The kitchen sink,
speaking so quietly
in the corner,

may have been the creator of
the universe

dripping his voice out
of the faucet.

Only, no one needed
to be brought up out
of  Egypt,

so I lit another  cigarette.
             And,

God and I marked each
other on this point,

there doesn’t seem like
there’s much to do
between

life and death,
but

take the space
we are given.

She is gone.(Drip)
She is gone. (Drip)
She is gone.(Drip)

You talk too much,
I said.

The sink replied,
אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה

It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper

I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.

I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.

The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.

I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to **** him.

Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.

Red lights devour the earthly silence,
crushed bits of half scribbled lyrics
lie all over the floor consumed by the unseen darkness.

the smell of the warm untouched beer disappears
as I hear someone scream with an agony and a common distaste
for this sinking society, for wars, for people,
on my speakers.

It is a gift sometimes
when after a ****** tiring day
you don’t have to scream your lungs
out, you don’t have to thrash things,
you don’t have to think of death:
someone records and does it for you.
You just have to listen.

I believe there is no god,
just a few men and women
who show us the death, without the fear
tickling our spine through their dark
melodies and works.

I live another new day,
I hide another terrible scream,
I switch to the next song.
I am a Metal-Head.

Sometimes while sleeping
I greet the twin sisters.

Subtle faceless apparitions,
that love to giggle
while skipping the ropes to reality.

coalesced dreams, some call them
Without an end or beginning.

in a state of drunken stupor,
set by feasting on the flesh of stars
they drive me back to the black lake
where we once buried the moon

effigies of time, burn on the shores,
the lake soaking its ashes.
does the time ever weep?
for what it has lost,
even in the interconnected dreams

an undecipherable hymn now,
colludes with my stupor
as the faceless twin sisters smile.

I shall remember nothing
except for their holy unison
and the figments of thread
sewing their thumbs together

They tell me
I write okayish.

I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.

Why don't you write something on love,
they say,
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells,they love it.
they relate to it.

I tell him,
I don't get the vibes out of it,
love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.

I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain.

atleast they never pretend.