"drugged" poems
First comes the flush
Then the rush of horniness
loneliness
A splash of pain
Droplets of scarlet rain
and the ****** of lingerie
Sobbing at roses
Yelling at trays
You're spotty
and bloated
and splayed on the bed like Cleopatra
drugged up on
painkillers
And the cocktail that humanity spiked with hormones
Fun.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
15.4k
Society has us all drugged on the idea, that if we have money, we have happiness.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
Before all of this, even after all of this, I will forever be a patriot.
Before the poet in me matured and I started talking like a parrot,
The dogs of war barked and I climbed exile's fence on my own
And there I have dwelled, with nothing tangible to bring me down.
I have been on this fence so long and I will remain there forever!
Especially since the premature child is still in the incubator.
From this vantage point, I have learned never to trust any politician
I've always looked at them with mistrust, disdain, and suspicion,
Before all of this and before I ran and climbed the exile fence,
I was once mercilessly flogged, dragged and made to dance
By drugged up and coerced child soldiers with a rubber cable
They tied and spread me like a dog on the market table
I watched as innocent people were killed with a rusty knife
There, I vowed to become a fence dweller for the rest of my life!
I've been a patriot all my life but I have done it from here..safer.
From here I have seen blood spilled, hearts broken, hopes dashed,
progresses stalled, mullions embezzled, promises broken, lies told
people changed, games played, party surfed, interests prioritized.
And from this vantage point, I have learned never ever to trust any politician
I have always been right...though I have looked on with disdain, suspicion,
and operated with caution but through it all, I have remained a true patriot and a fence dweller.
.✍️©️✍️IvanBrooksPoetry.✍️©️✍️
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
I'm a good girl gone bad
I've slipped up and lost track
Got caught up in the wrong crowd
Went the wrong way
Fell short more than once
I'm surprised I got to see another day
I'm a good girl gone bad
I decided to spread my legs too quick 17 & pregnant, I thought I was grown
My body was my own
Sipping coconut *** & milk
That night I became a drunk bandit
I was sure I could handle it
Until he drugged me and I couldn't remember a thing
All I know is I had bruises on my thighs
The police dismissed the case
They called me easy
Said they weren't surprised
I got high on speed
Fooled around the wrong way
I accidentally overdosed
& if my brother hadn't walked in just in time
I wouldn't be here today
I'm a good girl gone bad
Ive lost track of the guys I've had
Lost count of the names they call me
Can't recall the last time I had a friend
I'm a good girl gone bad
I was tired of the rules
I wanted to live my life
Didn't want anyone telling me what to do
I didn't think it would be like this
Why didn't anyone warn me?
I didn't know bad girls get this much heat
I just wanted to try it out
But these fates weren't ones I thought I'd meet
A good girl gone bad?
Nah I'm good
Good girl gone bad gone good
Is more like it...
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
Senses explode, WWII,
Nuclear warfare on this expanse of bare
Skin supposed to be closed at my age separates,
I let the saltwater seep into this,
Slick. Time passes, hardly passing,
But, oh, how well we move. Dance
Around our icy fire, escape from the pain
Constantly eating, feeding.
We are a buffet of things to harm
Come for another plate, fate.
Do us more harm? No. We will not stand, we can't
When we are in this state of mind. We have no state of mind,
Lust driven creatures, but we can speak. Command, tell me what
You want. You want a simple thing, but so complex.
And I want it, too, but simpler for me. A simple thing, unless thought of.
Believed in, felt deeply in ways not physical.
Arching and deepening, we will not be broken down by a measly
War outside of our windows.
Fire scorching the wooden figures, but we are sheltered by stone.
We have escaped and we are left with a heavy air and the smell
Only we can concoct. Nonexistent fabric leaving traces on my skin and yours, indent.
And your eyes are all I see, even in the dark. I know their color by heart, greenbluegrey-everchanging. But I can figure it out.
Your pupils dilate you know. You look at me and I see them. You seem drugged, dear.
Let me feed your addiction. There are many nuclear weapons left, buried
Throughout the world. We can travel and love,
Never ending.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
Is it acceptable to **** anyone and everyone you want,
Be mysteriously exposed in your photographs,
Act carelessly with people and friends drunk and drugged and dicked out of your mind,
Forget the hurtful and blissful past for a reputation,
Exist in a way the girl you were never thought you could be the girl you are,
Because you’re in your 20s?
You remind me of the characters Greta Gerwig plays in some of her films,
But not Gerwig herself,
Although you do look an awful like her Hispanic version if there was one;
I guess that’s you.
I bet when I was placing the edge of the razorblade against my wrist,
You were getting penetrated and plowed by a **** between the legs.
Your innocence was smothered by your lust and
Our history got erased by your fears and flaws.
I just wanted you,
But then again, everyone already had you,
And it was not my fault;
It was your choice.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Letter, letter born to return to sender--
extra-marital, maritime, marine, mercy, mercy mine--
two drinks in; four from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
.38 special, sexless, spiteful, spitting, spitting rites--
three drinks in; three from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
double-decker, drugged, dangerous, daggers, daggers dried--
four drinks in; two from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
clusterfucked, fancy-free, foreign, fine, fine unwind,
five drinks in; one from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
ether cloud, Evelyn, earthware, everyday, everyday signs--
six drinks in; on the carpeted floor,
letter, letter born to return to sender,
whitewashed, weakly, wounded, wishing, wishing for home.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:24 AM UTC
I am a man
of no flag
no God
and no party
but this offers me
certain freedoms
like freedom from offense
and freedom to offend
I've always found the most
"offensive" jokes to be the funniest
like a sacred cow butcher
and if you are offended easily
this might not be the poem for you
that being said
here we go
Did you hear the one
about the last pope
who actually did any good?
yeah me neither
What did the pilot say
when the Muslim man
walked on his plane?
"This is flight 216
we may have a potential
security risk on the plane."
America: Land of the free
home of the brave?
where a vast majority
of the population
are wage slave cowards
and don't get me started on England
a hot nest of xenophobia and racism
which almost makes me glad
to not live there anymore
and it doesn't matter
if you are a democrat
or a republican
because either way
you are wrong, and dumb
did you hear the one about
the anti-gay republican in the gay bar?
He took the most drugged up man he could find
for some fun in the bathroom stall
because the chances are tomorrow
he won't remember enough to break the story
I live in the sacred cow slaughter house
(you can't spell slaughter without laughter)
and the only food that really satisfies me anymore
is USDA prime choice sacred cow beef
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless
then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus
please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen
Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all
i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre
i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Shouldn't one be punished enough by living through the dead?
Shouldn't one be punished enough by never again sleeping in their own bed
One should be punished, not freed
Shouldn't one be punished already by inhaling the jail air and exhaling their sins?
Shouldn't one be punished already by taking away everything they need?
One should be punished not freed
And shouldn't they suffer from what they've done?
Shouldn't they live every day wishing they had somewhere to run?
One should be punished not freed
But killing the monster is quick
You see, the things the monster did were sick
But the monster only did what you're doing
It's different the monster killed for that and this,
We're killing for our justice
Justice means to have peace, and genuine respect for people not death because it's easy
But an innocent man was killed on the street because someone was too drugged he didn't even know the difference from grass and concrete
So lock him up and leave him to suffer
Show him pain and teach him to be tougher
Let him think in silence, let it hit him at once,
let the pain that he caused affect who he was
Why give him the chance to change what he's done?
Why give someone who's gone mad only a hit and run?
Because everyone deserves a chance to change
We're the monster's by killing the mistakes that make them strange
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
I'm not a writer trying to share a story,
I'm a survivor telling you a true story.
I'm not just a poet having fun and living,
I saw bad things when I was younger.
That was when things were harder.
when women and old people were helpless and young people were hopeless.
It was that time when good parents were powerless to protect their underage girls from **** and molestation at the hands of drugged-up child soldiers with bloodshot eyes.
I did something other boys were too scared to do,
I turned into a man
and took survival into my hands.
It was that time when men and women used the same place to bathe and go to the loo.
I saw many many hungry people
eating palm cabbage and wild grasses
malnourished children and dying people.
I saw hands chopped off with cutlasses.
I saw thousands of families separated
and fathers killed or incarcerated.
I saw silly young men pick up arms
and chopped off people's limbs
like hideous things were their aims.
I saw really bad things
and cried to God for wings
like an angel to fly away
because I saw no other way.
I saw people running to God
and getting murdered in his church.
I don't know, but he didn't say a word
It's like He just sat down and watch?
I saw bad things
I planned my escape from poverty,
from a war-torn country.
It was that time when your parents, who come from the same generation as I, were looking up to their mom's for breast milk.
It was that time when no one wore silk,
it was a time of fear,it was wartime.
It was that time when bullets determined eating time and bedtime.
It was that time when pretty boys had nothing in their wallets.
It was that time when PYJ ate dinner
and played gospel on his guitar like he was our savior and not a sinner.
© IvanBrooksPoetry
12/9/2018
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
loud sounds of sobs
filled the li'l kid's room
as he looked at the sky
filled with stars and the moon
the li'l kid was crying
coz he missed his mother
let alone those thoughts
never had he seen his father
memories of his mother
again did ignight
coz the memories were the only thing
to hug him tight
now that he was adopted
he still felt glum
he regretted his sixth birthday
when he had lost his mum
he missed his mother
again did he start to weep
he was only eleven
when he drugged himself to sleep
a harsh blow of wind
knocked open the window
a white rose had fallen in
by the sudden wind's blow
he held the rose delicately
and stared at it in awe
it reminded him of his mother
beautiful and without a flaw
he drifted to sleep
along with the white rose
innocently thinking
it pursed his mother's soul
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
food tubes or road ****
is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
and store front dummies
monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain
and a ****
impaling her
the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like cascading echo's
my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m
a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
c u n t z o o
i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac
gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e
*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me
cuckoo spit
k o cuck k o k o o
twizzles willie milk
in a drowning
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac
wrapped in tentacles of night
she turns me on
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
"Ahhh I scream, what is wrong with you?"
"Don't run around I didn't raise you like that!"
"Have these pills!"
**** you, why are you not like the normal kids..."*
"Am I really that weird?"
"Drugged beyond recognition"
"Head as heavy as the weight of himalaya"
"Drowned in medication"
"Always nice too meet you, I am James"
"Do they accept the true me?"
"I am fine. How are you doing?"
"Don't show them. Do drugs"
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
slept and soaked
the sabbath Saturday away.
the body, achey breaky,
cranked and croaked,
slewed by a slew of common miscreants.
one, a stitch in my side,
feeling like someone's inside,
wanting to be born, feet first,
coming out the side of my chest,
instead of my ******
so,
promised poems and bills to pay,
put aside for a more poetic bill paying day.
awoke once near midday,
an unusual wake up call,
my nostrils do attend,
when the honey odors of
cinnamon and vanilla invade
the french shores of my subconscious.
I love three things French:
the elegance of their language grande,
their frenchified fries and frenchified toast.
was fed some french toast,
bathed in vanilla and cinnamon,
thus drugged,
went back to bed again.
as I drifted off for the third time today,
heard the woman dramatic say:
"must have, must have,"
two words that I from my past,
consider a curse,
a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife,
her way of saying I didn't measure up.
*must have
paprika
to roast your chicken
for Sunday dinner.*
relieved beyond measure,
as I to dreamless sleep dispatched,
vague recall a poem forming about the
spices in my life.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
Just stick it in
Pull it out
Blow your load
Gag her mouth.
Bound and fist it,
Cut zip-tied wrist then,
Bathe her in warm blood bathwater.
Watch her bleed out as an oozing cow mother.
This is how we do it.
This is how we **** ****
Boiled **** and ***** nitrates,
Bonging buttchug, grease infesting.
This is how we ****
This our mental state.
Disgusting epoch,
The party *** phenomenon.
Drunk girls, drugged *******
Pearl necklace confection, gourmands,
in stitches
Plagued with itches,
Stemming from ****** abuse.
This is why I ****
This is how I crutch.
******* on the inside.
******* on the inside.
******* on the inside.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
I've never felt so much anger before towards anyone.
Have you ever looked someone in the eye and have them tell you that you should've kept the child that was planted in you by a stranger who drugged and ****** you?
Have you wiped the tears of a woman in despair because she was ***** and told she wasn't allowed to get an abortion?
Have you curled up in a ball, trying to figure out who to tell about your personal experience of ****** assault and ****
Tell me, person who says abortion is a sin and that it is relative to the holocaust, will my ****** support me?
Will my ****** pay for doctors visits?
Will my ****** pay the medicals bills for giving birth?
Will my ****** pay child support?
**** no and don't tell me that I should always save the child.
Excuse me if I don't want to carry my rapist's child inside of me.
My body. My choice.
MY BODY. MY CHOICE.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 8:17 PM UTC
Kiss me with poison
That poison we call love
Poison each other's purity
Like two dying doves
We'll hit it off with all this poison
Drugged up till we hit the next town
And when we both decide it's over
That poison will bring both of us down.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
'Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regain
consciousness until the next morning. I was horrified to
discover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was inconsolable,
and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt.'
-Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor
Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day,
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Slums, years, have buried you. I would not dare
Console you if I could. What can be said,
Except that suffering is exact, but where
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
For you would hardly care
That you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair
To burst into fulfillment's desolate attic.
3.9k
Zombie Zombie
Can't you see?
What those pills
Have done to me?
Do you know?
Does it show?
Who I am
You do not know.
I am you.
Remember when
You laughed and Sang?
When sounds of poetry
Did ring?
Forever in your mind?
Zombie put away your drool
Find a mind
To be your tool.
Get a grip and GO!
Zombie Zombie
Where's your art?
Remember when
You worked so hard?
To make sure it was good?
Zombie Zombie
In your haze
Please wake from your
drugged out daze,
I'm waiting here
For you.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
All I wanted was a cigarette.
We weren't allowed to smoke.
He knew where to go.
We swept sidewalks together.
Raked sand together.
Talked about life together.
His window was across from mine.
I think he saw me changing once.
Maybe more than once.
He was getting dishonorably discharged.
I didn't think he was a good man.
I didn't think he was a bad one, either.
It had been two weeks since I landed in Monterey.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He knew where to go.
I bought the Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He carried them with him to his room.
I didn't think anything of it.
We raked sand together.
We ate lunch together.
We watched movies together.
We sat on a makeshift bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
We drank and smoked and laughed.
I taught him Farsi and he taught me Russian.
Russian for "hello" and "goodbye."
Russian for "This is allowed."
Russian for "This is not allowed."
I think he saw me changing once.
He tried to kiss me on the cheek.
I told him no, my boyfriend wouldn't like that very much.
We smoked some more.
We drank some more.
We laughed some more.
It was 2130.
I had to be in my room by 2200.
He said not to worry, I'd be back in time.
I insisted and tried to leave.
I fell to the ground.
He didn't help me up.
I only wanted a cigarette.
He kissed me on the mouth.
I did not kiss him back.
I was immobile.
Paralyzed.
Drugged?
He kissed me again.
And again.
And again.
I did not kiss him back.
I had a boyfriend.
All I wanted was to smoke and drink and laugh.
He grabbed me by the ankles.
Pulled me over the ditch behind the army barracks by the installation fence.
I could hear soldiers coming back to their rooms.
I was paralyzed.
I always thought I would fight.
Fend him off with car keys stuffed between my fingers.
I looked up at the tree branches above me, my watch said 2147.
That was the last time I prayed to God.
There were leaves in my hair and dirt on my arms.
There was something less than a man between my legs.
It looked at me with hate in its eyes.
We swept sidewalks together.
God kicked back and swigged a PBR
while I was ***** behind the army barracks,
over the ditch by the installation fence.
He helped me up.
I couldn't stand on my own.
How sweet.
I vomited by a tree.
I was disgusted with myself and him and God.
I wanted to drown in Southern Comfort and bottom shelf gin.
He walked me to my barracks building.
How sweet.
I made it to my room by 2200.
All the girls watched me stumble down the hallway.
I was so violently alone.
Taps wailed outside the window.
I left my hat by the bench by the ditch by the installation fence.
He brought it to me the next morning.
How sweet.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
I’ve seen genius so fixed on itself
as to be monkeys, squealing
wicked-itchy
watching a record whirl
in the same drugged circle
33 and a 1/3—circa 1969
This—their eternal brilliant conclusion
their e=mc2
This—their Final Solution
their inner-spring
Their convoluted complexity
as the hands of their clocks
fly off, striking me in the face
Alas!
—the equation that would solve
the mystery of whistling “Dixie”
that would feed the dogs
and “seize the day”!
This penetrated groove
This—track, eternally diminishing
toward a point on a label
at which two ***** intersect
and then...
...cease to be....
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC