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Apr 2015 · 1.2k
ouster
Shashank Virkud Apr 2015
Stella told us she was bi.

I stared down at my oysters,
covered in parmesan,
taste like the ***** in Frenchtown.

With my silken tongue,
flicked another from its
shell, let the goo drip
down my lip, and run
up my wrist.
Apr 2015 · 635
She Wants
Shashank Virkud Apr 2015
She wants
she wants
she wants
she wants
she wants to know
why I'm spreading
my time
so thin,
why I'm spreading
my mind
so thin.
She wants to know
why I'm sinking
just to swim.

She can take a ride in my car.
She can take a side of my heart.
She can.

She wants to know
why my neck
is so thin,
she want to go
to Jupiter again.
She wants
she wants
she wants
she wants.
Shashank Virkud Jan 2015
I won't back out.
What do you want to do?
With a passion
for the fashions of a time passed,
I've forgotten how to analyze:
what makes me a *****?
I've forgotten why
I'm sleeping alone-
I'm dreaming-
alone.
And my dreams
are but mine alone.

But...

I'll rig the smallest ship
and I'll challenge the stars
because the gods live too far away
to deliver me...

when your lips
are the sweetest figs
and I can't see
through the fox-bark mist.

I apologize,
is there any power,
any power behind this?
Dec 2014 · 790
Burning Amber
Shashank Virkud Dec 2014
I'm bashful,
I'm broken-
hearted,
I'm born to do this-
die like this-
with every twist,
every flourish,
every blister-
are you burning, Amber?
Sore nose with a corkscrew in it-
the holes you bore-
I'm boring.
mundane-
remaining unnamed
because boys are all different yet none of them stay very long-
for the shame of it-
hot shame, burning amber-
are you burning, Amber?
-
oh, if it wasn't for the shame of it!
Shashank Virkud Nov 2014
Dismissive and incredulous,
could something be so ridiculous?

Solitary, eight armed octopus.
I look at you with bulging eyes-
nothing stranger could exist.
I sulk back into the abyss.
Shashank Virkud Oct 2014
When will I be able to live my life
without having to sleep through half of it?

Will my stomach
ever stop aching?

Why is my skin
crawling?

Which part
of my soul dies
when I check my gut,
stick a skewer through my brain,
pinch a nerve in my neck
until it pops;
what gets left behind
when I make a compromise?
Shashank Virkud Oct 2014
Lethargy
crept up on me
in the beginning,
in a slithering,
sordid sort
of way.
Retreating,
the opening,
the closing doors kept
repeating
themselves
and left me
depleted;
porous woodwork,
ashen, decrepit;
the walls that wept
dust mites
in the absence of
a keeper,
in the absence
of light.

What a wicked way,
what a thing to say

to a skeleton in his grave,
rattling sporadically,
stench of love decayed.

Gracefully laid down,
head full of gray clouds,
reserving respect
for all those dead sounds,
keeping kindness
for my pallid hounds.
Aug 2014 · 1.0k
Phase
Shashank Virkud Aug 2014
Feeling high on these trippy waves
could have guessed your bugging
eyes wouldn't stay the same.
dancing on the nerve endings,
the frequency shows itself,
strobes in and out phase.

In and out of phase,
feeling high on these trippy waves
be brave tonight,
and in your case,
be lighter than the page
your heart was written on.
Jul 2014 · 523
Heavy Hands
Shashank Virkud Jul 2014
I can only rest when I have energy to unwind.
Sometimes there is no other answer,
sometimes there is no one to call,
and I cannot rest,
I cannot rest now.

You said you saw those seeds about to sprout,
you poured the water in
and then you poured it back out.
It was never about us.

There are things about me I don't even know.
watch me in my sleep,
get my lips moving slow.
In the darkness, you, the candle,
can see all of my shadows.

You hold my heart in your hands,
you hold my hands apart,
you hold my heart in your hands,
you hold my hands apart,
you hold my face in your hands,
you hold my heart in your hands-

my heavy hands apart!
Jun 2014 · 512
Hook
Shashank Virkud Jun 2014
Saddens me to find out there is no more madness to this method. The chaos has decayed, leaving traces of the bruise but the abscess dry and cracked, a hold for a hook sewn right in. A misconception, you are mistaken, this is what is most readily available while on vacation. Dehydration is an acceptable form of payment for the prowess slipping through your synapses, cornering and cutting off your sanity. Someone told me I could ride a star out of here, or that I could buy a car, and learn to ******* steer.

