"paraphernalia" poems
**Expectations are the baggage we carry
Getting cumbersome, with each passing day
We always get the unexpected from it
Our back seems to be crumbling under the burden
Weaving a web of expectations, and getting entangled
Unable to ameliorate the obfuscated mind
Reciprocating, with the intention of fulfilling expectations
Our steps become heavily laden, unable to walk
Even though a life beckons without the paraphernalia
We have already walked away from it, with our expectations**
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
There's this burning desire, that's igniting my heart,
It tangles my throat, my stomach and rips himself out.
I call that flame passion, it's probably caged.
From all the venom that surrounds this horrid, ****** place.
I feel like a puppet, with short and tough strings
They want me to do what is right to their means.
All this makes me sick, may I please throw up?
This place was so beautiful, what could have gone wrong?
It isn't that hard, we've all been deceived,
By two hateful men, one who doesn't even belong here.
It's also our fault, we should have seen through
All the paraphernalia those two put up for you.
Now one of them's gone, the other won't die,
And we're left to this mess, with and *** to the ward.
This donkey isn't working, most of us saw it coming
All he's brought are tears, death and more problems.
This desire wants to fight, and overcome this all
We could use a little help so this will blow up.
For now all we have is prayer and love,
Let that desire resist and the light will show up.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Gates climb
News and paraphernalia
Modern communication
Internet on vacation
Today, rural Australia
Goes awol in valleys, hills
As seeking when hiding
Frustration biding
Trees, various pitfalls
An Insufficient population
Say Cannot build towers
Excuses bely hours
Trying, for connection
Work with what's known
Try cavalier solutions
It's the execution
When, creativity shown
First try computer waving
Above head I'm shaking
Signal not taking
Despite, the swaying
Next option lying on floor
Hint of access, fleeting
Patchy greeting
So slow, won't store
Then stand on top of bed
Try to reach high ceiling
Wobbly feeling
Response, still lead
Despite heat, go outside
The temperature violent
Connection silent
If Home far, just beside
Time past, similarly stung
Found access best rate
The paddock gate
Balancing, top rung
Troop to gate hopes keen
As Searing heat, metal
Stand and settle
Tightly, cradle machine
Process long, time lost
A Connection success
Finally access
But who, counts cost?
Eventually, its loaded mail
As Balancing hold keen
Humorous scene
As Sway, in light pale
Internet access by Gates
Not Bill, Steve, Microsoft
Hung steel aloft
So basic, surely debates
Climbing for a signal now
Is the practical response
Sadly ensconced
As Rural, area know how
But surely it must be time
When access essential
Internet critical
Yet today, gates climb
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
The rustic sheet of a door screams as we pull it like a scab
We step inside this warehouse can
Two floors - we're holding hands
His eyes lit like a crescent Moon - excited, he yells "daaad!"
Our head, like swaying swing
We see it all, tongue in cheek
Like controls without the freak
It's so much fun it stings
An asymmetric wasteland
Convenient and distorted
The walls - bleak and boarded
A symbolic sleight of hand
This is where we feel
My father's on the catwalk
Like paranoia paraphernalia
My son's grip tightens, it's the only thing that's real
Absolute felicity
To realize what I have in the confines of my hand
Imperfection in the making - he doesn't understand
Skylarking permissably
A reverie to remember
His smile - sifting through his eyes
Warm, he maneuvers like the flies
He was born in December
Moving closer to my father
He's amidst the in-between
Consistently foreseen
His motion is no bother
He steps along the ply
Somehow keen in his demeanor
Four-years-old, but greener
Tossed and turning - it's the gleaner
The sheet has been disturbed
He's falling to his death
I'm blanketed in sweat
This cannot be deserved
My father's eyes - they match my own
I tear through the distance
Foreseeing and consistent
My father is a witness
The fear - he's fighting falling
We've never known it more
His tiny hands just wishing there were nails
Collective - we're losing all things
I grasp a finger as he falls but not enough to bring him back
My son approaches pavement as it fills my throat the same
I look him in the eyes as they melt away in pain
My body wakes without my mind - hysterically screaming "DAAAD!"
