Old Man

Old Man

Loneliness is made of scented pine,
A penetrative depth that is never concealed,
By a glorious black dress, or a tinted suit,
Or a sweetened gesture; composed posture
Only a clean mind can truly be lonely,
A mind unaffected by the corruption,
Of man’s sensuous attachment to perfection

I watched a girl drop her empty glass of coffee,
With her momentous existence of a soul within it
As she suffered her way down the sidewalk,
In her needled heels that pierced the concrete street
I watched myself, clothed in tender grey,
Smelling like peach in the pale summer
Entirely sold to thieving dreams of ideality,
Dreams of a fine tomorrow,
That I seem to still believe,
Might be finer than today
You’ve got to wonder,
What a fool I am? Won’t you wonder?
Wonder for me, and for you.

The sun arose another Monday morning,
And we wasted 6:30 – 7:30 am,
Between the shrill annoyance,
Of four alarms, snoozed twice each
And 8:00 am taking us toward another charade,
Between the coffee shop and the office,
And the same old symphony of falsely exciting mundanity
I’ve always pondered, about the frequent visits of elder folk,
To the pews of tall churches,
And the circular centers,
Of dark-walled temples
I’m not surprised anymore; I’d be a fool if I was
Life eventually brings us to this strange place,
Where truth and absolute clarity don’t seem,
To hold such wonder anymore
There comes a time my love,
When all we seek, is comfort
Whether it be in the soft lies of a higher lord,
Or the deceitful embrace of an ancient holy book
There comes a time,
When the only truth in life,
Is peace; Any peace would do.
Such a strange narrative, aren’t it?

I slowly inch closer and closer,
To a place where the thick border,
Between truth and lies dissolves,
Into the heavy sweetness of my memory.
When all I seem to want,
Is to find the threads that make the remnants,
Of yesterday’s passing dreams,
And tomorrow’s lost hopes
So that I may continue to sew,
This fantastic epic of a drama,
That me and you, all those many years ago,
Decided to call a life
I’m inching there sweetheart,
Closer to that place.
When I will become the endless thing,
I never wanted to be.
Much closer. It isn’t quite the tragedy,
I might make it sound to be.
It’s just another page,
Amongst all those other pages,
Ah well, it just might be,
The last one.

It doesn’t take you fifty years to find,
The severe questions of old age.
Look at me, I’ve been here a quarter,
Of a hundred.
And I’m asking questions,
Even your granddaddy never dared ask.
People don’t grow old darling,
Humanity does. And we’ve gotten quite old,
Old enough,
To lay our dreams beneath the floor,
In the attic of our novels and paintings,
We’re old enough,
To waste away our youth,
With strange questions and cheap whisky,
We’re old enough,
To waste whatever we want.

I’ve told you my tale,
And it seems you’ve lived through it.
Get out now,
Go write your own story.

artwork: Alan Watts Quick Portrait – EightBitRemix 

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Itch

Itch

 

What makes you itch?
The fact that people know you,
Or spare a moment to bear thoughts of you,
Before they lay their lips to their pillows,
On nights when they meet loneliness,
In the middle of the road to optimal living?
Do you find the things that make your insides move,
In the twinkling of your neighbor’s eyes?
In the revelry of those falsely laughing other people,
In the craftily exposed exultation of your success?
What’s success? Hey, I don’t know.
What makes you itch?

Is it that a meager life, clouded in undirected misdemeanor,
Brings nothing but an allowance for soul corruption,
To your doorstep?
Corruption that you color with green and gold,
Drink and leaf, sweetness, mellow sour,
I know you; another escapist, dancing on the bottle rim
What makes you itch?
I know the work of your fingers,
The way they move, on paper, on women, on metal,
I know the cravings of their tips,
The little sips they take at subtle touch,
Drinking from the immortal ocean,
Of sensual feeling
But you haven’t listened to them, have you?
You were an artist. Now, you smell,
Of fraudulent indulgence and self-deceit
You broken child; you don’t smell too well

When we found our meetings too easy,
We took the long way home
So that we could meet the storm,
And dance with its tunes
We took the long way home

I’m lost now, and so are you,
What are we going to do?
Eat pickle and stew

What makes you itch?
Rock music, prostitution, delirious deductions,
Of decimal numbers and polarity
The sweet satin-clothed movement of milky skin,
On black-tiled dancefloors,
Or the cruel embezzlement of empathy and eroticism,
In the jailed gyms of our workplaces
What do you choose? What makes you itch?

I don’t know.
Do you?
Good night.

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

Victoria

Victoria

Victoria stepped,
Into Woody’s; smelled like old wood,
And fresh turpentine
She walked up the aisle,
Picked up a can of orange juice,
A bunch of cilantro,
Looked at her reflection,
In the transparent Coco-Cola refrigerator
And turned behind to see,
The thirty something bearded man,
With light blue eyes and untrimmed stubble,
Staring viciously at her pale white thighs
And as he looked at her looking,
He turned back to his keys,
And pretended to jab in something important
Her shorts, were so sweetly short
And she walked up to him,
And billed her stuff
And some cigarettes
And walked out,
Biting her lower lip,
Answering some strange form of want,
Deep inside her

Tuesday went and so did Wednesday,
Victoria walked into Woody’s on Thursday
Her pale white thighs,
Moistened with herbal creams, and
Some other tropical delights
Her shorts, shorter than before,
Her nails conditioned, cared for,
Looking delightful in the autumn sun
She walked up, to the counter,
And saw a boy around her age
Eighteen, seventeen? She didn’t know
She pretended to have entered,
The wrong store
Whipped her hips around,
Stepped back outside

Thursday went,
Friday, Saturday, Sunday
And two more months after that
Victoria learned,
That her autumn lover,
Had traveled north

Victoria walked into Woody’s,
One winter Monday morning
She wore jeans,
Her hair undone, her nails,
Shabby and cracked in the cold,
Her face pale, and raw in celebration,
Of a pimpled landscape
Picked up the orange juice,
A bunch of cilantro
Billed her stuff,
And some cigarettes
Walked out into the winter sun
Her lips intact

Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)

Puppets in Paradise

Puppets in Paradise

Dwindled in boredom,
Aching for feminine touch,
Salted in pretense, rage, and fever,
Aching,
For all things dark under the sun

Come now, hearty one,
Who lost his laughter in the rains of time,
Who has given his humor to idiots and thieves,
Come lay by me, and rest beneath the moon,
And find your solace in a dreamless sleep

You cannot go searching for Canaan with an empty heart,
You cannot dance if meaning is your purpose
I have beaten senseless to pulp your notions,
Of grave family, ambition, thieving religious greed
I have removed the division between your Science and Love
How many years through which you will sell yourself to this prostitute?
These equations and symbols that swerve in ignorance

Kiss rain,
Before it slips like dust,
Through the dreams of the stars
Hire the scent of the wind,
Before she lays once more,
With your enemy laughing,
With another damsel in his arms,
Who you fucked last night
Dip your arms in this bloodstream,
And let it turn to a lily farm
Come leave your melancholy at my doorstep,
And run to your wife before it’s too late

My heart only aches with more lizard tales,
Reptilian nonsense about aches and lost lakes\
Can you come look into my meandering self?
A little fading dream in a colorful adventure
I have heard the fools bring color to concept,
The blasphemers with beady eyes selling their shit,
To cravers and ravers on these shit streets,
People simply seeking some last inch of archaic wonder
It won’t come with your words stupid wonder child,
Leave this place,
My whisky loses its charm with your senseless ramble

The heart seems to be a hole for treacherous things,
So come, let’s behold treacherous things
Let us glorify the sickness of our glorious race,
Let us decorate our dysfunction with inner murder,
I will teach you a new yoga. Would you dare to hold my hand?
I will bring you a breath that will tear your limbs,
Cut your tongue, burn your hair, break your heart,
Do you dare to know this magic?
These old fools sell you their ecstasy nonsense,
Let them rot in their white light and saffron-robed kindness,
Let them rot in their godly folly, their selfish understandings
I will give you the very edges of darkness,
I will kick your innards into that maddening awakening
Over there, in that dark place, you will find yourself,
On the razor’s edge, where you will lose me,
And I you
And us both, find ourselves, and never look back again

These folks don’t dare the infinity of the human being,
They will bring you to a hurtful finitude
Where your endless potential becomes an endless illusion
A thirsty search for some great money dream,
Where these losers bow down to you,
As you are puppeted on a plastic box,
Doing things that make them laugh

You derelict soul, you broken mind,
You are here to be whipped into a mold
Like butter into cake batter,
They will make you thick and tender,
But you will be dead

Who dares look into the workings of anger?
Who dares kiss him before a mirror,
And shed tears of rage for all cosmic life,
Do you remember tears? I wonder.
The world’s evil is a mere comical folly,
In the eyes of the eternal cosmic darkness
And we waste our years with the plastic box,
In drama, rage, and childish conversation
Go live! Stupid wonder child,
Bring yourself to open capitulation
No one cares for last night’s visions,
No one dreams of you. No one cares for you.
So alone, the snow comes down,
And we’re drenched again in yesterday’s dreams

We must rest now.
We’ve beheld enough treachery,
On this useless night
Ah! The stars seem to have not moved.
Things shall remain as they are,
Tomorrow.

 

artwork: Enchanted Doll – Maruhana Bachi