Her ribcage rendered the furniture redder, she snapped her fingers to the fourth man and said you were always a dream to me, no wonder you could be so mean to me. I said I read it in a history book, she looked at me like some Chinese light show, or a Russian disco, glass from a gutter that will grind against you through the night. Never knew her name, they called her by her birth date, hey there April 24th, 1988! With a heart that scars like a diamond, bangs against the table, her own head she cant handle.

She said my hometown hates me, it's my own time I'm wasting, I'm too lazy, and you, you haven't been around for me lately. I said I read it in a history book, and that I always thought you were better than me, smiling in a way that says sorry, she said it takes creativity.

Something I'm avoiding? By the very nature of it. Something in the structure of it, in a particular strand of DNA it is ingrained, running away. I said I read it in a history book. She laughed, didn't let me off, taking pleasure in my pain she leaned in and whispered, you don't remember mine, but I remember your name.
May 2014 · 1.9k
Yea and We Argue
Shashank Virkud May 2014
A strand of dna against a starry sky, there are reasons they look strange to me. You know partly why I will never want you. It's cause I'm used to me being me and you being...

you.
Shashank Virkud May 2014
It's eleven o'clock,
my socks are wet.
You pull a silver spoon
from your pocket and say
I'm not finished yet.

Steal the links to our chains
golden fences
never looked
so flimsy.
Go hungry for the holidays,

how do I die again?

I heal better at home.

So come on over.

My ears are ringing,
I'm singing songs
of yesterday.
My ears are ringing,
you don't think
things will ever be the same.

Collect all the garbage,
put a ribbon on your prize.
My ears are ringing,
and I'm singing
how do I die again?
Apr 2014 · 495
Lazy Crunch
Shashank Virkud Apr 2014
If I trust
my intuition I will never die.
If it's a
crooked institution I won't
ever hide.
Say it's sold,
say it's told to us,
I won't ever fold to it.

This is the new way,
this is full on mastery
of a hidden language,
feeling
the part you **** with
and being oh so...
languid.

Did it
ever occur
in
history?

In the
purple sky?

Probably
not.

Don't hate me.
Blame your
freedom for letting me
cover up folly
with pride,
set good
taste aside,
and be this waste.
Apr 2014 · 731
Forces
Shashank Virkud Apr 2014
Last knock at seven pm,
if I'm taking too long just tell me when.

Holy honey that melts in your mouth,
you'll only find that kind down south.

Tongue in my cheek, lungs filled with the view,
I've been talking to blurred visions of you.

And I'm stuck with the ugliest luck.
And I could fall...

but then I feel your grip tighten up.

I wish I knew what went wrong.
If there could be a switch-
if I could hit it-
turn everything upside down.
Shake the rain from my sandals,
if you light a candle
I can handle the rest!

See I thought it was me
but it's the world that's
been spinnin' around

and around

and around

and around.
Oct 2013 · 1.2k
Sickle Soul Anemic
Shashank Virkud Oct 2013
Obsidian hawks
hang from lamp posts,
lining the Gothic
architecture of our hearts,

the shadows,
turning me yellowish
gray, leak out
life
in the strangest way.
The
silhouettes sway
and moan, listening
to the wind whisper
through their
hair, the stories
of dreams
being embalmed.

These lanterns want
to keep me awake,
longing in the retro-
red, belonging
to the sweet,
the concrete dead.

Bright star,
you look
like garbage
to me.
And these sickle
souls bleed
on everything
in between,
blue moons,
left with traces
of where their halos
used to be,
a halogen lamp
reverie.

Obsidian hawks
mark the page
where the ink
met the river
and decided to
run off,
saving room
for prayer,
or maybe another
layer of meaning,
something,
at least
seemingly true;
I wouldn't know,
but, vultures they say.
Sep 2013 · 1.1k
Detached
Shashank Virkud Sep 2013
Detachment doesn't follow from distance
and so for a few cents a minute
we send our sentiments half way around
the world. Hurling hellos,
goodbyes, in dialects that
don't yet exist.