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
Starfish are versatile
Humans are weak
Starfish have such a placid lifestyle
One of which we never speak
They are free to do as they please
Without rhyme or reason
Drifting through the seven seas
Never suffering such ****** treason
What kills us so violently
They survive
Our minds, traitors, stalking silently
They have none; so they thrive
What leaves us so broken
To the starfish is a game
But they don’t end up unbroken
For this they gain their fame
Like a little modern hydra
Of a less vicious sort
Loosing just a little paraphernalia
It’s arms the starfish must abort
A part of it that it that it looses
So that it could be free
All we humans are left with at bruises
Left by insecurity
Every day the starfish stars anew
Free from worry, free from woe
To such luxuries we bid adieu
And so we lead ourselves to the gallows
Yet not for one moment can we regret
Our greatest curse; our most beautiful blessing
We pay to this world a hight debt
A price we pay for all of our guessing
We claim to be free
But it's almost lie
In the harsh reality
We are free to live or die
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
In a world full of more complex emojis
The simple smiley face stands alone
The one that adorned shirts and other paraphernalia long before the iPhone
It conveys a simple message too
Happiness
Something we all want, and need
But in the digital age, it's hard to tell by this colon and apostrophe
When someone is truly happy
After all
It's not our chosen punctuation that conveys how we feel inside
It's our actions
And you can't understand those through the phone
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
One of the most humorous conditions that a creature could burden itself with is a somnambulant desire to be to it’s own liking .
Maxillary extrapolation although a positive political expectorant is likewise a practical partiality .
I prefer to be philanthropically phenological although rational impedance is my histophysiology . My present participle is practical pragmatism and tertiary transcendentalism . Xenoplasticly speaking I feel alone but plausibility is a probationer in reflective self awareness . Atrociously impetuous I proceeded amidst heinously horrendous heckledom . Adequate inflection is a relevant relative to retaliatory regression but I digress . Paraphernalia is a practitioner to plausibility’s cause and should be assimilated through cognizance not perfunctory preferentialism .
Hegelian humanitarianism must supersede political subterfugalism or all may be lost in quagmire .
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Love's misunderstood
By the heart
That’s unable to feel
We give the meanings
So many tags
Yet, love’s above all
We trivialize
And jeopardize
Expectations galore
None that Love wants
Above all our
Laid down rules
It’s akin to freedom
We seem to burden
It with materialistic
Paraphernalia
Love is rustic
Most simple of feelings
Complicated over the ages
Converted to a drama
Scripted by falsity
It’s above those words
Revealing the soul
To a pristine feeling
Thrown into murkiness
Sinister deals
Much effort to malign
Beautiful Love
Let Love be
Away from
Convoluted thoughts
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
I’m old enough to know but
too young to know better
the state says I’m an adult as of May
but I still don’t know what I want to be
when I grow up,
except for still carrying around my Blankie.
Teddy Bear holds up the pipe to my lips
I can’t do it on my own, I’m not so good at this,
he says breathe deep Baby, I’ve got you.
The fuzz on his face is rough when he kisses the top of my head.
Taj and Tibby walk in holding hands
“Baby!” he smiles and leans down to kiss me
“Hey little one” she says and hugs me tight.
Lauren and Luke come out of their room and
give me big smiles.
Everyone is glad I am home and I exhale
grey smoke because I am glad too.
I am the baby, but I am also the best cook.
While I clang pots in the kitchen my man pours
champagne and turns on the new speakers.
Chicken Piccatta for dinner, because when
you feed people, it’s the best way to tell them
you love them.
The flimsy laminate floors are sticky,
the practically cardboard walls are dusty,
the room like a cave is dark even with the blinds cracked open
but Taj makes us laugh and we dance to the music.
