Can i add just one dash of color
to your all black wardrobe
your black and white photography
your dark poetry
your cup of coffee
Can I be the colorful imperfection
in your perfect dark world

In the world outside I was a rich man’s son
Behind these bars I am still a rich man’s son
My crime is more serious
But my lawyers more expensive

My food comes from home
My bed sheets are fresher
My loo stinks lesser
Because my **** smells sweeter

What I miss is who I could have got
with a little more patience with a little more love
But what I miss is myself
I will never be the same because I have killed a man.

I see you
you see others

I am an address
not on your list

I, silent
you, short on attention

I, understated elegance
you seek the crumpled and crumbled

I, content
you, bored

I, ever present
but for you always a blind spot

I stand here at the doors of a strange land
Being bid farewell by the parting band
Behind me the bridge burnt by me
I seek the keys to my destiny

I look at the rubble called past
Ahead apprehension and opportunities are cast
Failure, hurt and envy are pitted
Against the edifice I hope to build

Hey, God is missing.
God, who ?
Perhaps he is disgusted, he has left.
Of what ? To where ?
This country, this planet, this galaxy.
He lived here, is it ?
Perhaps he is ill.
May greater immortals bless him.
The temples are empty, a few razed.
But it’s still business out there.
His middlemen have lost touch.
But they are still raking in their commission
Perhaps they have killed him.
Must be turning in his grave then.
No, No perhaps he is moving incognito.
As if he would be recognized anyway.
Perhaps he is watching us from a distance.
People believe they are.
Perhaps he is sick of being used.
That’s OK. Our living Gods complain too when they die.
Perhaps he’ll come back one day to save mankind.
Why take the trouble ?
Our ruler has fled, like the creator having lost control over it’s procreations.
Every ruler needs subjects. This one became the subjects object.
But he’ll return one day.
Till then stay where no man can corrupt thee..

Good Times
they seldom last
but take care of themselves

Bad times
they often last
unless you take care of them yourself

for many of us
love arrives unannounced
and one day
you acknowledge and recognise it
then it keeps changing
its shape, size, color, sound and smell
and you ask,
what’s wrong with you, hope you are well
and it answers
“Yes, but I hope you are doing well.”

She wears no mask
She wears no make up
You look into her eyes
You get what you see

Life emerged in the mountains in a trickle
many barriers to buckle
united with good friends we were going,
somewhere I guess.
I moved with them, not to be left alone.
The unlucky ones remained behind
to die a premature death
Through rocks and boulders
we made our way,
we had begun scaling our ambition,
translated in our rendition.
I broke off and emptied myself into the ocean first
watching others come behind
in varying degrees of enervation.
I am now trapped in this ocean of doom
with many others I scarcely know.
Does life always need an ending ? I ask the mountains.
Hey take me back, I want to start all over again.
The mountain doesn’t respond

Relationship FICKLE mistress
Kept convenience, all consuming

Relationship FLEETING clouds
Dry, wry, thunderstorm

Relationship FRAGILE china
Chipped, pickled with emotions

Relationship FRIGID spouse
One with one self, one that stays

Restless to know
if she would reciprocate,
for tomorrow I can’t wait.
A smile, a suggestive glance, even a blush
will keep me going
in this city of mush.

Officious night ,
obstacle to day
slumber away to make way.

I don't know if you are one for me
I don't know if I am the one for you
But this time I feel so right
So I will just go with the flow

Marry me..
err...marry me?
err..will you marry me?
I pop the question
as I look into her eyes
in that dark room lit only by the billboard backlight outside
She puts the table lamp on and looks at me
These few seconds are agonising
as I look at her face lit by the lamp.
Yes?
No?
Need time?
None of the above?

Are you sure?
It asks,  
so you can change your mind.
Yes, I say, frustrated, exasperated
and watch it move into the recycle bin.
Scripts, prose, ditties and lines
rejected, superfluous or just don’t seem fine
Thoughts, idioms, metaphors in disharmony
chucked into the gunny
to be dumped to clear space
or to be recycled as part of another dream.

They wrote me off
so I wrote myself in