We find utility in comfort
and comfort in utility,
all the musicians
have delusions,
after double heart
triggered reality tryst,
they split,
making two languages
out of it.
Aug 2013 · 6.7k
Fall Forward Tonight
Shashank Virkud Aug 2013
The leaves fall in September, during the festivals. They dissipate, reintegrate into vivid little vespers that bob and levitate on gusts of wind that leave one bristling. The ferris wheel looks like an electric celestial ferry, set ablaze and bound for distant dimensions, man with mutated mohawk green, eyes wretched, livid and obscene, was the maniacal who manned it. Glow stick ghouls, with faces smeared americana snow cone red and blue haunt the parking lot, purple precipitate that hisses as it hits the pavement the product of their incessant chanting, pulling fuzz-lined warmth from my marrow. Under the stadium lights, women tighten their scarves as tiny, cerulean seahorses shimmer and dance with the ebb and flow of their jewel studded breath, retreating, giggling like immortal birds fallen from the nest.
Love is paper mache; a pop culture artifact. Like a stuffed hare that seems to have lost its ability to come to life after one loses their virginity. It has long legs and keen ears. It's very fast and would be quite handsome as well if it wasn't so **** helpless. It has been bred into the fibers of contact, the filter we set on lust, the way recycled cans make castles on lily pads and dead skin makes dust. We are swirling around in its whirlpool, if it wasn't drowning us we would be dead by now, same goes for the mad, mangy men who will count their teeth with their dimes and pick at their scabs, finger their sores, the retired professor who was too clever to have ever been faithful, the mockingbird that sings on my windowsill every morning in French, the mailmen and the dogs who bark at them in Quebec. An obsessive complex affords one the privilege of straightening the line, counting in time and putting the rabbit en route.
If it is the case that detachment follows from distance then I am one cactus length away (average, or medium sized cactus of course) from destroying the moon's mezzanine, housing all of the dreams behind ethereal, Egyptian, colored crystal that a pagan god stole from a black hole, never intended for you or me.
Shashank Virkud Aug 2013
It's been one boring, restless, ***** of a drive through this sunken state. I click the windshield wipers off as they smear verdigris across my polarized vision, the FM stereo crackles and hisses in dissonance
with moaning, squealing brakes. My four cylinder fishtails ever so slightly as tattered tires nick and skid through puddles of *** the cumulus left behind after ******* the sun, which is crying now as it falls to sleep. Driving mechanically, I let my thoughts wander as I meander along I-4.

*You and I, we've never known what it means to perfect our chapters, to get into each little cavity, or between two immaculate ribs. We'd like to simplify all of that to one line, to reduce the dimensions rather than revel in their story. To see with six eyes or live as a termite within the wood grain is really all the same. But you know, we haven't finished yet simply because we are not finished yet. Some of us yet insist they hold on to the rotting shreds of a dying breed, a generation gone gangrene, their fingers in their feces.

But we know how we want it to be. Humanity will be different for you kids, we promise.
Aug 2013 · 638
Post Murder
Shashank Virkud Aug 2013
We are not the classics.
You will, we will never be.

Beware,
for your art
is aware of itself.

Let it fade into
post modernity,
let it die quickly,
in fact,

***** it
yourself.
Aug 2013 · 1.6k
Rude To Strangers
Shashank Virkud Aug 2013
Rigid, with tears trickling down my spinal column
and escaping any other way they could,
crushed up chrysanthemums in my hands,
without moving a muscle, running away
any other way that I could.

One meaningful conversation
with my father in my whole life,
it was after I drank half a bottle of gin
one night in Cincinnati.

He raised me the best he could.

Once, in a dream, I ordered a ****** mary
and now I wonder if that means anything.

If it means anything good.
Jul 2013 · 810
I Am In the Ivory
Shashank Virkud Jul 2013
Two hundred years
can pass between a page.
Two hundred years
can pass between a day.

I've laughed and died
along side the best of stems-
blue stars- I've swallowed
every shade of that hue with no shame.

I've seen the picture of Dorian Gray.

I've held pearl white,
brazen beauty in my hands,
but gambled it all away.

I've been there,
I've been somebody's light
refracted through their prism,
coloring them in so many ways.

I've been given
amethyst sequined nights;
along with other pleasures,
I gifted them away,

because
I've seen the picture of Dorian Gray.

