POEM

This body of letters and rhyme
Does an act of a mime
Every fragment and symbol
smells like whiffs of alcohol

The spaces between the words
Create meaning in our world
All solid diphthongs in a line
Gives credit to our wasted time

To compress a thought is tough
Like one can’t produce a puff
in a single chance to blow
like my poem- so hard to let go…

FACADE

Hiding behind this mask
is the face of guilt and repentance
the eyes like innocent stars in a tearless
gloom of blanket, waiting, waiting to be
cut by your jagged weapon-
that weapon where I will rest my blood
as it is tainted with pure and sour tang of sin
ready to be kissed by my thin and pale lips,
as its skin slowly peels off.

Yes! The night and its singing lullaby
gently puts me into trance
loosing every inch of connection as it
touches my very soul-
my being.

The mask and the night-
both worlds meet branching the meaning
of hiding behind…

Objet d’ Art

What a chance to witness my syllables falling
Like loosened leaves of a tree
Lonely pieces drizzling
spotting the canvas like tea
My Thoughts oh they’re laughing
like morons, so dear of insanity…

What a chance to discover my craft vanishing
Like silent whispers of a baby
So melodious and disheartening
Tainted blush of an art, oh so crappy
These chances 1,2, 3… counting
With my eyes, frail and misty…

What a chance to unveil such kind of Art
Deviant and Unbecoming
Like my numb and bleeding heart
Pounding, Beating, Throbbing
How I would like to conceal some parts
Of my lonely and sweet remembering,

my thoughts in the clouds
floating, dreaming…

Words

Words are haunted
Like a hungry wolf under a starless night

Words are seeking
Like a traveler lost in a paradise

Words are fragile
Like a newly born infant

Words are briliant
Like precious stones of pearls and diamonds

Words are whispers
of syllables and cadence

Words give birth to Life
Like Air

Words are Ideals
Like Love and Friendship

Words are transcendental
Like Longinus’s Sublime

Words are soothsayers
deceitful and feign
Words are like these stupid-
cuts and alphabets-

Endless.

Pain

Scissors cutting umbilical cord

A shrieking cry beneath

the translucent window-

5 fingers waving.

Tied

 

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

It dawned hazy and wet

I hid beneath the coconut leaf-

I flashed a smile and anticipated the Rain,

I sat ∆pside dφwn- waitin’,

Feeling a bit bored.

… continue reading this entry.

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show

Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row  

Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;

Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told,

Or stair, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,

And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while.

Thou joy’st in better marks, of soil, of air,

Of wood, of water: therein thou art fair.

Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport;

Thy Mount, to which the dryads do resort,

Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made

Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade;

That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met.

There in the writhed bark are cut the names

Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames.

And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke

The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady’s oak.

Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,  

That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer

When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends.

The lower land, that to the river bends,

Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed;

The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. … continue reading this entry.