People in the Summer

People in the Summer

As I walk in sunshine,
And watch the many faces of an unnamed god,
Walk through these impertinent streets,
Filled with rapturous slang,
Scents of olive oil and melting steak
I turn around and remember,
The faces of those older summers,
In another place, another time, another age almost,
Faces I cared too less to value,
To kiss in my dreams and cherish over expensive scotch
I think of those faces,
And how each one of them,
Told a different story, a different drama,
An epic. Each one, waiting to be explored,
And yet I walked over those faces,
Trampled over them in the arrogance of my delight,
Soaked in the easy scents of mystique and reader’s delirium

The summer is young, the long summer,
And I lie in delight watching these figures pass me by
One side of me, swimming in endless ambitious dream,
The other in questions, scrabbling words and dabbling numbers
Two sides me, clashing beneath the August sunshine,
Battling for decision, for clarity in the middle of sinusoidal transparency

We ache to love, ache to know the insides of each other,
To look into each other’s eyes and know what makes us tick
You see, real compassion hides in vulgarity
In the deepest of intimacy, that each pair of living eyes,
Craves for.
But hey, we’re too lukewarm,
Too in diplomatic agreement with cowardice,
Settling for cheap handshakes,
And heartless salutations,
Greetings that never touch any soul,
Hellos and goodbyes that smell like socks;
Empty people, cruel people,
Funny? Well, who wouldn’t think so?

We need to touch more, look inside more,
To feel the heat that drives each other,
To sink ourselves in the passions of our neighbors,
To share in their delights, writhe in their pain,
We need indulgence to cure this comfortable world.
There’s no finding of that in our halls that demand courtesy,
In our homes that expect grooming and manners
No, we need wildness in our temples,
Of staplers, printers, and telephone harlotry
In our little rooms filled with the foul fragrances of formality
We need wildness, darling,
And we need it everywhere

People in the summer,
Our lives are longer than we have deemed them to be
Happier and blessed with more depth,
Than we choose to imagine
If you leave your eyes to rest in the ice,
You will never find the sun
You will leave your heartbeat to its cowardly convenience,
Your dreams in the hands of paltry soothsayers
And your eternal life in the claws of mortality

But you won’t let that happen, will you?

Tricks and Tale

Tricks and Tale

The absolute delights in life I find, simply do not come from our endless pursuit of perfection. Our ideas of joy are nothing but fading phantoms in an atmosphere that is defined by tuned righteousness and a pretentious sense of clarity. While we cloud our desire for clarity with the desire for wealth, stability, and companionship, we fail to understand that all these things that we so sincerely seek are never going to give us what we truly desire. In the presence of the power of words, the opportunity to create favorable lies and decorated hypotheses of ideal living is endless. Words have led us into deeper and deeper abysses from which we seem to find no return unless we decide to break from our daily norms and kneel in humility before the elusive facades that our lives have become. It is an unfortunate weakness of a writer to personalize his experience through his or her words but perhaps, I hope, personalization might bring a taste of my dilemma to you. You must remember that I am not sparing even an ounce of my attention to care for my words so that they might mean something to you.

We travel the world, entering new spaces and allowing the sting of new scents to touch the sensitive points of our spirit every moment of our lives. The amount of resistance to reality that we face is endless because our minds have decided to find comfort in the coziness of our past, in the warmth of the memories of our parents, and in the sweet smiles of our oldest friends. If you see deeply enough, it is these things that define us. The definition of ourselves is subtler than our focused minds can comprehend. However, in the deepest realm of understanding, all definitions are void. I fear that the closer I get to touching the real experience that I am trying to communicate to you, the more ambiguous I might sound and the more annoying I might seem to you. But then, it is the playful trickery of life to rocket us far from meaning and cast us into perpetual states of confoundedness and endless moments of absolute agony and horrendous unknowing. It is, the nature of our very lives.

When I tumble into agony as I embrace the long nights that come knocking at the doorstep of my drunkenness, I feel helpless and compelled to allow myself to fall into discontinuity. There is a great grace in allowing discontinuity into your life. When you allow moments to exist independent of each other and leave the cursed science of cause and effect to rot in the glory of your thoughtless existence, life seems simpler than we comprehend it to be. There is a great desire in me to allow moments to be discontinuous with each other. But in the light of my conditioned self, there is a great craving to create continuity. To find connections between moments and create fantastic stories drenched in emotional meaning, scientific progression, and philosophic mysticism. It’s a great deal of bullshit. And it’s good. Sometimes.

Depth, Yellow Skirt, and Other Things

Depth, Yellow Skirt, and Other Things

Sea and sky,
As the winter tame them.
All in, ecclesiastic tune,
Thunder, roar, yellow graveyard,
The leaves know of no self-discovery.
Summer comes, an autumn in a whisper,
And nobody spares awe a mention

Two men by a fountain, agree on depth,
The depth of love, the depth of champagne,
The depth of many things,
Like the bitch who spoke aloud,
Early that morning.
The fat-assed cherry damsel that crowned the corridor,
With her vocabulary-rich entrée’s,
Flavored in semi-pretentious small talk,
Bland love for soul-suicidal ritual,
And melted perfection.
The depth of many things,
They go on whispering, and the rare scream,
About the depth of life.
They like speaking,
About the depth of many things.

There’s the blush-decorated angel in a yellow skirt,
In sly movement across the cobble-stoned sidewalk,
That borders a white fountain, with stone ribbons around it
She meets a large-eyed monster,
With ponied hair and ice-cream eyelashes
Ah, pay attention my friend,
We now hear them speak of life’s many troubles,
The endless portal of breath,
That only merits whining without wine.
How sad? Who whines without wine?
Such sobriety is murderous,
And yet the wind dances with her skirt,
Trying hard to strip her off her necessary pretense
Yellow skirt, sweetness, ah the delight in pretense,
She bears us no harm, this child of god’s sarcasm
Her skirt conceals more than her deceitful virginity
It conceals an aching soul,
That has never tasted the freedom,
Of careless being, and absolute lightness.

An old chap, 22 years old, approaches,
There’s nothing much here.
Move on, move on.

Incoming,
Seventeen years old, cigarette,
Pants that look like a plastic cover,
Holding an ass that seems bigger than his brain,
This fellow carries the fate of us all;
Of all humanity,
This worthless piece of fainting symbolism,
That represents the scarred inner existence,
Of the entire monkey civilization
This expression of the totality of our doom,
If you look into his eyes,
You will see desires as soft as pancakes,
Broken memories as tender as baby skin,
And a mask, made of black ivory,
And educated ignorance

The scene plays on my friend,
And we, what do we do?
We watch this world roll on,
Through its miseries and ecstasies
And we say nothing
The scene, is holy, holistic,
Sacred.
And hence, we say nothing.

There is quite a bit to be enchanted by,
In this strange old world.
And in your pursuit of endless alphabets,
Beside your little name,
And your little sweet precious idea of a life,
You seem to miss quite a bit.
Or maybe I do?
We miss quite a bit.
But hey, it’s never too late to quit running,
And start walking.
To quit chasing,
Start being.
It’s quite a delight, watching this world from a little corner,
Coffee in hand. Long cigarette,
A taste for honest cynicism,
And an invincible love to be forever amazed,
With the glorious symphonies of the eternal sky.

Come now, the night is too awake,
To set our glasses down.
Tomorrow’s just a schedule,
Now’s alive.
Fill em up!

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance