"wastage" poems
I was the Crown Prince,
Prince Khurram was my name,
Of Emperor Jahangir I was the son,
Shāhjahān was the royal title I took,
Shihāb al-Din Muḥammad Khurram
Was my formal name.
It was I who got the Taj Mahal built.
You criticize it as wastage,
As an old man's obsession,
An egotistical marble effigy,
A mark of wasted resources,
And a psycho's rare ambition,
You may detest it's purpose...
But I built it out of sheer love...
Love for power,
Love for wealth,
Love for health,
Love for ruling,
Love for display,
Love for strategy,
Love for history.
I want to be remembered.
Just as I want my poetry in marble,
Pure white poetry to withstand,
In the tests of time to prove me true.
Forever, you'll remember me.
And my crazy love for my Mumtaz.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 6:59 AM UTC
In the dreary hour of the just-dawn,
your life painted in grim notes,
you are alone with all your Self;
The trees all asleep in grey tones,
lamps that gave light all night,
become pale packets of wastage;
A gust of wind pours in
carrying the songs of birds
singing to the unveiling skies.
A new morning comes rushing
on the waves of the mellow sea
from worlds beyond the horizon:
A day rises, when you drop all
the burdens you long carried
on your life-weary shoulders.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)
<§>
***in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions***
***the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage***
***against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation***
***my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given***
Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
It’s time to take down all the decorations,
They look tatty with no celebrations
to give them purpose,
Bauble’s shine turns to rust,
The tinsel starts wilting
Like flowers left in a vase.
Fragments of sellotape cling to the wrapping paper,
And grab at the walls and window ledges it passes on its way to the fire
Trying to escape death.
At least a kind of death.
Floating up out of the flume to be part of a white Christmas for next year.
A flake of ash that ice molecules wrap themselves around to become a snowflake,
And to think you used to be wrapping paper.
So much tasted of last year,
How much is recyclable?
How much to care about complacence of wastage?
How much should I shed a tear?
How much should I care for carbon footprints and ******* tips?
I don’t want to care at all
It’s too much baggage.
All I want is to fly this year,
I’ll make a kite from the bones of the Christmas tree,
The baubles and tinsel and snow spray stripped,
Now bare of all personality.
Maybe it will fly…
If it doesn’t,
There will always be next year,
Until there isn’t…
…And even when I die someday,
Maybe I will get to be a snowflake.
And I’ll get to fly that way.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
I sometimes I get this feeing as though I was being forced into a meat grinder.
Urged to remove my fat only to spit out chunks of blood and bone instead.
The cracking, clicking snaps of marrow that exudes from it like wastage.
The fat engorging through the tiny weeping holes.
All I can see is the repetitive nature of damage leaking from this abstraction and I feel it in my flesh.
Crawling like tiny bugs, entrapping themselves and eroding their bodies into the hair on my skin.
Uncultivated; I have fallen into the funnel hooked up to the grinder and I feel its body churn me.
It thrusts its cold metal exterior against my lean limbs; ticking.
I try to form a response when all the while this loud heavy machine is echoing against the walls, making my voice utterly meaningless.
Like ground beef I am belched out only to be covered in a plastic film that pushes all the oxygen from it.
I am stuck in this silhouette, shaped as a slab of meat.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
~one more for the r man~
almost Monday
and its weighty five day oppressive lead poisoning on the horizon,
is but a thirsty thirty six minutes away from its fortified Sumter, first shot to be fired at midnight, how we love to mark the commencement of hostilities and killing
but I am already wounded, a casualty of having spent evening with pleading, pleasing timer eating, reading of your work,
r
the sounds of inestimable admiration and infectious jealousy
make this old man eager to discard a lifetimes work and
begin fresh, but only as a copyist of you,
r
I know you’re thinking "what in the hell is he blubbering about?"
so I willingly will my confessional offering in the dark of the
holy bedroom; for you make me eat my words, and
spit them out as wastage, in dumbfounding humility
god you and yours, make me frail and blessed that I stumbled
upon your abbreviations of the human life,
r
shut up and accept my three r’s
reading ‘riting and rising
up to sing hymns of praise
for a man with a historical perspective and
whose few occasionals
are carved in the granite bench
of what makes my life
worthy of load bearing;
more than bearable,
all are soul-enlightened by
baring our humility, our admiration
11:24pm 4/15/18
nyc
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
I think we're going extinct
I hate to even blink
...
