The machine's coldness seethed my hair
as the world sat on my shoulder
that made it surrender
like curtains on a steaming afternoon
sighing questions
and endless uncertainty.

I punched the buttom
wrecked number 3
that bled Espresso
which in this another night
of your absence

would keep me awake
as I intensively unstitch the truth
about your pathetically sewn inventions
and attack the facts
about the abnormality of your society
and irrationality of your culture.

I swear I ******* hate you.
And someday you will die,
*******.

Her head resting on your chest
as you flashed your teeth
and bared a smile.

Your arms around her shoulder
as she curved her lips
like crooked pins.

Your eyes
betrayed your grin
as the camera clicked

one
two
three

and preserved the moment
that was supposed
to be ours.

Seeing your picture
with her,
whoever she is

to my utter disappointment
I did not feel
any pang.

Actually, not anything.
Apart from the fact that I have wasted an effort bracing myself
from something powerless.

And so I stuffed my clothes
Without arrangement
In the desolate void
Of your universe

Where no one
Not even the stars
Could reach
Them out.

And so I grabbed my books
Enough to sustain me
For the longest time ever
of my utter disappearance

from this world
of perfect vanity
and sheer absence
of arts and poetry.

I will be back
After deceiving the fairies.

She bowed her head
and picked up the questions
which fell on her plate.

The fork was marked
with doubt of otherness
engulfing the atmosphere

as thousands hands
escaped from
the thousand rooms

while the walls
and the picture frames
and portraits

and windows
and tapestries
and candle-sticks

exhaled her name
and shook and screamed
for her to run.

You see,
the border of her dress is stained
and is filled with sand.

And so I will make love
and as we devour our skin
as you bury your mouth on my neck
and as my whisper engulfes your cheek
I will scatter verses of Shakespeare
destroy John Keats
curse William Blake
lament over Sylvia Plath
disarray Bukowski
set Hemingway afire
annihilate Gaiman
and when the morning comes
I will disappear
and all that's left
will be the creases on your sheet
and the stars on your blanket
and it will remind you that last night
we danced on the shards
and wreckage of poetry.

It will break your ******* little heart.

Swifts, on a fine morning in May, flying this way, that way, sailing around at a great hight, perfectly happily. Then one leaps onto the back of another, grasps tightly and forgetting to fly they both sink down and down, in a great dying fall, fathom after fathom, until the female utters a loud, piercing cry.....


of ecstasy.

They convinced us
that title
promotion
wage amount
regard
and popularity


are all that matters.