we may be the generation
of the next
shakespeares,
curies,
vernes,
einsteins,
akeleys,
sagans.

h­ow can we be boiled down
to a 'standard'?

and when we refuse to stomach
this diluted broth you have served us,
it is force-fed:
teargas for forks,
riot shields for spoons,
tasers for knives;
until our tongues are so awfully burnt
that all we may say is this:

'we are the standard generation.
we are the future for the past.
we have standard answers to extraordinary problems.'

leaders say change will come in
2014,
2015,
2020,
2030,
2050,
please ensure that the numbers on your booklets
match those on your answer sheets.

we will bubble 'a' for global warming,
'b' for the debt crisis,
'c' for war and famine,
but this is a test we didn't study for.

how do you know
what you know
isn't an illusion
or a hologram
or a ruse to them
& theirs
why I do declare,
*******.

I am ******* bored
with this

I've been here before,
but I've changed a bit.

I know my soul
must be ******* ancient
& has taken spaceships
to different places
you know, most
don't own the patience
for any explanation that ain't
ready-made, microwave
layman safe.

as for shakespeares
as for lennons,
maybe they'll get it
if they've mastered dissipation
if they're versed in manipulation
if they keep contained
indecipherable ranges of
insane visions
to which ignorance
is malignant,
if they're excitable &
strange & incandiferous.

if they have eyes in their brains
& are made of diamonds,
if they're kinda like,
sadomasochistic.

wait, you're gunna miss it.

when the inexpensive lynchmen
get bent up & purple faced
pinched pens & been up for days
cause they seen some ****
& ain't been quite the same since.

nevermind it, they lookin frigid.
this **** is ridiculous.

**** it, quiet
silent, silence,
sigh then.
keep calm
remain indifferent.

this **** is ridiculous.

listen, listen.

if you see me missing,
please report it to the police
******* themselves in the street,
cause it's easy, it's easy.
tell em I only speak in
secret spells & ******,
but I know
some swears in dreamy.

the sleepy cellular subject
is defective, so ...
so be it, the pest shall be deleted
lest it spread disease
& eat up all the fleece,
then we'll all be cleaned -
no, not really.

the fiends are still fiending
the fields are still weeping
paint is still peeling
off walls
who couldn't talk
but were still breathing.

the truth is still
spooky ****,
nightmare things
on inviting screens
& the teeth keep screaming.

maybe they're thinking.

about the end
... ?

I am the owner of the sphere
Of the seven stars
and the solar year
Of Caesars hand
and Plato's brain
Of Lord Christ's heart
and Shakespeares strain

Familiar with the fear.
Panicked by a box full of,
Roads unclear.
Sticks created due to torn gloves.

When things start looking up,
I find new ways,
To slip up.
Mistakes made in lingerie.

I was never enough;
Yet, believed it to be untrue,
While in the buff.
Performing our pas de deux.

Now, I am late.
Which is nothing new,
But other symptoms indicate,
This to be more than the flu.

Our family is known for,
Starting eager fires.
For ***** looks, uproars,
Unquenchable desires.

I am not an outlier.
This is standard, here.
When it comes to kindling fires,
We're legendary Shakespeares.

Forget pre-Madonnas
We want to get away from all the self-proposed Shakespeares that think their opinions matter more here
Humanity should rid itself from elitism and stop being insincere
It would put our contributions in the clear.

I must have a stupid face.
The smiles, the cold hooks
Tugging at my heart like a lunging fish,
Narrowly breathing to keep itself
Alive, only for the moment.
Then gone.

I love this, this resurgence of things
That may come. All true, you believe,
Till they prove you wrong.
The murmurs, do you hear it?
Through the steel, the pages,
Shakespeares I and II.

Cold, but loud. They buzz all around
The years, old and new,
Stillborn and cursed.

Don’t stop, they want you too much now.
I turn and turn, I do not hear anything.
No one comes up to me,
I don’t want to hear anything else.

The cold surfaces, the white acetylene tables.
Burp burp, who goes there?
Who’s arranging all these?
Yours, yours?

I mock you,
I mock your noise,
The silent shudder of you deciding
To leave me.

The hurt, the stinging pain.
The loud crash of it.

This is the sinew of my curse.

Shalini Nayar
© 2004

I'm a survivor of 3 car wrecks
I'm no god
I'm an athiest till day I see one
I'm in love with the idea of love
I'm no man
I'm the boy hiding under his blanket
To scared of the night
I'm an orphan to emotions
Yet I still feel
The jaded truth to me
I'm just a mask
I'm a name with no face
A body without a soul
A life no longer worth living
If you saw me
You'd only know I'm as dead as corpses
I'm the jester making everyone laugh
Hiding tears so the mascara doesnt run
I'll take a bow making sure
I keep my head down when I leave the stage
I'm shakespeares tragedy come to fruition
I'm the chalkline on pavement
The bodybag only filled with sorrow
I'll take this time to bid goodbye
Idk if I'll survive this car wreck
The collision of rusty twisted steel with flesh
I only know the intent of why I'm walking the gallows
I'm a ghost coming and going
So maybe its my que
To take my final absence

if not already , if I compared my worth to J. Paul Getty,
or my hymns to Shakespeares, or the length of
my thing to a **** stars,
I would be more arcane if I considered my value to be
the way I shine in comparison to a Van Gogh painting in
a museum, or a child's true smile,
my soft hand to a kittens meow,
my feet to a cows or my ******* to a sows,
my god given shine to the sun or stars, it is non-sensical
to compare oranges with a rotten apple.

I cant write like Shane.....
Or rhyme like Marshall....
My words are mine and I take full responsibility....
The advice you percieve is not what im trying to convey...
I am the village idiot in a society of Shakespeares...
Like I need a soapbox to visualise my plight...
The purest form of me is better left on paper....
Because when it bled into life... Nobody understood...
My laughter is captured in a joke I write meant for no none....
I never said it was funny only that nonsense is what makes me happy...
The moments of fear are in shaky etchings on prison walls.....
Where the only people who ever read it are destined for the hell I endured...
My sadness is the napkin after a holiday meal...
When I can only say I miss you using the medium of condiments....
A love note scars my heart and I now see beauty as a plateau...
The forgiveness letter is the sadness echoing from the valley....
Wish-lists are no longer lies about money or fame...
My bucket list is now a rewritten mess of hopes...
I cant write a story because they all turn into pop ups of memories I cant face....
Choose the adventure and Find waldos are the closest thing to my section...
Writing is now been the way I can send my dreams to the editor...
If inspiration was my muse it was taken mid-sentance ...
But if sadness means you will listen...
Than I guess writing is the gift that I wish i could return....