I remember when we were in sync
But things changed
We will act strange over change
Being caged and attached by chains is voguish
Are we hopeless?
Why can we polish our pinky rings
But leave rust on our linkage chains?
Our words don't bond anymore
Our words are shackles
Our words are like crooked spurs
And unbalanced saddles
Yeah It travels
But lies are to be told
Only to smear what we really withhold
I think that we're going extinct
I hate to blink
As my eye lids flicker
More and more existence spills from our mankind
Man-kind
We're turning into the kind of men
Who emotionally melts when we see celebrities
Where's our rectitude?
I think we're going extinct
I hate to blink
Where's my natural woman?
Every time I twitch
More and more she accepts the word *****
And in no time a guy can become exposed to her hips
Where's our morality?
Are we going to expire
All because we create our entire empire with desires?
Desires and thirst that require us to hurt
We smile and we smirk
We loath from good work
We poke at nerves
We drown our minds to swerve
We absorb potion
Only to tranquil our motion
We indulge in copulation
With a stranger
But somehow for consolation
...
We are endangered
We are a few more trends away from complete annihilation
Eradication
Liquidation
Obliteration
Cancellation
Our tendencies are cancerous and if we keep being patient
We will need medication
I don't feel any radiation
To not become subject to our decimation
I think we're going extinct
My instincts tell me that
Though we're a percentage and a contributor to this nation
We are approaching ruination
My instinct senses that I am one of the few who mentions devastation
And if I blink one more time
And if we keep wasting time
We'll be wastage
We
You and I
We'll be ejected from the race
And they'll use a prosthetic ethnic affiliation for our replacement
Can we come together with cooperation
Resisting this operation
May we all stand up
Before they go through with this amputation !
Blink
Lets see
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
the things physical we could not live without,
the objets d'art that decorate the tapestry of
the primary bones of our existence
each of us differing,
each of us, a different list,
utilitarian is beauty,
thus our individuation
distinguishing and distinguished
a trash can,
purposed for our wastrel wastage,
and yet, beloved by waves of utilization and
discard
only after much usage, kept nearby as a token of
our appreciation, only to be dumped unceremoniously
when the
memories grow overly fulsome
Why you think I reference the common kitchen garbage?
*No, no! why it is our brain,
that be cleansed nightly,
leaving only the wisps of life aprior,
that reruns in wisps, only sometimes,
for better or for worse*,
recycle-able
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
I have a serious issue
to discuss with all of you
I hope you'll give me
a minute to inform you
there is a lot of leaking
happening at my abode
the cistern on the toilet
had another dripping episode
so did the outside tap
near the main road
for the last week or so
the leaking has got me down
and all I ever do
is wear an elongated frown
I called the plumber
to check my leaks
and he said he couldn't
do the job
for another six weeks
the wastage of water
has me well stressed
and I'd like the leaking
to be smartly addressed
there is a suspicious noise
emanating from the kitchen sink
you guessed it
it's another leak
now I've been pushed
well over the brink
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
all the little children play
in the streets
their grubby little faces
smile with cherubic grace
all the while
little worker ants
dance double time
along invisible threads
and get confused
when a finger spreads
North to East
when they should be
travelling South
How come, little baby
you need something
in your mouth?
Guessing rhymes
is a favourite pastime
to a literary Genius
two stepping
to a pop beat
that should be waltzed
but the grubby children
only see the rain
running fast
down the gutter
Their tiny ships
made from discarded
plastic
are ocean liners
and their inarticulate
shouts
whisper into the ether
dying a harsh death
upon the frost
Scattered bits of flotsam
are piled up high
upon the curb of
no longer relevant
Wastage to the scavengers
but not asked
of the grubby faces
if they grew out of it
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
I took your wrist and had a look, you told me about the unusual art you did,
The use of natural dark red paint flowing down, dripping onto your clothes,
In your eyes I saw your emotions, though they were locked up, tied with a chain and bolted away,
I saw them, and I asked you "Why can't you do a different art?"