Kitchen table cleared of drug paraphernalia
becomes the flimsy garage-sale/side-of-the-road version
of the dinner table I grew up with.
The people crowded onto its edges
a kind of family.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
Complex innards of the female form,
Unrealised by the male definition of the world.
Intensity grabs a hold,
Locking me harshly onto the cracks in-between.
There's no such thing as enough.
More and more till faces are torn.
Slit in two. Sown up. Slit in four. Sown up.
And so on.
There's no needle, skin, key.
All useless paraphernalia.
Inserted into the flesh,
Then poured out at death.
Empower myself with the force of control.
Uncontrolled self-control lost to control of others.
Sunken by unwanted wanting of the sub-conscience.
Never to be fixed or forgotten,
Just left lingering in the abyss,
Eating away at you as you distaste yourself.
Visitations upon our corrected correctors,
Bringing solace for short periods.
Thrown fiercely under the bed to be forgotten again.
Convicted to lives of self-mutilation,
Self-deprivation, self-contemplation.
Hidden behind glistening eyes, just lies.
Stand, sit in ****** lanes peering up at the moon.
Lungs slowly growing blacker, laced with tar.
Hindsight is a curse, ignorance-bliss.
All held inside a shaking fist, shaking unwillingly.
Unwillingly shaking, kicking walls
To knock down, insane with powerless power.
Unhinged, unattached.
Inside, growls to torture.
Outside, smiles to assist.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
The thick formaldehyde air keeps me awake.
Eight hours on fluorescent lights and lemon water
pins me to this stiff, rigor mortis chair.
Her stifled screams a ward away distract me from
counting the ceiling tiles
again.
Clocks ooze down the wall, time melting in sync
with EKGs and IV drips.
and I, alone with my blanket and Harry
turn to ask him how long we’ve been here
why the sky is blue
how much a soda from the cart might cost
if she’ll be okay.
But he just stares blankly with his cold gorilla eyes
omniscient in his eternal silence.
So I hug him closer to my chest, plastic fur
scratching at the soft spot under my chin.
Dad paces back and forth along the linoleum,
crushing grandmother’s pearls between his teeth
like candy mints.
and I, alone with my blanket and Harry
idly wonder what he’ll pack in my lunchbox tomorrow.
It takes me back -
this dilapidated Christmas card from ’99,
tucked neatly away in a drawer
of condoms and last year’s candy corn.
A family photo from OR #12 wasn’t
“appropriate”,
So we chose one from the year before.
Three faces plastered on the blood red backing,
Season’s greetings through gritted teeth.
I throw it back into the box
with other useless paraphernalia
I should have never kept.
Reaching deeper, digging through years
like bare fingers through stale grave dirt,
I find her hospital bracelet.
Twist it between my fingers.
Wrap it tight around my wrist,
breathe in the familiar formaldehyde scent.
and I, alone with my blanket and Harry
idly throw it away.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
You're so dangerous with your profane paraphernalia
Your pelvis postures pandering favor
The line of your stomach embossed by the fire is like a pasture for me
So paranoid with your pacifistic lust
As you proceed to please me with your posture so slightly
And I attempt to pursue oh so politely
You make me perk up like a peacock just with one peak
You're aware of every petty palpitation you can feel just under my sleeve
You play me like a piano, so plush with your lust politics
Pandering for a pardon of my ***** talk poignancy
I part you like Pluto from your orbits serene hum
I'll pleasure you, pleasure you until you're purple like a plum
A pastimes poetises to be written with pleasing lead
You plan every move like a predator in my bed
You're polarizing, plump, and pampered like a pageant doll
Pilfering every plausible pause with a pose of voice, your moan
Seizing the post with your post - modern pompous pouncing
Prompted like Pisces to postulate your prognosis
Lifting your posterior like the pun of a phaliccy
Pillaging me like a pandemic, a plague
Something to be paraded by paganistic plauds
Your pale skin is like playwear for sins
You're pinning me plastered with the play of your grin
Such a pretty motion picture to paint in the prison of your promise
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
on the margin
the paraphernalia
employed to obtain
the sweated inspirations
to tell these lies randomized
stories, factuelle (feminine)
pestle and mortar martyrs,
crushed together, drink in
her form, the S curves
of her shape, my fav
place, on a long list
of favs,
and she says;
hey poetry man!
