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/)

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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!

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