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No option, but to be perceived
Violent, Aggressive, Irrational
Identity becoming an other

Words of malice, they mystify
Words of ignorance, they vilify
Subverting consciousness and articulation

Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation

No real notion of we or me
Implicating it's inhuman to be foreign
When they represent as much of we and me

Scandalizing alternative identities as subversive
Advancing erasures in favor of hegemony
Propaganda favoring what is most white

Amelioration for the obliteration of cunning identity?
No more cooperation, ****** the euphemisms
That cover up, and help justify marginalization

Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation

Time to ****, ******, massacre eurocentric ideology
We preach no violence, being not them, just we
But cannot request to be free, must tear it out by force

Eurocentric ideological pandemic inhabiting, inhibiting the soul of mankind
Unthinkable abomination concealed in the veil of appropriated minds
Necessitating exorcism for the incarcerated conscious mind

When we completely violate mandates of eurocentric ideology
When only we appropriate our own identity
When we all nullify the color of our skin
As profanity or inadequacy

Our identities, fighting to be
Autonomous landscapes
Hoping in anticipation for liberation
Will be awaiting purgation from alienation
February 1, 2013
Face                     of MADNESS        , gather your twisted strength
Stench like sadness? (Do)n't                             confuse, its greatness
Sway through the fractures and disjointedness
      Disembodied                      manifestati­on, useless phenomenon
S(cul)p(ture)s hammered into DisFuRme/nt
Castrate salient pieces                     of that body
      Spew inhuman lexicon insinuating         i-n/co\here/nce
Slaughter the (harm)ony                   within cadence
Screech!         H     o      w      l!          Growl!
Rel(easing) murderous miseries within infected entr[ails]
      R A G E, count{less} bullets                              turning fl{ashes} of sanity to CAD(AVE)R(S)
De[generate] ripping throat of conscio(us)ness
February 24, 2013
August is never  lost to Summer,
she shares in her sphere of circularity
Calendula's a by-word  for prolonging,
dead-heading vies with the flush.
Lunaria's prized seed pods' legacy's boon.
In redolent contemplation.
Autumn bulbs eagerly  secured.
Amongst them Colichicums a wondrous  shrub
for late September's  appearance.

Like a Stallion,  August's canter masquerades
the truest of challenges ,
for the final  hurdle.
By means of subtle suggestiveness
Russet subsumes the Red.
Blue musters a tired
muddying  Purple.
Yellow bleaches
as though touched
by the exertion of congruity
The long day's journey comes to an end,
I have matched my gains of memories
with forgetfulness, the fruits fallen wasted,
in my mind's tally sheet, it was marked bit odd,
every loss  ultimately was accounted as gain,
and the result finally  was calculated thus:
"You are a traveler through space-time continuum unlimited,
the journey itself is the real thing, (though every bit an illusion)
desire nothing else, that doesn't make any sense"

Sitting on a beach bench, alone in a timeless evening,
eyeing the unceasing, agitating waves,
converging dark clouds and boats in panic,
I imagine this:
the skies are clear, boats on waves dance in rapture,
                                                        ­      you are near,
on the branches of trees, evening birds
begin to sing, a song so rarely heard,

then--
fingers of gentle wind, touch my forehead,
I open my eyes and see-
you sitting near with a smile,
all storm clouds were eaten by sweeping winds,
sky, has  a deep hue of blue like in my imagination,
                                  as  if we are nearer to infinity.
As ever the universe smiles gently to us.
The orchestra of birds
on the treetops is in high octave.

What is left for us, man and wife,
to do then in this hour of peace?
            Come let's run to the waves,
            and dance with them, as long as you wish
                             we've  created this day for us by request.
I followed the line of smoke at dawn:
Smoke from ebbing fires that
burned all night, leading to
some unknown end
past the horizon: eagles
circled above and crows
sliced the hum of the wind,
as I walked on,
shadows
of a buried life emerged:
Laughter, cries of joy, who is that
running after severed kites?
Colours splashed in merry
summers; that corner refuge
hiding during scary fights -
Memories like a river
roaring out of the gorge,
ruins
of a buried life,
emerged out of the horizon
beyond the line of smoke,
figures that retreated into shadows
and corners beyond approach,
memories of buried, forgotten times...
In a flash, a whole buried past can come alive, with all the colours and scars, hidden away over the years
Thoughts
splash echoing
like pebbles into a well.

Confusion.
Woven like a web all over.

Returning at the same spot,
beaten, broken into
a hundred parts.

Echoing.
Returning.

Plumes of obfuscation.
Rising, spreading everywhere.

Frustration.

This spiraling music in the head.
What is the way forward?

The rickshaw slices the expanse
speeding away from my grasp.

A query rises into the wilderness
of a hundred distractions.

The bell. The bell. Distant, sonant.
Door. Phone. Beep. Beep.

The firmament is camouflaged.

Am looking for a direction;

Confusion. Obfuscation. Frustration.
Another thought-stream. Free-rhythm.

Moments of echoing self-reflection seeking an answer, guidance, amidst distractions....
I.

A beat pulses through the song
rising like a plume of smoke
across the ridge.

The night rolls on.
A love languishes.

I can't help but
self-destruct.

The scattering clouds.
Heart-beats to the head-song.

Do you even exist?

II.

Arms upraised like those of a
tote bag. I surrender. Fold
up, like a gunny sack.

Not this, not this.

Stars flicker mourning my
slow disappearance.

You must, when I ask like this.

Dead man's procession. Every
***-holed road is a graveyard
of dogs. Dead, unsung.

III.

Milk spreads in the tea cup,
shooting out, widening,
tentacles, like fear.

IV.

Why is your voice this feeble?

My face, flatter than is usual
in this mirror?

You mean, you are me too?

I mean, does that even like
supposed to
mean something?

V.

I'm an Olympic hero. All of us.
Hubbub. Throb, to
the music-plume.

Mysterious plume.
Love. Instinct for suicide. Death. Fear. Renewal. Mystery.

An existential thought-stream. Free rhythm.
brittle waves crash like
china plates
who do they argue with?
the moon, who is their father
the sea-their mother
their soulmate, an unseen river,
or me?
i am but an detached observer of this
play of passionate fervour

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
  03.02.2013
  Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
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