which renders my
100 or so
senses,
that radiate,
congregate,
infantuate
rendering moi
delightfully attentive,
and I think:
Solitude:
Be All well and good,
wells and veins awaiting
for spelunking & mining for the
nexus of the
next line, but when she summons me,
with a cherished honorific I am
sundered by words deep felt,
and the next line forgotten,
disappeared and
for multiples,of poems,
that
die
heart busted broke
when she call poet, come,
it is like living in a gearbox
Stuck in Fifth,
that message of multiplex pixels,
so engaging and so many container conceptual structures,
those poetic burst and bust out,,
gnawing to be released free,
***** solitude, it’s her
attitude that gives
more than I can
handle…
and the poems are about the conjoining
of
the mutuality of our:
soliciting solitude attitude
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 11:03 AM UTC
I'm not a great man,
But,
I've been here and there, and I've learned a lot.
Like how not to get shot,
And where to buy ***
I've bent every misdemeanor law,
Some would call me a libertarian,
I say democracy is a farce,
Keep your vote, and leave me out of it.
Most of what I know is useless idiosyncratic observation.
For instance,
I know how many days it takes to hide 73 pipes, and other miscellaneous paraphernalia.
My father was raised in the depression,
He refused to let us throw anything out,
And we had a chest of drawers, full of old junk.
Watches without bands, and any piece of scrap paper,
That had free space on it. Last years receipt, dry cleaning tickets, etcetera...
And,
Subsequently,
It rubbed off on me,
And I hate throwing anything out.
I don't buy new stuff, until the old stuff goes bust.
I had a 10 pound Toshiba satellite, for 8 years,
Until the plug jack came loose, and I fried the sucker.
So when my doctor told me I had to quit smoking...
Everything,
I had forty plus years of accumulated paraphernalia.
I gave a pipe, to friends who were interested,
But it wasn't enough.
I hear you saying it now,
"You irresponsible old lunatic!"
And you're right, but I look at it a little different.
You might call it promoting lawlessness,
I say a law that is obsolete should be repealed.
Walk down the street, you'll see the dime bags,
and blunt wrappers everywhere.
No need to promote something that will happen anyway.
Teens will smoke, so I hid a bunch near high schools.
Up at Rutgers, I hid one in ten different buildings,
A few outside of the police station, and the courthouse,
And one in the bushes of my snobby neighbor.
Any place I could think of, I hid a pipe.
Rebellion be ****** I did it because I felt good,
Like a simple **********
A stolen cherry, in the supermarket.
Sowhatsthepoint?
Crime isn't cool kiddies,
But, as long as you steer clear of felonious activity,
They won't send you to real **** ****** jail.
Even your grandma, probably jaywalks from time to time.
