projective geometry used to get me *****
all those positions

,palmately pink and ever green
breathing vasts of void my dark heart laughs in gulping wholes
moaning plenums, hooded over boundless venus-vim

now i'm tired of infinite lines
too many shapes to fit in
too wide, too tight, sharp or empty

,too many ways to come

this was meant to be a disclaimer before a collection of poems

,a way to unclutter
                angst of public  
                              lexicality,
years  after  ­ 'explaining'
                  Samir's 'polygonal me'
                                                to only-me-myself-i-was,
to then indulge this analogic soundlessness...
             
        as i disengage

i can't write without planning on it
i can't write about  writing  without feeling like a fool
                                                            ­                 (,Lear is the only one
that saves me now
                       as now i am the Fool,
                                                 dividing hearts along
in storm-***-love-like railway-*****
                                 steaming full of fiberoptic nooks,
chaining spectra-cogs of a good-will-spirit-****:
                                       concatenated hard-ons every word
each thought a pulsate vulval dream awake,
                                                redichotom­izing lives
                         of shining mons my Athene forehead
                                                      forging fountain thought,
                          urethral letting-beings-be...
freely, my chubby comes back to me
                                         prone before the prostate god)

,in other words
              the same,
                     i cannot write as other than a fool
for
why should i repeat the abject horror of the world?
isn't despair a bit.. overdone at this point?!
and why should i write just the happy!? i'm not in denial, am i?
or am i in denial
about insisting on being in denial absolutely?
--like mind-only schools...
(O the uselessness of words, dismissing patriarchal vigor with yet another wave, the 'brine-milk' ends unending,
forever Femen liberating us of words,
replaced with Fragilaria,
wasting diatomic seas and waterways,
depleted algae gone, extinct: metaphysiCalListo-craticality aborted on a broken Amazonic spear,
our bodies, bodied-hearts, finally won as ours, across Alternaqueeria, fully lucid human-species spanned
i blink my tears and blur my gaze at weeping Pleides

the plan was this: painful poem, pleasure poem, painful poem, happy poem... **** poem, sterile poem, carnal poem, priggish poem, punk poem, open poem, confessing poem, eros poem, **** poem, 'obscene-attractive' poem...
to cleanse inverted mainstreams of my steady-rhythmed pratitpaksha-bhavanams; not "poem, poem, poem, poem..."
but a taut poeming in and out of poems of poemed poiesis prosing poets free to **** again in Issa's snow, or *** on Chiera's cumaholic Shards.

pendulum left, pendulum right; then two pendulums, then none; then one that swings right and left at the same time; then one that spins all the way around, but only clockwise; then one counter-clockwise; then one both clockwise and counterclockwise; then one timeless, then one imaginary one... full of infinite little ones... to represent all the pendulata in the universe as experienced through minor parts of self.. itself as universal part-whole-parcel self-hood spanning star-births yet to come...
,
,
,but it's time to eat a 'square' meal
take off my job-search tie, my peddled lies
                   forget the sunrise vestibules we sipped from,
                                           sleeping by commoding cows

and pretend i'm not dicking myself over
                                                          by­ retreating
into cryptic spectionism-voids again
                                               all seagull-divert-adverts, play
of frozen youth abstrused,
                      self-referred referring loosed
                                          staggered worse than marginalia
no single species 'seagull' singing here

I
do you think you can sleep?
when you see a girl, a little girl
being bombed in her own house
losing her toys
her beloved brother
wake me up
when the war ends
and the suffering go away
I was told, I am too sensitive
you make it too personal
I don't know how does it feel?
What does it look like exactly?
I plagiarize the thoughts, of people being silent
I listen to their thoughts
and heart,
flooded with heaviness
just like how it is mine, sometimes
or should I say most of the times
I'm sick of news
I am sick of the content media plays
again and again
of the pictures, showing young kids losing their lives
even if that little girl sleep
do you think she'll be able to sleep well?
Or will she dream?
our reflection is not shown in the mirror
like that little girl
I can’t dream
nor can i can sleep well
it is true, indeed


II
tell me, when the war ends
or tell me it has
I don't like prosing
but the grief asked me, to write more
even when I know
it makes no difference, as yet
it only makes me more sad
to see my emotions
floating just like a rhythm
it's been a while since I stopped writing
I stopped writing poems
I write in a language which people don't understand
all they say, 'i am too sensitive'
I need 'therapy', i should have come with 'an instruction pamphlet'
to deal with me
as they say, its not easy being with me
so there it is, they left, just like that
without any explanation, without any consolation
but I can't care more of this
since its difficult

III
truth is harder to tell
every year, there's more to lose
and more to let go.
yet, I write
I am compelled to
even though, nobody wants to hear you out
the anguish inside
crackling inside your bones
some days my heart beats very fast
and I can hear it
even then I stay helpless
at the mercy of the people losing so much of themselves
yet, nobody does anything
including myself
it’s a consolation reward
for being a human
in a world
where sympathy is ‘weakness’
this wasn’t me
this isn’t me, I grew up
more and more compassionate
feeling too much, thinking too much.
I cry as often, as most people
would even think of anything
of all the love, and the care
this static visions and imaginary world
hard to watch, the scars and wounds
with so much broken, wretched life’s
and the lies that establishments make
should I stop trusting people
yet I don’t
and I realize
I’m just so full of *******
since the body, I’m in
feels too much
even I’m not directly involved
I can bury my past and I have
to all the people
who didn’t want me to be in their life
as I quietly left

IV
It takes courage to tremble
and be weak
I left the therapy
and the needing thing
all I understand
how not be in a world of ‘how to be
breaking hearts or law
or the promises
they're all same, equally worse
we have to create our own destiny
its louder than war
or violence
and I know, I will
just like that
with each time I feel my heart sinking
I get motivation
to stand up for all the people who can’t
to be a voice of all the million people who can’t speak
even if I feel far away,
know, I am not gone
I am just tired of the feelings that I feel
and it’s the very thing
you will remember me of
this kindness and genuineness
it will be a symbol of my life
maybe, I will sleep well then
or so does that little girl
spreading love and hope
kind of life we led
and not intending to stay back here
where it just feels too much.

i want to prose you on the kitchen table

with my smile melting into your own.

and i want to prose you as colors of the sunset

awash your skin,

preserving our moment in amber.

oh,

and can i prose you in the morning

before we go to work

and sleepiness has

            not quite

fled from our muscles?


i want to prose you while your fingertips

trail from

my cheek

to my hair

to my shoulders,

effortless like water

trickling down the length of me.

i want to prose you

roughly,

            gently,

     quietly,

loudly,

taking our time,

lettings details fill themselves

between the hours.

i want to prose you in the dead of winter,

with the fire crackling like a whispered secret,

and in the slowest molasses days of summer,

when grime and sweat clings to flypaper skin.


i will prose you ‘till we are speechless,

and sleeping tucked between the pages of a masterpiece.

L
  e
T'sD
         oTonight
             hard. we'll finger ginger prematurely. immaturely. and
offended glossy cheeks. the fair legs, forever apart, the night's
begging panting heaving & yes let's
                                                          o­D
                                                         2
                                                       nite
                                       impossibly posing
                                     prosing nosing (it smells red
                               and neon). guns are our bones.
                             sensibly obscure the daft incommensurable
                           s,m'og O' inside the pooch, the slumping curve
                         the curbs and dancing, the jostling snort
                        of brain's panes behind them saying just faces.
                        unchaste faces. a multitudinous saliva teeming
                         young wagging hems lifted with my fingers
                          going under your cotton and right up
                            to your "'yes'" Y
                                                        3
     ­                                                 s!

I think you think
You're being romantic
Poem after poem about her each day
Detailing your complete misery
Since your love as gone away
No more poems about nature
Or society
You don't write about work
Or time that you're free
All you do is wish that girl will see
And come running back to you
Gleefully
But your obsessive prosing about
How much you care
Makes me think this girl is living in
Fear