but I am a just an absurd poet
who writes about your love
from the first time it bloomed
when your light filled my room
to the moment my words bleed
when you stepped my heart with your feet

tin can man, lend me a hand
if you weren't just a porter, you wouldn't be so bland.
run through the barley, hands to the sky
pin it to the sailor but don't tell me why.

the butcher of Ealing looks on you in dismay
but what do you care? he's just a protoplasmic eel.
spineless of spirit, haughty by hope, not a real man
and not fit for Pope.

see how they laugh at the man in the cloud
in his ivory tower, he sits tall and proud.
he gives you not choice, but a strict code of conduct
but please don't adhere to his naive social construct.

in the end, it's not decisions that make us
but the way we stay warm.
nevermind, it wasn't meant to be old barber
keep the coat and the old Greek tale.

There is an other, there, in the mirror. Memory space. A body without a head.
There is movement. Abstract thought.
A girl moves her lips. Air brushes against your own, but it is foreign. The staccato of her breath moulds waves of language. Indivisible meaning that slips your grasp.
Traffic stills. Fumes rise from cracked pavement. A child sleeps under a rusting skyline. A mother overdoses.
It is Autumn. Cold snatches another eight, or eighty. Cells rearrange, and a man finds himself changed. He holds a knife to your throat. You laugh until he cries.
The train comes late. You walk around the block to **** time. You find you no longer recognise the buildings surrounding you.
There is misery in your reflection, but it is just the other looking back and smiling.

I drink until I forget my name but recall yours
I delete your contact but memorize your number
I hate myself because loving you was easier
I deny your love and you deny mine
I cry because you said "this is the last time"
and smile because you said that countless times

What am I in search of?
I don’t know.
This insomniac was in quest
Of an answer or maybe
An asylum for my lunacy,
I walked aimlessly,
I searched down the tracks-
Of the water that fell from my eyes,
They didn't answer.
What is it?

I got wish threads and stood frozen
Tangled what to wish for and
Walked back with an empty heart,
A confused mind and a lost sensibility.
I don’t know what I want from life,
I know I’m in quest of something-
Which I cannot name.
What is it?

There is no place in the world
There is no air to inhale
I’m living, I’m counting, and I’m waiting
But I don’t know for what this living-
Counting and waiting is for.
What is it?

Temple bells, Qwaali and Candle lights
Made no meaning, they killed me
‘They’ told me I will find solutions but,
What is it?

What am I in search of?
What is it?

He was the ‘revealer of light’
Oracles he read, forecasted future,
Time moved, rustic life stood still
"Look back and see, there is change."
There’s no trial left
The deity acquired the ****** body.
Predictions are vague, he cried in pain
And he danced to his unshakable faith.
The God revealed!
The divine and man in a union of its own,
Patrons wept and asked for blessings.
Serpent’s crown over God’s head-
Shone in the dark light, his golden breast
And pointed teeth, sharp as arrows-
Pierced the patrons, they collapsed in devotion.
The dead hero arose with Godliness
He is God, his blood is divine.
There is change, there is change!
The drums arose and it stroke bold,
Patrons cried in religious zeal
The God plunged himself into the bonfire
He reincarnated.
Born again to die again! Born again to die again!
There is no change! There is no change!

She’ll wander back to you again,
but drawn by the string
of ineffable instinct—kissing the sand
of your beaches still damp
by the routine of her departure.
Yet as she recedes,
you already ache her homecoming
as though longing for an estranged relative.

You count the years
by the bitterest point
of every winter, and
value your harvests
against the cruelty of the drought—
and even when she rearranges herself
nightly, by increments you’ve already calculated
by meticulous observation,
somehow good fortune owes you eternity,
even as it crumbles under the weight
of its own impermanence.

You’ve never dealt well with entropy;
all that came before you, which also happens
to survive you—an honorary god.
Stranded on earth,
you monitor your greying scalp as grimly
as you decry a darkening sky above you succumbing
to the certainty of winter, but
even she is ebbing, too.
You curse her departure like an abandoned child,
but she had never sinned against you—
that was your idea.

You mourn the day she repossesses
with mortal anguish,
yet you still find a way to forgive her
when she sends Dawn
to shine his light between the trees.

The benefit
of challenging anything
too comfortably established
isn’t so much
some clichéd grand expansion
of one’s worldview, but rather
a well-warranted reminder
that anyone claiming to have found
any conclusions is very likely
full of ****.

I love you dearly, humanity, but
you discover the world
like a toddler discovers his own foot,
and cling
to obsolete sensibilities
like trying to justify your belief in Santa Claus.

And you hate what you find
when you look too long,
because
you say that you discover the world
but what you so stupidly, so humanly
overlook is that the world bears herself
with no inhibitions, and even though
you can’t see everything immediately,
it’s all there; she has
nothing to prove to you. Yet the mystery
you so excruciatingly choose to maintain
is that even though the earth bares her skin
unashamed, you find her ****** absurd and
clothe her blatant body
in preconception, tragically dedicating
the decoding of your existence
to finding out
what truly lies beneath.

So perhaps, humanity, you should
embrace those who **** you off,
because you cushion your soul
with every reason to distance yourself
from any realization
that there is no inherent parallel
between every finite question
and the eternal answer,
unsatisfied with
the tantalizing ellipsis
the universe leaves you, and that the very fact
I even formed a sentence
is punctuated
by my mortality.