Oh if you stumble on one of my pipe hiding spots,
Don't touch it until your old enough.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
the vastness of an empty soul
demystifies the Grand Canyon
and shrinks the universe
to microscopic molecules
barely able to manipulate energy
matter that doesn’t matter
madder than a hare in March
balance skewed
undue pressure
seasonal disfunction disorder
ordering medication
naturalization
seeking citizenship
in an isolation township
serving only self-pity
to the self-destructive –
squatting, gargoyle
surveyor on the job
soaking in the loathing
basking in the glow
caused by the discontent of others
opioid android locked in the void
unemployed
laughing at misery
in mercy centers
meticulously mimicking the miscreants
impersonating pain
seeking to blend –
ostracized miser in designer jeans
obscene in drag queen regalia
“whiskers from under his pancake make-up”
wake-up Godiva, locate the paraphernalia
mammalian musculature
hide the heart of a snake
as she slithers across the floor
searching for the perfect surfactant
….her scaly skin itches, uncomfortably
tearing my lip skin
in the din
of her poorly lit closet –
together in terror, the admission seems worth the cost
lost in the sweet melody
of sobbing children
and clattering dishes
shattered visions
misgivings
estrangement entangled with commitment
obligations
oblivion and orange peals
appealing to a higher power
unanswered questions hover inconsequential
adding to the ozone depletion
and altered climate
owning blame
for all the world and her problems
I sit with shoulders slumped –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
If you stare out of a window
Across a bleak garden some September morning
If the neem tree in the garden reminds you of home
Vast, old, timeless
If you remember playing under a neem tree in Allahabad
And you can almost hear the laughter of children as they play
In the heat of a sultry afternoon in June
And because the window is small and barred and cannot open
Because you want to breathe freedom
Because you want to shower without them watching
Because you silently swallow your screams
Because your mind is starting to get fuzzy
Because your tongue is starting to slur
Because you have started drooling
Because your fingers shake when you write
Because the words Ritalin Prozac Depakote Lithium
Have started sounding like poetry
Because you feel your resistance slowly dying
Because you start to say the words they want to hear
Because you know the glazed look in the eyes of others
Is in your eyes too
Because this confluence of muscle and bone is wasting
Because you sleep for hours
Because you now smile at your doctors
Because you scream when the ECT paraphernalia is wheeled in
Because no one cares
Because once you’re labeled, you will be forever
Because asylums were once freak shows
Because asylum is not what it means
You go back to staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Staring
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
State of union
as we're unified, we're lateral
parallel,
paraphernalia in our religions
to add to this televised broadcast
forecasting short cuts and short comings
Sure—
I'm running out of excuses tongue-loosened painfully,
but who thought,
the chief that is,
invited everyone to our ghost dance
they stand and applaud,
Me at the helm of our podium
they **** and they gawk,
you at my breast plate
the air I drink is futile I cough,
But Is it kosher?
Nova Scotian landscapes supplementing dinner,
The candles on your dessert,
reminds me of our fire,
We once had, We flicker,
Once singular now plural -- yes adulting made us thorough,
through the rigours,
I feel different
YOU'RE TRIGGERED,
them posts traumatic symptoms I remind you of
frequently,
I listen
I sin again, I sin again
Differently,
You take me back,
Religiously,
And say,
meditation is key,
Khalad would be proud
emotionally I'm wolverine --
Untouchable,
But that was yesterday and I'm trynna say,
Sorry
I'm trynna be unguarded
as a point guard off the inbound,
Pointing to your tilted crown — Adjust it to your coils
Flag a waiter down,
Beef is not what I wanted
nor pleasant to your palette
major key — take the salmon
Overall I think we're better now,
I asked my mom about you
and my aunt about your culture
What you really need is closure
Instead of asking for permission,
settled for forgiveness,
you sweep your pride away in the name
the victim,
Treat me like I treated you
Treat me like you're bullet proof,
Treat me like those systematic flaws --
Unforgivable
You left me?
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 8:50 AM UTC
I'll find you your answers in the bottoms of your cocktail glasses
The solution to whatever keeps you up all night,
I know the poison that plagues you, you know mine.
I know your words are locked behind jail cell toothy smiles and smokey eyes, I know you don't remember I exist when you're not ******* me.
"Get me drunk",
you say.
As if I'm your favourite bad influence. You love priya pressure like I'm a guilty pleasure...
Like I'll teach you how to stray from pruned paths
and get your hands and knees *****
and how to get stains out of cotton dresses
Like I'll teach you how to **** yourself slowly
Like I'll teach you to be the person your mother prayed you would never be
Because you think you like *** drugs and gold toothed gangsters, you think you'll want to stick with me.
I know this isn't who you really want to be.
I know this isn't who we are.