You looked right into my eyes with a sad smile and said,
"My dear friend, it's not easy to live. Certain things just make you feel worthless,
and like a bunch of wastage, sometimes, it's better trying to feel something else instead of that,
for words hurt like nothing else does."
I added a texture of cotton on top of your art,
You looked at me silently, and in your eyes, I could see someone hurt and broken, screaming for help,
and at that very moment, I decided, I would never let you be alone,
I took you into my arms, and hugged you tight, making soothing gestures on your back as the silent hug turned into something deeper,
and the sobs racked through your body, but not once did I let go,
and at that very moment, I just knew,
You couldn't turn to anyone, that's the reason you did your unusual art.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
Beauty so terrible,
Pain so exquisite,
Rubies of blood,
Cascades into rivers,
The future is over,
The past is unclear.
Fear so ugly,
Please. Don't come near,
Death is release,
Love is a cage.
Beyond there is nothing,
Behind a stage.
Everything seems useless.
A wastage of life.
Lie down in the dirt.
Empty heart.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
I
We visited that abandoned house.
We shouted our names for nothing.
We ran through streets before nightfall.
We hoped not to become that being.
Yes, ephemeral was our childhood
therefore I tell it with such elegance.
No, it wasn't a wastage
neitheir became an addiction.
Many envied our joviality
as well as our age.
Many planned our future;
always good and bad, never pure.
II
They disappeared with his yearnings.
They kidnapped her dreams.
They burned my memories with a candle.
They marked out our soft skin.
In all those years,
I never imagined which getting old
was a problem to solve.
And, looking back, I see us as insane.
Well, we are grown up now
and childhood must become forgettable.
However, it will never be possible...
Remembering all won't be a delay.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
IV
These fought in any case,
And some believing, pro domo, in any case ..
Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later…
some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some, pro patria, non dulce et non decor..
walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving
**came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.**
Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;
fortitude as never before
frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.
from Hugh Selwyn Mauberley
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Calm down my mind, calm down
Why so wastage of stuffs in your godown ?
Never make it seductive
With garbage of negatives
Clear all the addictive
Filling it with full of positive
Avoid too many guests of thoughts
Entering into your room of privacy
Making it a mess of plots
Too many thoughts, too many deficiency !
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
35,088 feet over Nebraska,
(Nebraska-imagining me climbing a ladder, me upwards, Jacob’s angels coming down, off to a high school All Saints wrestling match in a cornfield town)
a place not on my bucket list, just a blue bias of an eastern stater’s unknowns, a sure sign of how much he doesn’t know
reading Patti’s slender volume “Devotion”
slender like her body, some would call it a wiry woman's
sparse but directed, connective, word-worshipping,
old familiar strangers she delivers to you that you have never met, her phraseology striking me and strikingly beautiful simultaneous
scan it and understanding instantaneous
she asking,
why do we write?
her answers are fine copper wire threaded
into a coil and I close it quick cause the loving ****** desire to
plagiarize such an oddly gorgeous offerings is overwhelming;
I feel the wire words piercing my temple, intending to
emerge out the other side, a decorative symmetry,
I don’t own
my need to script some cursive on my smooth body parts,
on my god-given papyrus, always at the ready,
is a methadone itch, a dulling urge needy for fulfillment,
that needs satisfying but me, soundly second rate,
write like the flip side of a hit vinyl record, no one is expected to play, fulfillment meets futility
thus the title is a modification of a Patti light touch
my alchemy never made any gold and my present presence now over Iowa a reminder that my prescriptions are 1200 evacuations; they are negative commandments,
proscriptions, not prescriptions
do not write, do not wrong words with a middling diffidence,
hide your face and put her words on a shelf above your head
hard to reach, so you do not be tempted
why do we write?
“All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.
The words that will penetrate ******
territory, crack unclaimed
combinations, articulate the infinite.” Patti Smith
disambiguation she relieves us of uncertainty
my combinations over Waterloo, Illinois
are ordinary smokestack gray, a spewing wastage,
the angels conforming that my words Cain-fail,
my confession
meets no one’s standards, not even mine
7:07pm Central Time
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
I maintain silence
I prefer better questions
I sleep I eat
I drink
I *** I ****
you do that too anyways
We could talk better
Some art curating
Or an evolving idea
I wish no wastage of words
no more energy waste
all that is done
All that has been done
Talk is for birth
for new borns
and for infestations
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Janus has a grand auld pair of heads:
One looks backwards on all the **** and grime, on the **** on the limescale, on the mould, on the excrement, on the muck and grit and gunge and gunk, on all that wastage of human time, toiling away, scraping at the rot and the filth and slime, and besmearing the earth afresh, and blessing it.