I've been given
such expressions,
you, the pallid, petrified
rose. But I am in the
ivory, I am in the alabaster-
I serve no master-
and no one can make me stay

because

I've seen the picture of Dorian Gray.
Jul 2013 · 958
Bent
Shashank Virkud Jul 2013
We were both huddled together,
cuddled up on the love seat.
We were sharing some primary source of joy,
the title I can't recall now,
when she let out a frail sigh
and said
"you know, I don't really give a **** about being remembered,
I'd rather just be read now, at face value, and left at that."
Her admission was inspiring.



Faking headaches
and skipping class
to go back to my house,
everyone thought we were sociopaths but
we were just lonely.
To say she understood me
is an understatement.


After we put the book down
she insisted that a good kiss
should be vaccuous
and I said I didn't get it,
that's when she put her lips to mine
and enlightened me.

Like her bar of soap,
but dirtier,
I was bent on the curves of her body.
Shashank Virkud Jun 2013
Kindred spirit, the privilege is mine, it's just that I,
I never finish because there is nothing going on, nothing to go on.

All right, all right, all right,
you're right,
I don't write as much as I used to,
but in all fairness (to myself)
I feel a bit more loose.

Never mean to,
but I guess I argue
a lot in order to hide
how much I really don't care;
Celina said it's not okay
but
that at least I know
it's insulting.


I only want to be in my body
when your feathery fingers graze my spine.
That tone an angel loaned
to you can ripple through
the void, make a soft,
translucent puddle out of reality,
can you see me
on the other side?

Don't say I'm angry,
it's just that
no one has ever really tried
to impress me, so I'm scared
I guess.

Remember you are here,
don't be weird about the types of things
sentimentality will bring,
will string along to the
forefront of an open sore;
no one pours the sink a whiskey
drink until the girls are crying out above the stars,
better yet, stirring them from afar
for their own faults, for being
fickle with love
and their own hearts.

You know I don't sleep much,
You know I don't dream of such
pretty things but I could imagine
how you, in a different life,
were gifted eternal wings.

Those that brought you to me.

I would weep

if I wasn't made of stone.
Jun 2013 · 833
Salient Feature
Shashank Virkud Jun 2013
There is no self reflective, only what infects that ****** ****** state of mind, fraternal and stupid. Responding to text like what it used to be, that's why nobody gets me, a dog barks at eight nineteen and I become more aware of my mortality as I lay down to sleep. Until the night became the day, I sat there with my tooth decay, we never exactly were the type of people to break bread on. I told my dad I needed new experiences every night or I couldn't write, that I like to strike matches, and sometimes they light under houses. Don't make a habit out of breaking mirrors, otherwise it will reflect poorly on you.
Jun 2013 · 1.6k
Hearts Hold Water and Heal
Shashank Virkud Jun 2013
She used to write poetry,
what would make
Morrissey cry?
The one who left
with all his depth,
the holiest ghost
to ever stick
around his bed.

What would you give to me?
French press,
Japanese guitar,

Dominican cigar spark?

Hearts can grow colder
as they try to feel,
try to push it out.

Black haired
Italian marble,
darling,
we are nothing
to nobody now.
May 2013 · 1.1k
I Always Laugh
Shashank Virkud May 2013
Smack, jab! Left, right,
watch out I bite,
process words
too fast,
they move like
flashes through my thoughts,
I don't make them, they don't make me
Don't force them, they don't force me-
I do this for fun;
bash my head into a turtle's skeleton,
pelicans, stay out of the way.
Wish wash kind of washer head,
wolf wild but walker wed,
stupid is as stupid ever gets when
stupid is what stupid said he'd turn
stupid,
what he'd spurn, stupid
pedestrian...
I, always the equestrian
and never stupid (and never wasteful
but always mindful, mind you!), like
to think that I do this for fun.

Believe me,
I do this for fun.
May 2013 · 738
Sort of Sordid
Shashank Virkud May 2013
Savor,

don't waste.

develop taste, rather;

sordid.
May 2013 · 3.2k
Call Your Cardinal
Shashank Virkud May 2013
What I mean by bad is not good.
Trust me, what I mean by bad-it's not good.
Into every discernible instance-
we split them up by seconds-
I fell, serendipitously.
No one had ever made a mistake
so gracefully.

There is a trick to this.



*Steph,
hey Steph,
you better
bear my blunder now.
Steph,
hey Steph,
you better
call your cardinal
because my counts are no show now.
Steph,
hey Steph,
I just heard a ****** story,
hurry, I'm freaking,
I'm seeking you out.

