Yesterday’s Bones

Yesterday’s Bones

I was stumbling on bricks of bass and synth,
Before I realized that I myself, was sound
A little tone in a symphony magnificent,
Of whose end, or beginning, I’ve never known

I was afraid of lizards, and the rat’s shadow,
As I raced up the stairs, the dark stairs at night
Afraid to make the walk to the nearest cooler,
Afraid that someone dead, was sitting on my couch

I was letting curiosity get in the deeper,
Into the lower chasms that were unguarded
It’s taken me places where space becomes jelly,
Places were time became a real intimidating man

I’m no child, not another innocent darling in astral mode,
I’m no explorer whose out to save the world
To bring psychological tales of tuned magic,
To every pot-smoker tipsy in wonderland

I’ve sold not much after my fears,
Wandered too bravely into my nights
I’ve kept every feeling safe and untouched,
Burning in imprisonment in my veins and marrow

Yesterday is bones, the bones of tragedy,
As yesterday is dead, and the people it made
Tomorrow’s a dream that was dead before conceived,
And now is a perception of reality’s graveyard

She left me her lips, and some of her thighs,
Bits and pieces dangling in my right brain
The many shades on her eyes that gracefully danced,
Are now colors forgotten to rum and time

Companionship burned like a flame in those years,
Each eyelid, each dent that gently livened her lips
Every detail, from the scent of her insides,
To the smell of her hair, caressed my senses

Sensations create the reality of contact,
Each movement in the temples of feeling within me
Every vision defining the boulevards of human drama,
Is from a sight, a little fragrance, a very subtle touch

Without a sense, there is no world
Without taste, no world that appreciates lips
Without eyes, no colors to tickle us at bright noon
Without ears, no song to dance our minds to madness

The world is a world of sensation,
And we in it not as sensors, but senses
We are the senses of the universe,
Its apertures through which to know delight

Those days are gone, those monsoons of knowing
When we lived like gods on our wet balconies
With rum, kisses, laughter, and elation,
Those days of lightness and fractal visions

The rain trickles down forever,
And every word is watered down to emptiness
The monsoon will end, and our dreams will perish,
And the clinking of time will find its solace

Image is the property of,
Georgie Pauwels – Flickr

Advertisements

Fingerprints

Fingerprints

We were delighting in ourselves,
In our little feats of poetry,
Romance, and love
While the world burned,
In error, confusion, and hatred
We delighted in acid and booze,
In rolling joints at midnight that worried us less
And now, we’re left with nothing,
But memories,
That tell us too little,
Of who we are,
Of who we’ve become,
Of who we’ve never wanted to be

You cannot reach heaven through your senses,
But you can smoke a cigarette on your balcony,
And remember,
That you are a man, a woman, a thing only for a moment
Or you can remember, that you are god
And this whole playground,
Was your doing

You can sell your envy to the woman who crosses you,
The people who put your many hearts to the dirt
You can beg and plead for kindness,
From the women who treat your passions with much too little twinkle
There is much cruelty in the world,
And you can’t say all of it
Familiarity breeds not contempt, but idiocy
It breeds judgment and blindness
Familiarity kills every spark within that makes us human
It clouds our stars and distorts the light,
That reminds us of divinity
Only strangers can dance in sunshine,
And make love with no care for tomorrow

Our hearts hurt to help us remember,
That our efforts at perfection are departures from love
So much for that word love,
I feel decapitated when I use it
What can words give us but simple dreams of sand?
What can my promises of love teach you?
Words only bring cotton softness to your tears,
Words only help you feel things that do not exist
We are little feathers on the cusp of a very great fire,
And all the tenderness that breeds our magic,
Will burn away to faceless ashes

Every poem leaves me only disheartened,
At how far I’ve fallen
From helping this world learn to kiss
Every poem leaves me empty in a new place,
Pondering over how I’ve failed
To bring myself to look into your eyes
You might never know me again, and I, you,
We might never meet again like we did,
Those many years ago, playing in the sand
But as the memory slowly fades into the several nights of aged rum,
I will forget you, for what you were
And maybe see you again as a new child, a woman,
Perhaps a new dream, or a cloud on a trippy morning

We are fingerprints on the glassware of temporal abstraction,
And we give ourselves much suffering,
In our ability to remember the moments,
That were never made to last

Nothing for You

Nothing for You

We mostly write about the things we’ve never seen,
About endless romances,
That delight in wine loaded with magic,
Kisses in moonlight that are subtle,
Yet revealing of ourselves,
In the most dramatic manner
We write about the things we’ve always wanted,
About things we hardly remember,
About the moments that never really happened
I guess I could say,
Life is an endless lie,
Tuned into a charming aspiration,
For the mystic, for the heroic, for the magical, for the eternal

We mostly write about the things that we wished,
Would make us ache
But don’t
About the people we wish we had around us,
And the things we wish they’d do
About the places we perhaps, visited once, or twice
The places that made our hearts irk restlessly,
For groove, for magic, for spontaneity in sunshine
About the women we thought we met,
About their kisses that seemed to last forever
But are now gone, disappeared into aching memories

We mostly write about things we never have to worry about,
That’s the thing about poetry
The thing about it that makes us weep for it,
The freedom it gives us
Making us fools at the cost of our own elation,
It’s a price worth paying
The thing about poetry, that makes us erect,
For words, magical words, words drenched in winely drunkenness
For words that mean nothing, and yet everything
The thing about poetry,
Is it is alive, and meaningless, yet, alive
That’s the thing about most things that we see through our days

It’s no poem if you’ve thought much about it,
Given it too much of your mind,
Bits of your heart chewed out painfully,
Too much of your memories
It is no poem if you’ve given it all of that
A real poem delights in nothing,
And takes form through the fingers of men,
Without any single entity creating it
It’s no poem if you say it’s your poem,
And if you do,
It’s just another letter of lies from the sorrows of your dreams

Bad poetry comes from great men,
And only bad poetry can resurrect you from your routined misery

We mostly write about the things that elude us,
The men that delude us
We mostly write about things we cannot understand,
Selling our confused afternoons on busy office floors,
To bearded men with messages on YouTube
To vegan memes and postcard dreams on Facebook
Selling our lives to the cheap imagery,
Of the uncast universe
Selling our dreams to the colors of the netted chasm,
That these folk call the internet

It’s all about bad poetry, that’s going to take saving you

I’m up for all sort of chatter and whisky,
For nonsensical things
Nothing in the world stands to be important
Every man wants his toys,
And when he has the words to bring his dreams to reason
He sells his greed in the market,
As a vital need of the planet
Nothing in the world stands to be important,
Not you, not me, not the people you love
Everything passes and everything dreams,
Sweet dust on the endless beaches of time
You are sweet, and you are me,
And we love to no reason, but catastrophe

Nothing in the world stands to be important
Drink to our disastrous end,
To a dreary retelling of this mad tale,
That we’ve so often called life
Drink to it my friend,
The monsoon lasts not much longer,
And my words will take a different turn
From doom probably to some false sense of ecstasy,
And then you’d be reading joy from my heart
Some sense of fake happiness,
As the stars it’s them who tell my tale
As they dance my organic being through seasons

The stars it’s them who tell all tales,
Through all seasons
And at the end of all seasons,
It is them who draws you back,
As dust, gleaming dust
Through dark space,
Drawing you back to where you came from,
Drawing you back to where you’ve never been
Re-spawning you as some other mad dream
You are fire, you are ice,
You are stardust

But when you decide that your dance has had enough wine,
You settle for the night,
And get busy,
With reality

Good night star gazer,
I’ll kiss you at morn,
On the other side

Move

Move

Enlightenment or that sort of thing is an explosion that cannot be experienced by an ‘I’. You cannot think about it. You cannot conceptualize it. It’s no-thing, to speak of it is to avoid it. Now go, live.

A sudden energy today,
It’s difficult to wonder much about it
It came from nowhere,
And now,
The music seems so powerful

From the cemetery of my everyday existence,
I’m resurrected by the sensation,
Of the fan rotating on my ceiling
And the vibrations that move my ears,
To another place, a strange place
A place where I know no one
If there are people here

There is nothing here but the dance of ecstasy,
The energy rips apart the past
All of the past lies in shards on the sandy ground
The ground is made of time
And I balance on it

Little me, over, finished
Lost to the memory of a distant star
Little me, destroyed, done with,
The end is here
Where is the whiskey?

You cannot document life,
Science does that, or at least it tries
It tries to document the movement of life,
And stack it up into a cupboard, for reference
That’s why science always loses,
You cannot capture a movement,
Especially when you are that movement

Dreams, dreams, they’re all just dreams,
Ramble on,
Till life leaves your eyes,
Till the stench of the whisky leaves your lips
Don’t let me be your average drunkard,
I am no man,
I am the spirit of the wind

Little me, over, finished,
It’s new now
Space, time, these things they told us about
Look around, I see none of it anywhere
There is only, the movement,
And you are it

Ramble on, there is no salvation for our kind,
Humanity, a great dream in the mind of a distant star
All our worries and mentations,
All folly in the river of movement
It’s all movement, you go with it, or you die
There is no ‘I’ in this movement,
You go with it, or you die

Wipe the redness of last night’s wine,
Take it off the lips of your soul
You’re still in yesterday’s ice-cream sensation,
Still licking chocolate of your memories
Still tasting the sweet delights of your first lay
It’s all over; throw your memories away,
You cannot live with memories, you cannot both cherish,
The dreams of yesteryear that kicked your senses around,
And want life to take a path that is different

You will be finished,
Death is inevitable,
Come kiss me one last time in the sunshine
And bid me no goodbyes,
We will meet again,
On a faraway star,
In a galaxy,
That is yet to be born
Move.

Coming Alive

Coming Alive

It’s quite a strange thing how the entire work culture of our society has been set up. I find it extraordinarily baffling to see how people consider waking up at morning, gulping a few cups of coffee, having some toast for breakfast and racing away mindlessly to a job, an entirely normal habit to foster.

I’m a hypocrite, I’ve been doing the same thing for almost a year now.

Our society is attuned to the concept of productivity, too much in tune with it. There are thousands of books out there that talk about this thing called ‘productivity.’ There are folks who believe things like time management, balanced recreation, and a sharp mind are important to develop and maintain. A load of bull cock.

I’ve never believed that men were born for a reason. I’ve never believed that there is a higher purpose to our existence and the rest of that bull cock either. I might’ve when I was a bit younger but now all of it seems just strange.

I’ve contemplated over and over about the meaning of life, about higher purposes, about staying a materialistic cunt who just sees off these days with good pleasures till he hits the soil, but everything is so conceptualized in our society that we never really experience anything as much as we think about it. I cannot help but deem this entire catastrophe of human systemization as a blasphemous hoax.

It’s very difficult to portray what someone feels inside. Words help a bit, but they never come even within the shadow of the real thing. Some people have the ability to carve out fantastic phrases that seem to make astounding sense, but those phrases are never really telling the real thing. I’ve  never believed in structuring out my writing, so you’ve got to make do with what I’ve got here. I might be rambling from different perspectives of my own brain, you might come across two or three people here. There are about a hundred persons that my brain represents, so you might find me staggering from one perspective to another like I’ve had too much whiskey, but hell, I’m too lazy to make an effort to structure out what I write.

I write because it’s delightful, there’s absolutely no other rhyme to it. It just makes me feel delighted.

I’m at work right now. It’s a tiny cubicle. It’s pretty good this place, I’ve enjoyed the company of my colleagues for quite a while now. However, there’s always been this constant irking in me that keeps luring me to feel like I’m only half alive. Sitting before a screen 9 hours a day, I think I’ve had too much YouTube. YouTube will fuck you up, you’ve got to be careful with the internet.

I’m not a priest. I’m alive. The internet sometimes can make a pretty disastrous abstraction of the real thing, let’s call the real thing ‘life’. There’s so much content floating around on this platform that a man can forget to live and settle for dream stuff. The internet is the greatest symbolization of reality history has ever seen, and most men these days live only within these symbols. They’re pretty much ‘code zombies’, I think I’d like to call them that. Code Zombies. They’re nothing close to original. They stink of internet puke. Everything they know or have ever known is content that’s been derived from this sort of stuff. It’s only tragic to see that the human organism, such a fantastic original system, budding with intelligence, is reduced to such a hypocritical self-defending repetitive mechanism. People are machines, or they’ve become machines.

A day will come when I will have no more words for you, but it’s not anytime soon.

Monsoon

Monsoon

The whole edifice, is structured to be a pitfall
I see these endless towers of corporate glamour
Stinking of lofty ambition clouded with humorless,
Lifeless memories of deluded human perfection

So many rainbows, built with words,
Cover the true sky of exactitude
Nothing is real about being human,
Your words, your dreams, your lies, your love
Nothing is real
Every little precious thought of yours,
That you shelter and protect,
In your mindless defense,
Using emotion, feeling, foolish romance,
Using dead words of dead men who told us,
The world is a marvelous place
None of that is going to save you
Turn to the bottle if you’ve got a spirit,
For that sort of thing
The rum will save and show you a closer path,
To the sky,
Than church or work or school or college

I will teach lies to the children of the Earth,
I will be the heretic that you’ve missed for this long
I will be the demon that saves this universe,
From God

See you’re too foolish to see what’s beneath the letters,
You’re a man of letters, a man great, intelligent, renowned
But you’re a fool,
And everything you know,
Is the fodder of yesterday’s philosophers

We can know nothing,
Sell your dreams to the street of sorrow
Let them go beg for new minds,
To torment and bring to absolution

I take delight in the rambles of the wind,
I take delight in all things

You cannot see it yet,
That what you expect of your brother,
Is what you’ve always expected of yourself
I’ll tell you no lies, give you no dreams,
Just a cup of coffee and a cigarette
Sit with me and help me write,
The Earth’s final symphony
A symphony that never had a beginning,
That shall have no end

The years have seen so many well-clad fools,
Fucking every delight they see,
Making good men swallow the cum of their dream-shagging
So many people, coming to control,
And you, the sheep that made this world
Take it on your faces,
Blind, lost in your own dreams,
Blinded by the stench of your elders’ worry

You must delight in all things my friend,
Hatred, murder, death,
Glee, ecstasy, wanton materialism
Delight in everything,
For it is both, the blackness of the terrible demon,
And the light of wise men’s eyes,
That make all men, human, all, human

The world you know is a human world
The animal, the plant, the block of ice,
It’s all too human
You cut and you cut the sky into a million pieces,
Call this piece space, that piece star,
This bit planet, and that black hole
Your cutting leads you to abstraction

Give me your soul, I’ll show you the simple.
No love, no charity, none of that other cock
I’ll show you life,
And you’ll be left with nothing but dancing
In goodness, badness, whatever,
You’ll see things for what they are

Don’t let folks shag on your face in the light of your fears
Don’t take the world much too seriously
It’s a wonder game,
Play it well
Let the things you love be made sacred,
Not what your fathers loved
This is your world,
You don’t own it,
But you create it

Forget the stars that make the fireworks at night,
Lose your heart to the music of silence
In the intervals between social noise,
God or whatever that thing is,
Speaks
And if you listen once,
You’ll be gone, forgotten,
I do not know,
The shape things take after that,
After that real thing, the listening miracle

You want to hear a love song don’t you?
There is no such thing as love,
Or at least what you know it to be
I know what you crave for,
Love or pleasure or whatever you call it
There is no way to find it,
The only method to the madness of humanity,
Is to open your eyes,
And stop trying,
And start seeing

I’m no prophet who brings peace to your distraught heart,
Hell, I’m no real man at all
I’m just a whisper in monsoon’s endless weeping,
And I visit you, for no reason at all
Perhaps, maybe to dance,
Or give you a kiss
Come delight in me,
I’ll tell you no lies
I’ll give you no dreams