The other looks forwards on all the **** and grime, on the **** on the limescale, on the mould, on the excrement, on the muck and grit and gunge and gunk, on all that wastage of human time, toiling away, scraping at the rot and the filth and slime, and besmearing the earth afresh, and blessing it.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
I know how it feels
to be tossed aside
I know how it feels
to be a wastage of life
I know how it feels
to be looked down upon
I know how it feels
to be the only fish in the pond
I know how it feels
to be such a burden they bear
I know how it feels
to have feelings that can't be shared
I know how it feels
that ache in your chest
I know how it feels
to be the worst at your best
I know how it feels
to be cast aside, looked over
I know how it feels
as your inner demons grow bolder
I know how it feels
to feel unloved
I know how it feels
to want to go under
But trust me, my dear
it isn't worth it
life will definitely be
worth the wait
I know how it feels
to still be waiting ten years down
I know how it feels
to have that permanent frown
And yes, I'm still waiting
but I still keep hoping
for one day
I'll finally be happy
hopefully
maybe
possibly
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
Handshake claw grip, crustaceans with an overstatement,
Never distressed with a sober sense spent on aimless wastage,
Never become too complacent,
Never butter devil's sodden words on scriptures burned through the ages,
Certain pages curtain stages grace to shattered shambles curdled shameless.
Shiny geodes the traditions on the backhand,
Sages matching matter sets a salamandrine babble balance act,
Skin tight ever-bond clasped reattachment,
Radical bags sag at the mystery of a mattress ,
Routine carry forth enabling of double standards,
Tailored youth to a callous canvassed pander *******
Cat scratch moral compass to the badlands,
The pinnacle of rabid actions in the aftermath,
After that,
A rabbit or a lab rat,
Maze running side effects from the last batch,
No lessons learned just oblivious to brass tax,
Malleable malice in the marrow of the crab man,
Can't stand a phalanx divided by the last laugh,
Middle finger sinner Peter chapters in the chapel of a hashtag,
Shadows in the chiaroscuro flit mongers little gas lamps,
Calypso rhythm stages a symphony of backstabs,
Coup d'etat passive damage scatters gravel slat in sandbags,
No matter shiny medal coiled vertebrae permeate the flashbacks,
Never with a sordid memory retraced to get a plaque stamped.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
You keep it there in the corner of your attic
And thus it remains unfulfilled and useless
It's never been opened; not once touched
Is this wastage to be its ultimate destiny?
Or shall it one day see light and freedom?
Won't you open the box in which it rests?
It wants to bloom and flourish and grow!
It can't be kept inside some box like junk
Release it now, from its dark cube prison
Discover its potential; unleash your soul.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Dyed-in-the-wool commitment, knitted tight
to the reigns of tidy life will forbid dreaming.
Counted as wastage by common-sense sight
dreaming is seen behind myopic screens
and single-track minds believe this, blindly.
Shell off this misunderstanding, take flight
and join the first misty cavalcade to find
life that, only in dreams, can be seen aright.
Intangible clouds will open to notions
on faraway planes,
dress in right attire for chimerical muse
and fly deep ocean's
speedway to inspiring stars where fire
lit with gleads of potent ideas
vibrates inside a luminous heart, stoke
it alight and watch sparks
of melodious lines catch flame then wait.
New states will translate as words write
themselves, this yielding
to fervour for needing more dreaming
means insight appears,
grows stable, will flow and succeed.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
WASTED ALL THESE FEELINGS
WASTED TIME THINKING OF YOU
WASTED THE BUTTERFLIES FLUTTERING
WASTED MY BREATH TALKING
WASTED RAISING MY HOPES
WASTED EVERYTHING
ALL FOR YOU
YOU
WHO I THOUGHT WAS WONDERFUL
you who I think is still wonderful
and no, it wasn't a total wastage
-m.b
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 8:35 AM UTC