Steph,
hey Steph,
I better
come
pick up
those sunflowers
I left in your bed now.
Apr 2013 · 1.8k
Delirium of the Recluse
Shashank Virkud Apr 2013
Bitten by a spider
at the oddest hour.

His whole body throbbing
with his own pulse.

All his insides are charred
but sleep is not a willing
companion.
The eternal coronation,
death as his champion.

Sweating through a thin veil
of details, begging the question,
begging for recognition,
even the most elegant logic is an ugly thing.

In delirium, he tears his journal apart-
that's how an artist starts.
He is ugly,
he is crude,
he drank some poison
down in Greenwood.

he becomes quite faint
when struck with the
quaint notion:

that even the heavy
handed blacksmith
has finesse, and feeling too.
Apr 2013 · 433
Not Here
Shashank Virkud Apr 2013
Did you really print a bar code on the cover of it?
If that's what you'll do to put a dollar in your pocket
you can have it.
Maybe if you weren't so ugly you could have sold your body as well.
And your soul.
Apr 2013 · 598
Flicker
Shashank Virkud Apr 2013
Remember how you lost it
when you found that poetry in my closet?

I'd put a cool kiss on your ankle,
touch your feet.
You used to cheat on me.

All so long ago,
crushed with common sense,
and again, it's irrelevant.

Misery,
dig deep,
make me happy,
squeeze a smile out of me.

Comin' up on that second wind, babe,
lotta things I'd like to say.
Worthy of conversation,
I know, those reasons
have something to do
with why my face twitches
and why
the light switches of my mind

flicker.
Shashank Virkud Apr 2013
My ****** bandages
cover the wound,
my imaginary band
is playing top of the roof.

Take
my
number,
take
my
victim
card,
victim
scarred,

singing
is
hard.

Standing center,
rage of frost
flooding
through arteries
to fingertips,
icicles dangling
from my ankles,
bass guy from the unnamed
session band cleared his throat,
looked over to the guitar man,
he was looking down.
I was dying with a flower in my hand,
making monuments out of the audience.

To the left of me was an angel
smiling,
drawing ***** on dollar bills,
stuffing them into the pants
of whoever passed by;
some feinted modesty
but most implored,
writhing,
******* themselves
crying "more, more more!"
To the right of me a
cricket heehawed-
involuntary- 
and played a clown;
there were two psychologists,
one ripped off his clothes,
took fighting stance,
beating his chest and howling,
eyes glowing toxic green as his
colleague got on hands
and knees,
held a stethoscope
to the puddle of *****
accumulating beneath him,
brow creased,
listening intently.

And yes, I finished your manuscript,
under duress I guess.
I felt like I'd perfect the phrases
in the only ways that I knew how.

By clenching curses into my teeth,
allowing the howling soul
to disengage and repeat itself,
completing that boundless,
ever restless, and eternal process.

My ****** bandages cover the wounds,
my imaginary band is much

cooler than you.

It's nothing.

It's nothing
that you'd be into.
Mar 2013 · 918
Keep Kitsch Alive
Shashank Virkud Mar 2013
When I was sixteen
I would trade
my allowance
for some feelings
every Friday night.
I'd pull on the strings
and pull on my hair
until I was discordant
and bald and
still in the dark.

I tried hard to see
what they wanted me to see
in country, when it came to metal
I just couldn't feel the steel and
hip hop failed to have
the same effect on me.
When I was a sick teen,
see, that's when I found indie.




What did you think you'd find in the avant-garde?
beautiful, new, perplexing, plexi-glass box
where rock stars go to suffocate
and die
(keep kitsch alive).
Really,
what did you think you'd find in the junk-yard?

Glad I missed the rhythm of those loops.
Mar 2013 · 1.3k
Shut Up, Socrates,
Shashank Virkud Mar 2013
I know
that I know
what I know.

But I also know
there is a lot
that I don't know,

she says to me,
confidently.
Shashank Virkud Feb 2013
Wallowing
in a stagnant,
skeptical world,
you must live.
Run river, run
you are no forest,

you do not stand still,
and you can never go back.
Logic need not follow,
but it always will,
and that is all it can do,
it is all
I can do.

Pleasure seeker,
still mindful of the gods;
Dionysus, Apollo,
Hanuman, Saraswati
in your heart,
never at odds.

Show no humility,
only invincibility,
make yourself cry
twice weekly.

Leave your mouth watering,
leave your mothers wanting more.

What if the cacophony broke the barricades?
Noise, noise, noise, noise, poison!
Gasp as the venom creeps to your brain,
grasp at the hilt of the dagger, dilettante, for all we can see
is that friends are always followed by pain.
Feb 2013 · 1.1k
Mock Me Mocking You
Shashank Virkud Feb 2013
I hardly have my eyes
open while I'm driving
anymore.
I will not swerve,

baby, I swear,
I will serve you.

I need you
at the day's end,
pull back the
pavement for you.

Goin' down

tail end.

Not a statement
concerning you.

*You said you like to make love in the dark 'cause it's a lost art and you told me to calm down, to relax, you told me that it's okay to explain things the same way 'cause being too original used to get you killed, and you fed me jazz and you licked my lips,
you drew two hearts, one on my car, and one on my hip.
Feb 2013 · 1.3k
The Bean, the Brew
Shashank Virkud Feb 2013
Coffee coffee coffee
coffee coffee coffee
coffee coffuck
off *******
*******

*******.
Shashank Virkud Jan 2013
Ideas, our egos;

stroke that genius,

*******.

Because nothing compares to the real thing,

because nothing compares to a brain freeze.
Jan 2013 · 845
Park Place (The Plaza)
Shashank Virkud Jan 2013
Snow, snow
on the tip of her nose
sick of sincere
now spare me some change,

low, low
lo-fi guy,
his is coming at the wrong time,
I'm
all out of line.

Learn, learn
what did you learn?
What did you learn while
burning the truth?

Burn, burn,
what would I do?
What would I do if I wasn't
burning for you?

Snow, snow
on the tip of her nose,
chicken head chokin'
on a piece of advice.
Jan 2013 · 792
Feverish
Shashank Virkud Jan 2013
Not everyone is in.

Not everyone is in
a position
to feel sorry
for their own souls.

I wanna write it tonight.
I wanna write it right now.
I wanna hide from the light,
out of sight right now.


I wanna cry
once I find
the line that fits
for you, you

don't
get most
things that I write,
most things that I like.

After five
hundred sunrises
L.A. has nothing
to say to you.

Went to your house
for dinner last night,
all your
family's frames
were crooked,
girl,

don't make me write
tonight,
I've already
doubled my
entendre
once or twice
in spite of you.
Dec 2012 · 1.2k
Come Down, Rock me
Shashank Virkud Dec 2012
Come down,
come down,
come down from your rain cloud.
You're always rainin' on me
babe.

It isn't practical
up there,
what's the use?
And if you're in the sky
where am I,
save, you gotta save it for me now.

Rock me rock me rock me rock me
Rockaway, rock me to Brighton!,
Coney Island dead give away, hey!
I feel like there is more-
there is more and, and I'm not
fully sure,
not from New York.
everybody moves their body fast

they wanna do this city fast,
rock me rock me rock me,
rock me, you know I'm slow.

Get wise, get wise
rest sore eyes
on petals blue.
The waves
and the flat lands are too high now.
Shashank Virkud Dec 2012
We were both still quite sleepy.
She laid her head in my lap in
fetal position for most of the ride
and I nodded off as the thunder
rumbled, and rocked me to sleep,
my head lolling to one side.
It was miserable out.
The sky was a toxic, smoky gray,
swollen and bruised purple
like rotting flesh, and the rain,
so incessant, berated the windshield
of the cab the whole ride to the theater
and all the while after we had handed
a couple crumpled dollars to the driver
and gotten in the cue.

We had our backstage passes
tucked away into our coats,
we didn't want any of the
regulars to see. She huddled
closer to me to guard her
ashen lips from the needle ******
of the wind, that would bring a tear
to her eye when they scraped against
the tip of her nose. She was thinking,
as she fingered the strap of the shiny,
clean, new camera
she bought to photograph us doing
***** things, the lens
reflecting all of her good intentions,
warm feelings onto me.

