variegated dreams
overturning the ashened night
wake, wake
branch and twist
to the music
of the tide
escapism of this world engulfed
with itineraries and haste
leaving fragments of vivacity in its wake
like riding a comet through life
stop, stop
smell the roses
make shapes out of clouds
within the starry night
rest, rest
blooming minds
drudging through the snow
whilst in drought
turning page after page
within this infancy
of human kind
sleep
and read but a line

Would you now go spitefully hating the sun
Or go viciously plundering pretty flower beds
Or go crushing underfoot, fall leaves in contempt
Or turn gently  into the fresh fold of snow?

Come, come, dear child, hold out thy hands
Let me gently embrace thy spindly frame
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.

If I told you which season you'd die in
Would you relent with ease, when the hour falls upon you?
Should you know I'm not as fearsome as most believe
Could you surrender the lent Light I must return?

You already know the answer without knowing
For it is not how you look, but how you look!
You no longer remember, it's been so long
So, I ask it plain: Would you really want to know?

You are not just a spoke on the wheel of Life
Which needs to, as the seasons, turn resolute
Yet you pass through them all, simultaneously
Save, your linear faculties confine your esoteric bridge.

Take joy in aestival airs, the apex of fruition
Springtime soil so easily squandered, bear in mind
Access  introspective glimpses with  hiemal hibernation
Autumnal foliage is but a screen, time to get real!

You cannot have the sunshine without the rain
Nor expect fine blossoms without fair travail
Seek thus the true bounty bedecked in full view
If you had but the seer's eyeless sight, dear guest.

As you travelled from one season to another
Did you live fully, even in between them?
Yes, the tiny labyrinth-passages you overlooked
Time to exact the price now run overdue.

Too attached you are to world and kin
For none of these, can you take with you
But beneficial acts and and good intent
Cosmic trick of genes is cecity delivered.

The one whose life you may regard so worthless
Retains a level which allows his soul to pass through
The eye of a needle, not measured in numbers
Hoist your soul on, tilt your core... I carry you home

So, come, wayworn traveller, hold out thy hands
Let me tenderly close thy brief visit here
And divest thee of thy onerous cloak, prithee
For thou art at journey's end; thy vessel awaits repose.



Star Toucher, 24 March 2013

Our malnourished souls
beat in opposite time.

We are not in sync,
in pattern.

Deprived, we are together
but somehow
a  p  a   r   t.

Bruised,
Bewildered,
Battered,
Broken.

What else starts with B?

Beautiful.

Cover of morning mist, treacheous
bring them face to face,
in the depth, green darkness of a forest.
A porcupine and a pangolin,
armed to the teeth,
ready to start a war at short notice,
both are not pleased to the least,
this encounter shouldn't have happened,
that thought crosses the minds of both,
the mist is the culprit,
but how do they know that?

If porcupine is equipped with missiles and lances,
pangolin is  protected with armour plates,
both come to understand, in a second,
they stare, with no emotions in display
sniffing the air for even the faintest of signals,
they stand still, rock like, take stock.

A spell of forest seize them, tell a few things
in soft whisper, that humans fails to listen always.
Nature tell them in quick time,
the secret equation of them, in this terrain-
in smells, sounds and a hundred myriad things.

Each one reads the other's face, watch expressions,
then, in a moment the prompt of the nature is clear
Voice of the forest speaks
"Don't waste the spikes, you need them later,
Fighting with a pangolin is a wild goose chase"
"Why fight porcupine, the ant kingdom awaits"
Porcupine and pangolin, listening to the voice of wisdom,
move away quick, as if hit by a lightening
the cover of the mist lends a clever helping hand.

He said “you’re beautiful inside”
What it supposed to mean?
I think I just can’t see those things
that he is tend to see.

Of course I cannot see them.
My eyes are tightly closed,
my eyes are covered with my forehead
that’s tensioned on my nose.

“You’re beautiful inside,
I’m gonna prove.
But you should calmly lie
and please don’t make a move.”

He doesn’t care about my voice,
the language that I spoke,
about my dress,
about my face
and feeling they evoke.

He said “you’re beautiful inside”,
and made three deepest cuts.
Now he can see what’s inside me:
my lungs, my spleen, my guts.

He put his hand beneath my heart,
his fingers slowly shrunk.
With other hand, so calmly,
he dug into my flank.

He does not care that I'm too heavy,
My vessels he likes more.
He said they’re cleaner than they could be.
The inner beauty of the sore.

My mind does not seem spoiled to him,
or crazy, weird or strange.
he said that nothing wrong with me
He wouldn’t let it change.

I told him I am dull.
There’s something he can find
cutting out my nerves.
I’d rather he was blind.

He doesn’t know what I
was doing all night long,
that I was drawing kidneys
with arteries beyond.

The only thing he does
is wash away my blood
from table and his shoes
to give another cut.

I’m paralyzed and sliced,
my skin is livor mortis.
Spread out on the table
small pieces of my cordis.

He does not think I stink.
For him I’m full of stories.
He’s making notes with knifes
He cuts away my worries.

He cuts hearts on my knees
Love letters made by stings.
With quiet me he’s playing
tic tac toe on my hips.

He has got to the heart of me,
studied my every cell.
disassembled and gathered back,
sewed neatly. He did that well.

He said “beautiful inside”
But nothing about the rest.
Thank you autopsist
You have seen in me only the best.

you are the light at the end of a tendril. a spindle of dread, woven in caustic guile of argyle
parallelograms...phantom realms of solid waste. you are the pin in the subject. gating satan through a thimble
of crocodile tears, the new symbol.
the rude glyph in black bibles and strong drink, en-kindling the dead. rodents ponzi the scheme
of hell’s maze, with lies...your lies...
you have  eyes that  lead aside from your heart’s plot
you are saboteur. banal.
unrestrained waste. you are the fin in the barracuda puppet, grazing the wrist of Dim Henson
huffing crystal gorillas in the congo of your foyer
you are
the black chandelier.

teach me your cheap trick
striking off ‘ iron-on’  pinkie swears
your praline heresies... your  ‘ no remorse’    code
lay bare to me.

better my better angels,  to fathom the loathsome ****
of your actual mind. keep me abreast of your wretched games...
apply the rod of your wrong  love, above all.... you must betray.
you must know in your fetid rot
of a third eye... the phlegm genius of **** blindness.... teach me the rictus of
cold hearted.  a false god in my lotus !

spare me the chaste suzette
flip me the ***** that spits fables.
learn me the savage puns
to pummel you         sustaining your worst done.
grant me the lethal beans for my sacred cow
trade me the idylls of your forked heart
for your crushed null
and crossed
bones.