After you left me
I let a dog smell at
My chest and my belly. It will fill its nose
And set out to find you.
I hope it will tear the
Testicles of your lover and bite off his penis
Or at least
Will bring me your stockings between his teeth.
Yo te diré los sueños de mi vida
En lo más hondo de la noche azul…
Mi alma desnuda temblará en tus manos,
Sobre tus hombros pesará mi cruz.
Las cumbres de la vida son tan solas,
Tan solas y tan frías! Y encerré
Mis ansias en mí misma, y toda entera
Como una torre de marfil me alcé.
Hoy abriré a tu alma el gran misterio;
Tu alma es capaz de penetrar en mí.
En el silencio hay vértigos de abismo:
Yo vacilaba, me sostengo en ti.
Muero de ensueños; beberé en tus fuentes
Puras y frescas la verdad, yo sé
Que está en el fondo magno de tu pecho
El manantial que vencerá mi sed.
Y sé que en nuestras vidas se produjo
El milagro inefable del reflejo…
En el silencio de la noche mi alma
Llega a la tuya como a un gran espejo.
Imagina el amor que habré soñado
En la tumba glacial de mi silencio!
Más grande que la vida, más que el sueño,
Bajo el azur sin fin se sintió preso.
Imagina mi amor, amor que quiere
Vida imposible, vida sobrehumana,
Tú que sabes si pesan, si consumen
Alma y sueños de Olimpo en carne humana.
Y cuando frente al alma que sentia
Poco el azur para bañar sus alas,
Como un gran horizonte aurisolado
O una playa de luz se abrió tu alma:
Imagina! Estrecha vivo, radiante
El Imposible! La ilusión vivida!
Bendije a Dios, al sol, la flor, el aire,
La vida toda porque tú eras vida!
Si con angustia yo compré esta dicha,
Bendito el llanto que manchó mis ojos!
¡Todas las llagas del pasado ríen
Al sol naciente por sus labios rojos!
¡Ah! tú sabrás mi amor, mas vamos lejos
A través de la noche florecida;
Acá lo humano asusta, acá se oye,
Se ve, se siente sin cesar la vida.
Vamos más lejos en la noche, vamos
Donde ni un eco repercuta en mí,
Como una flor nocturna allá en la sombra
Y abriré dulcemente para ti.
I will tell you the dreams of my life
On this deepest of blue nights.
In your hands my soul will tremble,
On your shoulders my cross will rest.
The summits of life are lonely,
So lonely and so cold! I locked
My yearnings inside, and all reside
In the ivory tower I raised.
Today I will reveal a great mystery;
Your soul has the power to penetrate me.
In silence are vertigos of the abyss:
I hesitate, I am sustained in you.
I die of dreams; I will drink truth,
Pure and cool, from your springs.
I know in the well of your breast
Is a fountain that vanquishes my thirst.
And I know that in our lives, this
Is the inexpressible miracle of reflection…
In the silence, my soul arrives at yours
As to a magnificent mirror.
Imagine the love I dreamed
In the glacial tomb of silence!
Larger than life, larger than dream,
A love imprisoned beneath an azure without end.
Imagine my love, love which desires
Impossible life, superhuman life,
You who know how it burdens and consumes,
Dreams of Olympus bound by human flesh.
And when met with a soul which found
A bit of azure to bathe its wings,
Like a great, golden sun, or a shore
Made of light, your soul opened:
Imagine! To embrace the Impossible!
Radiant! The lived illusion!
Blessed be God, the sun, the flower, the air,
And all of life, because you are life!
If I bought this happiness with my anguish,
Bless the weeping that stains my eyes!
All the ulcers of the past laugh
At the sun rising from red lips!
Ah you will know, My Love,
We will travel far across the flowery night;
There what is human frightens, there you can hear it,
See it, feel it, life without end.
We go further into night, we go
Where in me not an echo reverberates,
Like a nocturnal flower in the shade,
I will open sweetly for you.
When I was a boy
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and
G.I. Joe action figures
Filled the hollow spaces in my hands.
That plastic vixen,
Taught me everything I
Needed to know about what
A real woman should be.
I learned she would always
Obeying every command
A man makes
I learned that a
Can’t stand without a
Her breasts too large,
Her hips too thin,
And her legs as long as a
For a real woman,
Being dressed is optional,
Clothes cover her perfection.
A real woman can be
And keep a captivating smile,
Enjoying being violated.
Barbie is the model woman,
Made by a man,
Emulated by little girls,
Desired by young boys,
But there is no equal to her
Barbie, plastic goddess,
You taught me what a
Real woman is.
Facebook is a social network,
Where you find people with no work.
Knowledge and education only by hard work,
Thus will own you a company at Turk.
Facebook wastes your precious time,
Which you would taste in your future as lime.
You never open your English, Maths and Science book,
But you frequently access facebook.
You always say;
That you write the essay,
As a team work,
At the social network.
There’s no one to take any measure,
So you log on to facebook at your leisure,
And find some pleasure,
But not a treasure.
To write a letter;
Asking for shelter
So find your own track to glitter.
You aren’t a creature,
You need a bright future.
Listen to lecture,
And make up your own architecture.
Which is better?
You being the black hatter,
By going around the world which would never matter;
Or make the world come to your setter!!!
It’s up to you to select the correct surge,
That would emerge.
It is your future;
So get into the right juncture.
This was a poem which I wrote last year, an old one I had posted it in a different Sri Lankan forum before, I just thought if share it over here too.
It's London, all the time,
when at night I close my eyes,
it's when and where I get to roam and dwell,
in the city I know inside-out so well,
where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones,
teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones,
lend themselves into the misty English air,
of London's ancient, yet so modern flair,
of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box,
riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus,
evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack,
fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack;
then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham,
where native Cockney's and young mums with prams,
gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show;
but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow,
over the rolling raging river Thames of yore,
where ancient Roman armies marched to shore,
proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest,
of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests,
where lives and deaths would go and come,
yet The City despite all odds has lost and won,
in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take,
great London as their true hearth and home to stake,
and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days,
whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze;
and alas, London from my slumber dissipates,
to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake,
knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine:
in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time.
is what she is meant to be,
she is the sensuality
of her femininity,
seeks beauty in all
her essence is complex simplicity,
she is all
in her days
and in her dreams,
a precious, priceless,
27 oct. 10
and for a moment
and for more than
it all and everything
dead in the tracks
of a memory
whirling in the sounds
and the sounds
of a warped
or a song
or a laughing laugher
against the buffet
of the mind's wind
and the colour-rush
and the grainy
screen of inner views
(in the blink of a mind's
away it goes
dry and sere
never returning burning
disappear and reappear
until the ashes
turn back into
20 oct. 10
Mine is a generation of taboo.
We are tribal tattoos and cheap motel room honeymoons.
We are slander,
and brittle teeth.
We are born-agains and suicides.
We are podium preachers and cracked-pavement prayers.
We are melted plastic and oxidized metal-
sometimes we gleam with the Liberty Green of corroded copper,
sometimes we crumble with rust and stain calloused hands.
We are the last stand of Art.
We are the manifestations of forbidden bloodlines
We are just as much our mothers
as we are our fathers,
and we are everything that they are not.
We are stigmata.
We are red paint on white canvas.
We are fast food coffee.
We were born to the sweet smell of formaldehyde
in rooms dressed in florescent white
that share plumbing with the morgues
beneath the linoleum floors.
We are the mix of vodka and innocence that lingers
in the kiss of a dimly lit basement.
We show and we tell but always only for the right price,
the wrong reasons,
or the promise of an exchange equaling to the feeling that
this is a mistake.
We are rosary beads counted between gnarled knuckles
and dragged across smooth palms that long
to sweep tear salt from flushed cheeks.
We are Heaven's lonely singles.
We are skin stretched out too thin over skeletons.
We are the complexities that machines can't calculate
much less imitate.
We are the futile cries that once tried to keep towers from falling
when the sky came crashing down.
We are the pardoned and the withered.
We are the hardened faces of those that have
worked too long
and been loved too little.
We have been told that the safest place for your soul
is in the hole of your chest,
but only if it's reinforced by
four inches of concrete and steel,
and strapped tight with a Kevlar vest,
because they said people,
But we have never been great listeners either;
when we were growing up
we pressed our hands to hot stoves
even though our mothers said not to,
because we couldn't just be told what it was to burn
we had to feel it for ourselves.
So every now and then we will crack open
our rib cages in the hopes that someone will come,
light a fire,
and decide to stay.
We hopelessly spray paint things like wings
On deserted brick buildings
So that, at the very lest, we can feed the
Hollow-eyed passerby the belief
That these streets still have guardians,
Even when we, ourselves,
Abandoned such ideologies in
along with our deities’ infidelities.
We are the period at the end of the sentence.
(Or maybe we are the ellipses...)
We have redefined the American family
and proven that even Christianity knows how to hate.
We were raised by sixty-percent divorce rates,
yet we still believe that we are soul mates.
We are the jokers of the deck:
either smiling fools or wild cards.
We are cocked heads with smoke billowing from throats
coated with blisters and cough syrup.
We are back alley scavengers crawling on all fours.
We are the era of the Auto-Tuned voice,
proof that with a pretty enough face anyone can sing.
We are foggy mirrors with smiles drawn on them
by print-less fingertips.
We slip up the thighs of our lovers
and swirl down the drains of sinks with chipped paint.
We are the hearts in your hands-
Crush us into powder and brush us across your face like Indian war paint,
Give us up to the sky so that we can be revived by lightning,
Dance to the rhythm that we beat,
Squeeze us and watch as we seep through the cracks of your fist,
Conceal us in your pocket and only ever speak to us in a whisper,
with all your natural voice,
sing to us
songs about thunderstorms
to wet the dusty desert dirt around our rooted toes
in the hopes that we will blossom in the most vivid colors.
Just do something with us.
Don't sacrifice us to the tops of lost bookshelves
to collect dust
or rust in the rain with everything you once loved
but grew too old for.
at the time she enjoyed it
that Saturday night feast
then all those spicy foods
turned into a raging beast
the olives stuffed with jalapenos
on a silver cocktail stick
are doin’ battle with the brie
she thinks she may be sick
those fiery cherry peppers
in their garlic marinade
don’t mix well with salami
might be time for medical aid
chicken pate with port
cubes of Mexican cheese
have her prayin’ to the toilet god
so much for delicacies!
seems like everything she ate
not only gave her ragin’ gas
she’s hostage to a toilet seat,
with fire shootin’ out her ass!