Cut so many
out of my life,
but what’s the point
in a one-picture collage?
No matter what you do
Your past will always haunt you
How hard you run
How long you hide
Past will always find you
Tear you from the inside
Present the world in the collage
Of what you really are
And in the end
All you can do
Either embrace your past
Or curse yourself
the ruthless memories that never goes away....
It's best on the carpet
kneeling over clippings
vogue magazines and
******* from some early year
I cut them up and paste them
sense of control
tall cotton socks
shapes in shapes
any way I like it
for imaginary boats
capture a memory
in a scene you can hold
make your own
what could be better than that?
there's a letter I wrote you with no address
in a box beneath my bed
and this isn't a metaphor for the time I spent waiting for you
there's scattered words in my head
playing like a broken record
a collage of tired clichés
holding just enough truth to echo the memories of you
there's nails on my fingers bitten to the brim for every time your name's been in my mouth
and I've tried to wash it down
but something about the wiring in my brain
has fooled me into believing my excess of love
will make up for your lack there of
A genie working on a 9 to 5
Faces telling him to stay alive
Oh no, no!
It is the freakiest show
Their devils sleeping under their bed
But they've got him on house arrest
Are we so eager to try?
Don't mistake me for misunderstanding that you had it bad
Just like your dress this predicament is just a fad
Hey, little gender-******
Watch for return to sender
Make sure you're by the coast
That's where they'll love you the most
No time for entitlement
Your words are sentient
Trade a board for a pen
We don't need no citizen
I got a secret
I want you to spread it
Play them anything
Show us something
A kid jumped off of the rooftops
To make his way safely to the candy shop
Do people notice a house?
The wise fool begged in the biggest square
They put him in the alley and they listened there
Did they do the "paper-bend"?
Don't mistake me for misunderstanding that you had it all
This crass crusade will surely stop at the nearest shopping mall
Here comes the space heater
With a 9 millimetre
People say he's colour blind
Who's court, his or mine?
The joke from the chieftain
Is that he's a Bohemian
Who you are is never born
Gotta start out forlorn
I got a secret
I want you to spread it
Dance in the streets
Trust your heartbeat
If you are deaf, well, we all feel what we've gotta say
I used to write with words
Embodying my individual emotions
In splotches of paint
I write with phrases
Stringing words together to paint a picture
No longer simply splatter paint
But a collage
Green night in the middle of the day…
Fire rising to ****** the moon,
Uncle Sam’s praying in my room
And the 8-ball will not say
Why a woman holds a gun
To her husband’s sleeping head;
Does she play or just wish him dead?
An armadillo’s included for fun.
Uncle Sam’s lost his hat in the fire
Maybe that’s why he’s praying.
Not for the country he should be saving
While we are conquered by liars.
I’ve tried to make sense of this before:
Masked fiddlers strum in the conflagration,
Dead books, butterflies and chimps run the nation,
…there is luggage on the floor.
Should I run from the scene,
Or stay and try to fight?
I can’t read my books in the deepening night
And there’s a skull waiting just to scream.
The man sleeps on with a gun at his head
And I see another skull by his side.
It must be a sign saying: “run and hide”.
But why can’t I do it?
There’s no way to get through it,
But I must wake up and fight or I’m dead.
June 1, 2006
This is from a popular group's album cover, reminding me of one of those Dadaistic nightmares you have during a fever...or the state of the nation just before The Crash.
I make them part
in a misused heart
I hang my canvas high
over your head
a painting of a life
not yet led
I place my hand on your anthology
I dissect your words in an attempted autopsy
Inside I find lovers that speak like mourners
my thoughts bleed and accumulate in your corners
I press myself against your notebook
escape others estranged look
And fill your pages with my red
until you're happy and well fed
our bodies are an assembly
our only vessels, bruised and trembly
my armadas of paper boats
may slip through the cracks
to fill us both up
with all that lacks
here is Taj.
singing in temple
Dancing day night,
but a collage.
Ajay Amitabh Suman
All Rights Reserved