in a funk today, for the uninitiated it's the state of mind where you're zoning out every few minutes to your own world. A world full of fantasy, dark desire and primal urges. Two bottles of summer pale ale don't wake me up anymore, neither do the ultra light nicotine sticks. Nothing brings me back to the stark and razor sharp reality and I'm afraid I love it too much. I want to write, I have a feeling I have so much to give to me. I only write for me, to douse that fire lurking beneath. If I don't swat these nest of flies buzzing around I cannot move ahead. Speaking of ahead I don't think any of us have an idea of where this train is taking us, I think we lay down the tracks when there is nowhere to go, we keep making it up and then straight into a hospital or a grave or a pile of burning wood. Some lucky ones are cognitively functional enough to say a few words and touch the loved ones. I suddenly am losing the train of my thought, these days the sink holes keep coming and I dive in them. I need something beautiful or maybe someone exquisite, where are you? Come find me.

Truthspotting

All the truths walked on valiantly

Marching on the staged fires of time

Watching and dreaming, the lies die

Survivor's guilt ran like a cancer

Through their ancient fragile veins

They took a vow of celibacy 

Left the stage, a path to retreat

Rechristened to cliches, a few

Rest morphed to white lies

Resting on the tip of tongue

In the trenches of black hearts

These bloody desolate words

Sadist in the nature, they relish

Me not able to regurgitate them

She remains an unknown observer

Indifferent to the better man

Truths harbor a strong will

They force you to lie in guise

You will find them though

In a man with a mask

In the smudged letters

In the books with heart

In her dilated pupils

In the vulnerable words

When making love

In the drunken slurs

Truths, our roots of conscience

Immortal, they acquire an arrogance

Scarred, I can't take my eyes off of them

Elusive, I can't catch them

Lurking they are, look around

Eternal cliches of our emotions.