ii.

viii.

The city looked yellow

as the fireflies 

circled around in the sky

singing yellow songs.

MONDAY, 28 JANUARY 2013

vii.

I wish I could wear your head
and march in your shoes
fit into your jacket
and borrow your signature.

vi.

Shadowed behind her curtained hair
is a voice unheard,
slaving to save her words
from burning into flames.

v.

I banged you with a dagger
you survived?
I died the day you torpedoed my heart
we’re so different.

iv.

Maybe,
even after I die
I won’t disappear,
like you did.

iii.

Never so happy
to be in my skin
buried under wounds
of your disappearance.

ii.

You can burn my heart
with your rage,
or heal my heart
with your pharmacon kiss.

i.

Two bodiesOne heart,I wonder How you two exist. 

Ink

I pressed the various keys of my typewriter as the tears slid down my gills
the words lithographed in a slapdash on the yellow papyrus
my tears slumped down on the davenport making a small puddle
but my fingers did not cease dancing wildly on the various keys.
It's a funny world. You are taught to believe in things you cannot see
and you completely dedicate yourself to it,
promising to destroy all who step forward to pull you away from it (only with the intention of protecting you)
you never question it's inexistence
until you find yourself in a forlorn manor
closing doors like the chapters of a book only to get rid of the bedlam of the past.
I paused and stared at the ink which skillfully blended with the wafer-thin pulp
and formed words (words that oozed out of my heart)
for a moment I wondered in boredom
"If ink can metamorphose into such beautiful letters
why can't I mold myself into something equally beautiful?"
I lifted the paper and folded it into a plane
because they say "let your thoughts fly without fear"
and I am not devastated by any of the harm caused by you
because like ink, I will live endlessly
and like ink, I will be beautiful.

Goodnight

Under the vault of heaven
lies a curtained microcosm
the creation of the creator
a sanctuary for the tribes
a neighbourhood affording the psychopaths
and the schizophrenic
with towering trees, cleaved asphalt
and battered souls
that weep all along the witching hour.

From dreams to flakes

I sit and dream,
dream about wild flowers
hanging down my hair,
dream about that boy
kissing my cheek,
sitting in an unbarred vineyard
breathing green air
and guzzling summer rain,
I dream perpetually,
abruptly embedding a pen
on my kisser,
I nip the pen savagely
envisaging how juicy
a beef steak could be
I chew
and I chew
and I chew
and I chew.
As I ebb into existence
I find ink inside my beak,
cascading like water
cripes, that’s red
blood running down my jaw
blood all over me
pain seduces all my happiness
and it slowly shrinks
all I see is cinders.
I lie beside that pen quietly,
I lie beside my soul quietly.

Why am I just me

I look at her
so perfect,
so fly,
so pretty,
so immaculate,
paradisaic,
A-ok,
unlike me.
She’s blameless,
spotless,
unblemished,
utopian,
pure,
certain,
symmetrical,
everyone wants to see.
Oh, why can’t I be?
Why am I just me?

I need you

Touch me gently
with your caressing mitts
oh, it feels so good
just like a diminuendo fugue
playing in a forlorn cage,
like the blue azure
curtaining the heinous shadow,
like the beginning of spring
or the chortling gust,
your touch is a conjuring trick
there’s an enchanter behind that mask
I see it,
I see you,
I need you.
Let that suave beam
suck away all my vacuous theories
and create a vacuum
to stow devotion
for all mortal beings,
oh, that beam illuminates my world
for me, to balance on the trail according to hoyle
that surpassing beam
I see it,
I see you,
I need you.
Look at me lovingly
I am beautiful to you
you scan me consummately
so tell me what’s wrong?
am I flawless?
as pellucid as you?
am I enticing?
or brilliant like you?
your eyes consume my sorrows
but I want to be like you
you are immaculate
yes, I see it,
I see you,
I need you.

A live figure

She posed abreast of him
and looked into his eyes
fishing for a pinch of love
and hope that no one dispensed.
She was a poet
always fluttering to catch her cognition
and he was her anchor
pulling her down
from the belletristic castle.
He came close to her
and kissed her on the forehead
and he vowed to love nobody else
he vowed to be a far cry from the other boys
who gashed her wandering heart,
all this was in her head.
She lulled her paws
and the pencil slumped
she was unchaining her words
disguising herself
and causing her soul harm.
The paper was drenched (in tears)
and her poetry ruined
ink flooding her head’s deepest corner
he wordlessly came
and with unclad hands
he touched her soul.
He drank her tears.
‘Oh’, she sighed
occupied by his lure.

Iam a magician

I am a magician
invisibility is my cloak
words are my anlace
agony injected in the fissures of my soul.
I draw in pangs of bale
and expel doggerel
don’t peruse my poetry
if violence is not your pet genre
cus serenades don’t define my despair
violence does
and violence, I worship.
Imagine how wonderful it would feel
if I pierced the anlace
through your golden dermis
fragmenting YOUR heart this time.
Magician, I call myself
for you are breathing in some corner
though I killed you eons ago
with ink as black as the hue of your soul
I drafted ‘…and then he died’.
Don’t be stunned
I am not the donut you knew
blanketed in sugar
NO.
I am chipotle garlic
I will burn everything.

Swabbing today

She bathed in his blood
sweeping all his curses away
blemishing her wounds
blurring her scars
moping her tears. 

Why?

You bulldozed me and
dusted me off your shoulder,
you pranced on me and
mashed me
into a thousand fragments.
You’re a decoy in a cloak
you noosed me
with that stainless grin
your words chained me
and I never recognized.
I was a gull
and I was sucked into
your snare.
I signaled you for cure
but my heart was being dodged,
but you greased the fissures of my heart
when all tossed me away
you did.
This makes me ask,
why?

Last Night

Last night
with my eyes locked
I recognized your utterances,
your scent as green as ever
your touch felt legitimate
with my heart in my mouth
I painted the town
last night.

Free Me

And so, I crusaded tirelessly
to anoint the curative atoms
of my damaged torso
but my decolletage has hung too low.
Will you get off my spine now?

Voice

Buttoned up in my belly
are chained words
that dolorously crave
to egg out of my beak
like cuff-less butterflies.
These soundless words
have a desire to
pull out from under
their shadows
and rise up from trance.
But, it will take time.
By then
it might be too late,
these words
might get asphyxiated
by their bitter abuses.

My perfect day

Today I tried to search within myself,
the depth of truth was not shallow.
I cant let go the pain inside,
it cant be left this narrow.

I hid the screech that came out of me
with a pleasant cry
I looked around to find happiness,
but that’s a gift no one can buy.

I learn to grow, I learn to live,
I learn everyday,
but the day i will make use of it,
will be my perfect day.

One Night

She was in the car
with him.
Her hair was roped
with a peaked gum band
that arrested the
flaxen strands
of her hair stably,
stabler than the
cinch of his hand
around her wrist.
She looked at him
trying to translate
his fiery glance,
she couldn’t.
In all these years
she thought she knew him
but his actions
were alien that day,
his gaze ripened into
an evil ogle.
He was in the car
with her.
His grip was firm
and corrupt
like never before,
his inner archfiend
awoke and ogled at her,
her constant stare
was powerful.
He was an
empty-bellied wolf
and she was
the unsoiled lamb.
He inched to her
slowly
..she shut her eyes
her body quacked.
He couldn’t do it,
he loved her,
din’t he?
He questioned himself
and the answer
was clear
YES.

That night
was difficult.

The sun shone bright

to discover 

their bodies

ripped apart.

Wrecked by Satan

Those innocent sketches
and naive eyes
I'm looking for those days
but it seems like
they're lost somewhere,
where?
In bleeding cuts or
bottles sealed with alky?

Those crayons remain scattered
on the floor
Legs painted with sharpie
and heart painted with love,
Hair covering the forehead
hair covering the tender vertebrae
hair painted in blue, red, pink
hair covering those fearless eyes.
Today, cigarettes lie dry
on the floor
legs painted with blood
and heart painted with spite,
hair covering the forehead
hair covering the broken vertebrae
hair painted in red and green
hair covering those implacable eyes
and those unheard fables.

What makes the anklebiters
metamorphose into
such vindictive brutes?
The air is not adulterated
and water is not corrupted.

Then why do they massacre
their innocence
and sell inner geniuses
to the Devil?
Why do they push
their roots away
and let heir 'so-called' cronies
preoccupy their spirits?

And why do they fall in love with Satan?

I know, somewhere it's Satan
pulling the wires
and controlling them,
everyone
but do they have
no control over
their own selves?

Those innocent sketches
seem dark, painted with the blood
sprouting out the scars
of a lost love,
and the naive eyes
no longer remain decipherable,
is that what growing up is like?
Or is this how Satan leaps
into your costume
to wreck you?