The Brave Write Tragedies

The Brave Write Tragedies

Let me dip my hands into your heart,
And hurt you well with words and verse,
And take you back into my world
You are my lover, my reader,
And my wish is to enslave you
To beat you a million times,
And make you bleed and beg for more
And kiss you gently when you’re wounded,
And whisper laughter into your ears

Come dream with me, sweet beloved,
Of old castles and sparkling streams
Of that great archaic place,
Where our fairy tales are made
When we were little — boy and girl,
I watched your little skirt dance with the wind
And in your eyes, I remember,
The twinkle that made me a prince
How I wished that when we’d get older,
I would build you your own castle,
And feed you berries in the spring,
And keep you safe and warm through winter

I’ve aged like a warrior who has no war,
To bring his mind to solace
Look at you, oh darling sunshine,
You’ve turned grey beneath the sun
There are no castles and no spring,
But just bricks and noisy streets
Filled with lost dreams and broken soldiers,
Who never braved the breezes of tyranny
How we let our hearts go rotting,
Into dreams we never really cared for
How we weep and mourn now in misery,
With heaps of gold in our halls of diamond

Is it too late, my beloved damsel?
To find a better place in this firmament,
This great wilderness of life,
In which we’ve stuck too hard to the past
Do I have enough to bleed?
So that I may find you once again
Of what good is poetry if it heals not my heart?
Of what real purpose is this weak artistry,
If it brings not my life the light that I crave

I can write whatever tale I want,
I can end it in blood and tears,
Or belittle the spring in the fragrant glory,
Of my eternal verses on love and light
But why is it that I lean toward tragedy?
Do I hold a softness for melancholy
Am I made of thorns and sad endings?
Forever lost, my beloved damsel,
Are our dreams of castles and elysian gardens
The cotton touch of your long and tender fingers,
Are but a fainting dream,
In the cemetery of my memories

My years on this earth are but the reflection,
Of a strong inner thirst for beautiful tragedy
I am made of tears and midnight wailing,
I am the heart of sorrow itself.
Be lost, forever, my sweet damsel,
I gave you no castle, and the work of my hands,
Has brought no fruit to your thirsting heart
Let our tears be the testimony to this tragedy of life,
And let our deaths tell no grander tales,
Than those that we lived
When our eyes close gently beneath the moonlight,
Let us not forget that it is us who write our tales
And the brave write the deepest tragedies,
And shed tears that are salted,
With grand cosmic laughter

Screamjack

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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

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

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

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

Tears are Real

Tears are Real

Erasmus looked through the silken glass at the best seller’s shelf, ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’, a new book by Dr. Randall Bay. There was something about it that called him to it, asking him to give it a read, to stroke and feel each page, and swallow every word and make it a part of him. Another side of him taunted him strongly, to leave it and just walk off, it wouldn’t make much of a difference.

He knew what the book was about. It was a novel about a wealthy middle-aged man overflowing with talent who always fell short of complete expression of his innate gifts because of his addiction to dreaming about the future.

‘Sir, why don’t you come on in, it’s getting pretty itchy outside with this heat’, the book store teller urged Erasmus in. There wasn’t much on Erasmus’ schedule for the day anyway, he toddled his way in slowly, a part of him pulling him away, the major part of him submitting to curiosity.

Erasmus thought to himself, book stores smell really good, one of those places you could spend time at even if you didn’t want much to do with books. Erasmus tried his best to stay away from ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’, pretending to himself that he could find some other book in the store that would make him forget all about Dr. Bay’s new hit.

He eyed the bookseller with contempt and irritation, wondering why he catered to his welcome.

To add to his battle between curiosity and ignorance, a very unwanted voice came ringing in from behind as Erasmus made his way through the other shelves of fiction. ‘You might want to have a look at this one sir, it’s been selling like mistletoe during Christmas’, the book store owner was now standing near the bestseller shelf, pointing at ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’. Erasmus would never understand his weakness to the suggestion of strangers he sincerely wanted to ignore. He walked up to the bestseller shelf and picked up the book of conflict.

Without having a second look at the cover of the book, he paid the man, collected his receipt, and headed off out into the burning sting of summer walking home as quickly as he could.

It didn’t take him much time to finish the first ten chapters. Calvin the protagonist of the book was a gifted pianist who wasted twenty of the best years of his life in doubt, never expressing his skills to properness because of his endless fear of failure. Calvin was now forty, with all the wealth in the world he could imagine, running successful businesses for which he cared too less to hoard or be proud of. Calvin was a broken man, with a wife he dreamed of abandoning every night and a daily routine he loathed as much as his involuntary fear of failure.

The tears rolled all too easily onto the pages of ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’. What had Erasmus done wrong? What had he done so wrong that he was left with nothing but an empty hollow within him that filled itself with uncomfortable adrenaline every time he read or heard of the success of his peers?

As he flung his newly purchased book across the floor, he buried his face in his palm and sobbed. What had he done so wrong that he was left looking forward to nothing but the embarrassment and failure of the friends he involuntarily loathed? Randall Bay was nothing at all before the monumental talent that Erasmus was. He was a man who identified perhaps a couple of skills and a few moments from his life that he worked into two of the best-selling novels in the last two years. There was no soul in these novels, but there was enough sweetness, charm, and conflict that would excite a million readers.

Randall was one of Erasmus’ closest friends. He had known him since he was eighteen. And now Erasmus was forty. While Erasmus was ever more skilled and gifted than Randall, Randall wrote, while Erasmus dreamed. He dreamed of what to write, and how to write. He did write, those rare few lines that carried power and magic, but few lines every three months or so. Erasmus dreamed, while Randall wrote. While the world read and entertained themselves to the technically crafted artwork of Randall Bay, the bitter tears that graced the pages of ‘The Dreamer’s Stagnant Poise’ remained to be the only testament to the once possible alternate fate of Erasmus Slade, a gifted writer who dreamed of many words, but wrote too few.