As a vendor strode by I snagged
up two cups of coffee, and handed one to her
and then we sank back into the shivering,
shuddering mass. She took a few sips, as I drew
the flame to my cigarette, ducking behind her
and cupping the tip in order to get it lit,
I could see the steam dissipating into the cold,
wet air. She smiled with amusement and
after a few moments looked up and whispered to me
"I want him at his best. I hope he's super depressed."
I said
"Yeah",
as I exhaled the smoke and simultaneously, in one heave,
cleared my throat,
"I hope he ******* hates us."
Shashank Virkud Dec 2012
It would be two thousand and thirteen
it would be a seamless,
dreamless sleep,
I was singing the song with more conviction
than the one who wrote it.
Yeah, you're a believer and I'm
living proof.

From the passive to the partisan
from the advocate to the activist,
oils of mine mix with oils of yours
the spoils of war,
we worship the warship,
now the legion is holin' out
and now the legion has got a hold of you!

There goes the popular children
with their popular wisdom,
music, the solitary thing
flings me around this ****** ring,
where'd you get those lenses you're wearing?
Hey DJ, maestro murdered music today!

That band was brand new,
Brandy gave me a cool tattoo.

Figures, I'm right now.
I figure,
I am right now.
Dec 2012 · 704
Never Necessary
Shashank Virkud Dec 2012
We never say what it is to say, that is, what is the pertinent daring of the day.
And on top of that-
though,

all that which that is on top of is all of the above?

Just that?

I can do...
I can
do...

better than you.
Nov 2012 · 1.6k
Golden Grove
Shashank Virkud Nov 2012
Wooden swing, sandal toes.

Willows.

Swaying.

Sweet
water
running.

A silly, sinking feeling.

Sun saved Boat's neck.

Sun saved Boat from Night,
from shipwreck.

Harbored.

Beached.

Bobbing,
beat of red dawn drum,
tune of tangerine rind tenor.

Wheez.

Sea breeze.

Breathe.

Sugar soap.

Sun drop.

Exfoliate.
Shashank Virkud Oct 2012
She called me




She called me
a little *****

in which five knuckles
and four spaces
were the only faces
that ever turned a light on for me.
Or off, as a matter of fact.

Write it on a flier, or
tie her up in the back of a limousine,
ask her to give you some sugar
and send you to sleep.

Just don't be weird about it.
And seriously,

pay attention,

you just might


burn something.

I think my voice is changing.

I press four fingers into my forehead
and smoke a cigarette like that one writer
I was too cool to ever read. You know,
they treat you like a ******* drug?
A ******* drug!

Past lovers,
and their coat hangars,
I don't wanna talk to 'em,
I don't wanna touch 'em.

But I do;
it's easy to cut into
those veins once you've
found 'em.


*I'm sorry,
so prone
to wasting time,
I love when my head
spins on an axis
all of its own.
Sep 2012 · 1.3k
Pull for Fun
Shashank Virkud Sep 2012
Sangrias on Saturdays,

a better way,

we got sicker,

the stairs spiraled,

quicker than a Winter's day








and a jet plane






is a

dalmatian




in a weird sort of way.




That was stupid



to sa-

vor

one sort of angle

over
another sort
of strangle
hold

would be a mistake,

one of great consequence,

something to wince at.


Keep wincing.


I know.


Red haired,

struttin' down that stage
like the Summer fox,

strummin' that
southern rock,

get me off, get me off!

I'm stuck

in love me mode

so give me

a good


night lullaby

and tuck me in-
at least.

freckle faced teenager, giddy up!
freckle faced teenager, give it up!

I'll be there,

I"ll be the one.

I'll feel hair

and I'll pull for fun.



Snow.


Roses.


Snow and roses,

Fall always forces
and I can never go back to
the cotton my blood was soaking in.

Snow and roses,
Fall always closes
and leaves me wanting.

I can never go back; ****
the rotten fruit our wine was soaking into.
Shashank Virkud Sep 2012
My ears are scarred.

My ears hardly hear anything anymore.
Sep 2012 · 1.8k
No Morse Code
Shashank Virkud Sep 2012
I see you blinking
in the summer sun.
I take you drinking
in the gutter slum.

You sit there
and you read your poems
and you stare where,
you stare where you should just go!

No Morse code! No Morse code!

Gotta find three of these-
three of these that fit...an angel couldn't laugh-
I would laugh! I would laugh!
No Morse code!

I figure the fragments are all black;
I figure the fragments are all

stagnant and all black!

No Morse code! No Morse code!
Ex facto!

I see you blinking
in the summer sun.
I take you drinking
in the gutter slum.

You stare where...
and you stare where...
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