Our hands may reach for each other or others or paraphernalia or liquid lovers,
but both know we're reaching for some thing further.
Out of reach and out of our time.
Out of the circle that came from a line.
Out of the room when you're out of your mind,
out
out
I need out
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Another night like so
many others.
A night made up
of the dope laced hours
that slowly made up a life.
A black cat laid curled in
a tight ball on a worn wine stained carpet.
The fluorescent light of the Atrium softly
lit the otherwise darkened room.
Quiet except for
the hum of the refrigerator and the tiny waterfall
that trickled away inside the Atrium.
There was music playing,so low it was as if it was
something that came from a dream.
Two lost souls took their places at either side
of the counter top and dove deep into
their demons.
Both quietly concentrated on their potions.
The tiled counter top was littered with
paraphernalia,empty beer bottles,ashtrays
that needed to be emptied,
lighters, burnt spoons,tin foil and empty plastic baggies.
One chased the dragon,
while the other desperately searched the crook
of his arm for a vessel.
There wasn't too much conversation.
There was only one goal here.
And it didn't involve
words.
The silence was broken when one lost soul
said to the other,
"I don't dream anymore".
The one with the harpoon in hand said.
"You have to sleep"
The dragon slayer replied as he exhaled yet another
slayed beast.
"When I sleep its like I die".
The Archer said as he pressed the point
up against a blue black dying vein.
The black cat stood and stretched as a siren passed outside.
Another dragon was slain as the siren faded
into the night.
The one with the point drew blood and smiled.
The slayer chased another dragon,then looked
over as the black cat climbed to the open window
and out into the welcoming night.
"Then that's the dream"
the dragon slayer said then smiled a smile
that only a poppies blood can produce.
The harpoon handler looked up and grinned,
then found his target and continued on with
his quest for the warmth.
He smiled to himself as he pushed on
the stopper and once again
played with death.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
An alien desire takes over
Never felt before
New awareness of existence
When I obliterate the visible
Fortify the mind from distractions
So many structures
Creating an ugly landscape
Obfuscating the horizon
Take control of the imagination
To expunge the unnecessary
Extravagant paraphernalia
Overt exhibition of the trivial
Making a jest of this rich life
Veer away from the mindless journey
Let the alien desire take over
None but you can salvage yourself
From the onslaught of false conformations
Nothing of this will last
Take refuge in the truth of nothingness
Be aware of new existence
In perfect ecstasy and coherence
With the harmonious waves of universe
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
It’s that awkward time between 5 and 6 pm where his eyes are the colour of mocha brown stained novel pages and finger tips callused and crinkled with years of practicing and gripping too tight on a black biro pen.
He turns the corner of the street and we make a narrow escape to the highway where careful mothers have their children strapped to seats wailing with voices so shrill yet so untouched and pure..
And I turn and I look out the window and plaster on a sad look like I’ve been copy pasted out of a sad music video about boys and breakups and lost loves, reminiscent of the paraphernalia of stories and soaps and television shows my mother used to watch.
Slowly I turn and I feel a tap on my shoulder blades and he asks me if I’m ok but secretly I’m wishing and hoping that there’s more to life than this god forsaken city but I still say I’m fine anyway.
"The city looks really nice this time of day" he says and I just don’t see it because everything around me is illuminated in fake fluorescence and wired in with the hands of a man who’s just lost his wife and swears his depression is just a phase.
"Squint and you’ll see it" he insists but I can’t because the world is in monochrome and the concrete of the buildings are the tombstones of chivalry and manners, filled to the brim with office workers hunched over stacks of papers and lists.
He turns left at the third intersection and laughs at a man squabbling drunk cursing the world on the side of the road and I hope he doesn't know that it was what I'd do if he let me grab the bottle of Jack from the trunk.
"Goodnight and godspeed," he laughs and I say **** off" in exchange for a hug and so another day passes in the presence of car windows and rolling cityscapes.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC