The angels have grown fangs, they say
Oh how wonderful!
They'll **** blood right out of the jugular, they say
Won't that be nice dear!
Yes, love is an epidemic
Love giggles
Oh stop that Mrs. Cliché
What? I am just saying what they say, Mr. Cliché
Now now back to one hammer-blow a day, shall we?
How long has it been?
How long what has been?
Putting one hammer-blow a day on this house?
I don't know some forever may be
Oh that seems one gray hair too long
Leave it be, Mrs. Cliché
May be it is time to finally open doors
I said leave it be
Oh I don't know, may be just the curtains then?
puts down the newspaper we have an agreement,
'no one shall step a tad bit in glow, and may last forever this self-inflicted blow'
But I have hope, Mr. Cliché
Thus your are Mrs. Cliché
*slashing continues of yet un-heaved breath, thudding continues of... *
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
Blue dripping from the aerial nosering
Trying to shut out the forest fire
Jewels atomised in the dark air
Blurred in the reflection
In the milky still waters
Mountains haunted by glowworms
In crackling silence
The scene
Demented by the eyes
Overlooking
From the edge of the woods
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:29 AM UTC
It crawls
Into your ear
- when you've finally laid down your head over the grass cooled and numbed by the evening dew -
And eats away the last remaining shred of reality
Right behind your nose
Right below your eyes
How wonderfully it itches
You can't keep your hands off
The moment you lift up
It plunges you back into that wretched world of fantastic dreams
Every morning you are late for your share of reality
This is the time
When it hatches the eggs - the sleep-bug -
In different corners of your head
Where they wait
Wait for the right time
To execute their master plan
To take over
To control
It's it
It's it
If you close your eyes
And close your ears
You can hear them speaking in their
Carnivorous tongue in unison
The anthem of corruption.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
Written on the fingertips like morning dew,
The regrets of the night past.
Furling around the grass beams
Uprooting
The screech.
Moistening the ear canal
With slow dripping spit,
And the sun drags down the noon
Air goes crazy in the skull.
Haunting voices
Waits for the crack.
An escape
Into the sins of the dark night
Waiting
Hunger like.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
And at the crematorium.
We laid that very old body on fire woods. Put some woods on top of him. He let us lit him.
And he, with quiet crackling, burnt away.
I saw his flesh give a way through the bones.
I saw his hands burn up first then legs and then face, but feet were left out because he was tall.
So then we pushed them in the pyre.
Then we hit the burnt skull with the big bambu stick and huuuuptttttt it cracked. The pressurized brain matter, it just huuuuuptttt.
The 98 yr old brain, the 98 year old skull.
Our bodies were getting heat from his funeral pyre. A
And then burnt his pelvis and then chest.
That hip was faster than his chest, his heart.
He had 6 children, 10 grand children, 10 great grand children.
When nothing was left. The ashes from his pyre flew and settled on my head and shoulders, on all of ours heads and shoulders.
Now on the 12th day, in some ritual, priest will announce that this is the ritual which will cut the final cord with the dead person, for u all have to move on then.
Some will cry again. Some foundations will shake again. But priest will say, "All you can do is, LIVE AS HE HAD LIVED."
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
spit covered sidewalk
buzzing bee over his head
standing ****** poet
***
liquid red dust flies
in and out of shell
Sea crashes on shore
***
Imitation of
Darkness smiling, resting on
Time, dropped from moon
***
Thirsty womb of sheep
Fell out of place in the shed
Say, what tragedy!
***
Table, chair, and lamp
Hand, *** light, shivering neck
Beyond the waste land
***
Electrifying
Cloud wave gathers and shatters
Reflection of sea
***
Painting hands of you
Touches softly and bruises
Painted hands of mine
***
Lifts up from the ground
Ringing shadow of the ant
Loses sanity
***
Runs up the tower
“I am sexier than thou”
Shouts the dancing legs
***
Some stucco mountains
Against hands of guided winds
Terribly brittle
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
those gods like rotten meat
end up in a dump
buzzed over by
flies
scratched and left over by some canine
'cause his master said
"don't eat that rotten **** you fool!"
there are worms
they don't think like that
if they think at all
but be modest, Charlie
give'em some credit
for they never complain for
making a fertilizer
now will you look down that bridge
there lay a dried up whale
exploding boiling organs all around
and there hides
the entire city
behind the stink
now we wait, Charlie, 'cause we are patient
wait for some Kublai Khan
to interpret as he wishes
'cause, Marco Polo does not speak
the same language
and god is still
an ever rotting meat.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
with drunken steps
you reach to such place
where a pillar is famous
pillar that cries yellow
weariness of night burns
a black trails goes on in the other direction
and there lay
a body
stinking
so very dead
come, come with your drunken steps
and lie down next to this dead body
ah! liberating isn't it?
and that's it
the painting is complete
the lonely side filled with
secrecy of stinking dead body
and flowing yellowness
under this pillar
and breaking thirst
with just being
and put your name
sign it
let it hang
right there
let it be crooked
let it get crawled over by spiders of memory
your job is done
painting is complete
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
from right across the moment
you watch, see, gaze, stare
with eyes all over your body
it is difficult, isn't it?
now walk across it
sweat dripping like a pathway to assassination
assassination of figurative head of imagination
imagination is *****
smelling words
words of delusion
I think it is psychological said the doctor
so that very evening when cow is red
you open up your mind
and talk to your friend
waiting for him to blink
or at least flutter like a lamp
and then when you are walking to the mess
with hunger that made your stomach sing
with hold on it, you look up
you see a face, right there, next to a street lamp
she sat there until you were out of your sight
she is not there any more
from this side of a moment
you still watch, gaze, stare, at
in the vacuum, vacuum like your loneliness
with eyes, distracting you to all your different dreams
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
Moon is getting red
as if it's being strangled
my legs are proving the struggle
the night belongs to a scream
scream of a sparrow
in a gut deep stab
by some homeless from the country far far away
who stomps his feet every time you ask his name
she was rather painted differently
or interpreted differently
but the melancholy woman
I saw in the street selling goody bags
with a huge smile on her face
as I turn around the block
it was alley of the gunshot
people talk here in gunshot
gunshot carols
gunshot lullabies
gunshot romance
gunshot cry
gunshot memories
the subtle is the step you take
the subtle is every trigger you pull
bite you lips and
you are accused of being a communist
sad howl wakes up the city
the feeling of being mugged is haunting every lamp
every star
every eye
everything that glows
and
in a quiet distant direction
voyage continues
on a day
slipping into a moonless night
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC