The only person that listens to me is my external dialogue
You call it schizophrenia, I call it a duologue
But in reality it's just, it's just that in a group of two
I am my own leader, subject, enemy and compeer
Born out of a fear of being alone, my mind began to sere
And unintentionally planted a voice into each cerebral hemisphere

Part I: The Elegy of the ******

O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar
And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star

All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit
All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit!

Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods;
Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs

We strip our skins to this detestable madness,
From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness

So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols
On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls

And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys
Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins

As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone,
So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone

Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul?
If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll

we’ll start here, turtle.

this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.

the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.

I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.

because it is the one word without a beginning

suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.

we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.

this is the grey cream  
that gives her privacy.

I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term

carpet bombing.  

how is death, here?  in an orange ball of yarn

she is not ahead of?

she has to stop, turtle.

to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.

Part II: The Ode of the Saints

O if hope crumbles, that it turns tears into sand
Thou shalt find His Majesty, stretching out his mighty hand

Let the Great I Am remove, the dirt mixed from thy tears
Unto his glory shall yield thee, till the end of thy years

O in Thy courts, we find, the rest so desperately sought
Bestow Thy vindication that Thou hath lovingly bought

Thou giveth roses without thorns, a bridge without nails
Giving Thy warm breath of life, as death’s sting fails

Now, let us bask in Thy sweet fold of heaven’s light
Thou my highest Word, Thy wisdom that restored my sight

Naught indeed, but the Son’s love, is undeterred to save!
I, ever with thee, and Thy Spirit of Fire I crave!

Grateful we are! Thou living water, the Prince of Peace
Thou hath cometh, so that endless thirst may cease

For once and for all; for us, he was laid
Let us rejoice with glee, for it is free, none paid!

O soloing beautiful soul!
Promise me, to join me
in this solus course of
life.

My rudimental nature
calls out for my jovial
motto to execute the
internal roots of its
belief system.

It is not possible unless
I move on. Although, it has
many phases, but it is still a
pain to carry a greyly heart
with its rosy longingness.

Help me to never look back
again! I wish even if I do,
then let me not get abandoned
by its faith for feeling the peace
of where I am today!

Shivpriya
#beautifulthingsandemotions

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014)

(available on Lulu)

duologue

we’ll start here, turtle.

this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.

the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.

I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.

because it is the one word without a beginning

suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.

we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.

this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.

I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term

carpet bombing.

how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn

she is not ahead of?

she has to stop, turtle.

to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.



isochronal character

the theme of this person-to-be is footprint.  for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected.  I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots.  for a fee one told me I was fleeting.  the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama.  we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember.  the theme of this person-as-is

is mouthpiece.  her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.


impossible beast

the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.