Many Yesterdays

Many Yesterdays

“Give me the towel,” she said.
“I think I love you,” I said.
We ate crackers and drank coca cola,
Waited for the power to go out,
And then made love.
And when we were tired enough to stop talking,
I took the whiskey,
Out of my backpack,
And toasted to the delight,
Of her broken spirit.

We ran, didn’t walk, through the autumn rain,
Until our feet were sore,
With cobblestone marks,
And brown, sticky mud.
We were visiting museums,
And making love in airport restrooms,
Stealing DVDs from the bookstore,
And running naked in the snow.
We were breaking laws,
That brought us no trouble.
And visiting churches and temples,
Synagogues, fountains, and theaters.
Leaving no space for meaning,
To come steal the spark,
That helped our hearts escape,
The everyday rot of purpose,
Ambition, and dreams of consummation.

We didn’t speak of marriage,
Or children, or a big house,
With a big TV, and a garage,
With tools and a kitchen with food.
We didn’t speak of retirement,
And a library beside the drawing room.
We didn’t dream of growing old together,
And dying; buried next to each other.
Of Christmas nights with family and friends,
Of our third child, our fourth, and their lives;
We didn’t dream of any of that.
Instead, we chased the autumn rain,
Chilled our feet in the cruel winter snow,
And ate mushrooms in spring.
Drank beer in summer, broke the law,
Didn’t spare a moment to worry for tomorrow
We were young you see, and alive;

We made love under the cold stars,
Inside the dark of the cold woods;
Mourning, screaming, playing, laughing,
We chased the danger that didn’t knock on our doors.
We fought, and broke each other’s bones,
And hated each other for what he had become;
We cut ourselves with our words,
And rode swiftly through the pavements of our anger.
We trampled upon each other’s dreams,
And killed each other’s spirits.
We broke whatever we could find valuable,
In each other;
And then we made love again.

And when the warm soft secure comfort,
Of a world that made better sense than yesterday,
Came fielding us against our love for life;
We left each other, and danced away,
Into civilization.

Love is just a word, and we use it like gasoline,
We flaunt and wave it at the world,
To remind ourselves that we can feel.
We were not in love.
We were alive, together.

The autumn rain still comes and goes,
But I don’t want,
To chase it anymore
We can’t have yesterday forever,
Just like how today will never come again
But we can have pain,
And dance with its many forms,
That give us hope beneath the moonlight
And wait till all we have,
Is coffee, old age, and a notebook.

Image: Broken Love

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

Made in Bangalore

Made in Bangalore

Sweet friend, as I depart on this unsure journey,
Unknowing of when I will find the comfort of home again,
I find it crucially fitting,
To leave you this note, populated
With half-hearted lies,
And tearful vagaries
In the hope that you might see,
The work of its rhythm, give you,
Memories, smiles, and gentle tears,
In your times of rare silence and reflection

This place; this place forged us.
And as the world loses itself,
To a mere advertisement of our home,
We know the scent of its blood,
The nature of its dreams, and the height of its ambition
The world knows of our hi-tech labor,
Our early curfews and the pleasantries of our environment
We’ve heard all so much of our upbeat entertainment,
Our free-thinking folk, our corrupt police,
And our dried out lakes
Deep in the hearts of our comrades,
We hear the pleas to rejuvenate this broken forest
To bring the cradling voices of rustling trees,
Back into the streets where our homes stand,
Stained with the smoke that fills our air.

While our sisters, brothers, seem to so often,
Find only avenues for complaint and the need for rectitude,
I see harmony. I see life. I see a living organism,
I see a great city that is decorated in its imperfection,
I see an important chapter in life’s endless dilemma.

As we expand perpetually, forwards, backwards,
Sideways, we grow like a virus.
We seem to only see the need for betterment,
Instead of understand the purpose of our chaos.
We, the children of this magical home,
Have been transformed into warriors for humanity
We are no silent souls encumbered in deep appreciation,
For rare flowers and patiently composed symphonies
We are the children of chaos treading danger’s razor edge,
Forever dancing with our dilemmas and soaking in our problems.
We dare the extremes of human experience,
As we allow our wonderful city to waltz along to its doom.

While the elders say,
Heaven’s where we’re made,
I see it otherwise
It is the smoke in our skies, and the filth in our gutters,
The gruesome stares of rude strangers,
The clouded judgment of our senile seniors,
The tormenting traffic spewing murderous noise,
The pretentious folk, the untrustworthy folk,
The endless fears of an imperfect policing system
It is these that have made me, us.

It is the good folk, the sweetness of our green trees,
The silent streets where we kick around spotted balls,
Cycling to no avail, looking for first love, last love,
Kisses with sweet lovers in heavily treed corners,
Sudden rains in summer and the endless dark monsoon.
Ah, can I say more about our sweet moments in dingy bars,
Our endless conversations in perpetual drunkenness
Our nights of hatching world conspiracies,
In non-lit terraces blazing a big one for the enjoyment of the stars,
Through the half-smoked atmosphere of our growing town
It is these from which the man I am, is born,
These from which you are born

As I travail into more and more ambitious endeavor,
I will always remember,
Remember the midst of the chaos in which I was born
The midst of the orchestral delight,
Perfected with the honeyed breezes of April,
And made sick and interesting by confused inhabitants
A great chaos, a sweet chaos,
But all the same, a chaos that is my mother
Hell! I was born through no heaven man,
I was made not by spirit nor star nor stardust,
I was made by Bangalore, in Bangalore City,
Perfect and whole with imperfect pieces

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

Monsoon Memories

Monsoon Memories

It’s monsoon here, and a perfect time through the seasons of the world in which this very sunny friend of mine celebrates his birthday.

We have this little temple across the road called ‘Rose Garden’ where most of our memories our cherished with rum, whisky, doubtful chicken dishes, and a famed specialty called egg burjee that washes down very delectably with the cheapest of rum imaginable.

There’s something about bars and birthdays, a marriage made between them that nobody should dare to explain. You might wonder how alcoholic my soul is when I tell you that a birthday without alcohol is like Christmas without wine.

Anyway, today feels too hot to write any sort of poetry. I thought I’ll stick down a few of my inner movements onto prose. It was quite a quick week, days flowing by on my office floor, racing by, the weekend is mostly going to fly by even faster. The problem with having a job is it makes you feel like the things that make you who you are slip out all too fast like sand through your fingers.

The fellow in the picture, Pramod (middle). All too often he reminds me of normality after I get home from work. We sit in our temple, with rum and speak of the ugly side of humanity. And then we speak of women, and then of better ways to get high and then finally about our eternal conflict with the natural movement of life. These conversations remind us that it’s the little things in life, so often small talk and careless gossip that helps us feel alive. Our ponderings over the abstract and spiritual so often disconnect us from reality and throw us into a realm of endless reasoning and worry and we forget that being alive is mostly about the little movements instead of the big ones.

My rum with this fellow on the many evenings of the year help me remember these things. And I guess I’d say his birthday is a day on which I can celebrate the man, a friend who I’ve cherished for years now and will continue to do so, hopefully in ways that are beyond just the bottles and wasted dreams on moonlit night skies on the dimly lit terrace of Rose Garden Bar.

Happy Birthday buddy!

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden

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