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,
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



I acted like tragedy,
Was some bad thing
That would make life,
In the eventual sense,
An absolute tale of absolute nonsense
Wasted, to be forgotten,
A sprint in the wastelands of eternity,
That always ends badly, only badly

I don’t know, if I’m mistaken,
If I’m right
People value happiness so much,
Joy, and peace, and wonder, and magic
The world glorifies goodness,
Like it was the only thing worth living for
How can we forget pain?
We forget so easily,
Sorrow, tragedy, loss, death
How can we forget what these things teach us?
I’ve ended my dance between the edges of life
Between the colorful rainbows that piss happiness upon the world
And the fears and shivers of skulls, that remind us of our truer nature

I always doubted these prophets,
Who promised peace to the world
Like giving candy to babies who were crying,
Entirely unaware of what this playground was about
I have a thing against happiness now,
Against joy
I don’t want any of it anymore,
I don’t want pain either
Sorrow, neglect, hatred,
All of it seems like a lost dream
That I hold onto,
Not because of some high purpose,
But simply because they make me, me.

I am sorrow, I am happiness,
And I seek the two like they are different from me
I have said so many things in the many monsoons of humanity
I have shed tears and hated women,
Hurt parents and fed bullshit to young men,
Who needed security
But life makes weary of all men who give curiosity kisses in the darkness
I am weary, and life leaves me slowly,
Like ash that falls off the tip of a long cigarette

We take who we are for granted,
And live our lives like skeletons in a place we do not belong to
Who are we to belong anywhere?
The me that I thought was me is not there
I don’t see it anywhere
All I know that exists is the frustration of the search
And that frustration must end now

I am sorrow in the darkness of tomorrow’s fake twilight,
Spreading like a virus into the hearts of aging men
I am sorrow, like light in the graveyards of history,
Bringing solace to the dead,
Reminding them they never died
Nobody exists, and hence nobody dies

I want this sorrow to end
Symbols and paintings that light up,
The endless halls of this drunken god’s imagination
After losing blood to the psalms of goodness and salvation,
After being scathed and torn by the scrutiny of men like my own self
After losing every last bit of my sensible sociality,
I come to you today
Sweet mother of all mothers,
I come to you,
To die
And see for myself,
If I will be allowed to see
How I never was,
How I never will be,
And hence,
Never can die

In your arms sweet mother of the soil,
To the aching twinkle of your sweet singing,
I will shed this coat of bone and blood,
And see the nothingness of all nothings
The only thing there is, the sweet nothing,
Beyond the dream of this dreaming self
The nothing, in which all things, are.

Rambles and Shambles of an Old Young Man

Rambles and Shambles of an Old Young Man

You can’t say your work defines you,
It doesn’t
The excreta of human imagination is
The foundation of this society,
That is built and breathed,
On the utilities of work and working
Babies don’t like to work,
Hell, I don’t like to work
The whole thing’s a sham,
And we’re on like ants,
Going through it, daytime job,
And dreams at night,
And the same routine,
For years and years and years
And complain at the end of the whole thing,
Saying, dam, I wasted this life
And then you waste the next one,
Strange thing, being human, and worse, being social

Why do you think people write?
Writing doesn’t define you
Nothing does, nothing can
Writing’s just an action, born from inner emptiness,
And people go on and keep telling you,
That the stuff inside’s got to come out
There’s nothing inside, but emptiness
Even the confusion has no stuff to be made up of,
All of its just emptiness
And the words, are little notes of nonsense,
That dance out onto paper
Purposeless, for the entertainment of other people,
Lost like me, lost like the stars

Some people seek nothing,
But I, I want the whole dam world
You see, wanting the whole dam world,
Eventually makes you want none of it

I cannot see if you can see,
The sparkle that dances behind life’s movements
These things, these events, they’re meaningless,
But every woman who clothes herself in fine satin,
Those lovely curved angels in tight denim,
Who turn us on by ignoring us
The old women by the street who sell corn and nuts,
The thing about the weather, how it changes
All these things, there’s so much of it
I wonder if you’re able, to catch the magic in it
Most of it gets routine and rubbles us to boredom,
I guess that’s the challenge,
Seeing the magic, in this rubble of boredom
We can’t see the magic though,
Until we’re dead,
Until who we think we are,
Disappears into the endless void of the jeweled night sky
Until we forget time and reason,
And set our dreams aside to be lost into forgotten nonchalance
The price of wonder is the death of oneself
Or at least what one thinks of oneself

Seek ye not the fetters of time,
In the weary eyes of a beloved friend
Nor seek the dainty corners of nostalgia,
To which the hopes of man are confined
Beside the dreaming corpse of humanity,
Life lays down the norms of her movement
Through which wordless law perhaps we might,
See sensibility worked and showered upon us
No prayer or ritual will save this poet,
From the endless agony of his framed melancholy
All things of pleasure and good will come,
To naught and nothing before the end
Forgotten to words this memory shall,
Be gone and dead to a vainful past
All in vain, great world in vain,
Death brings to us the final holocaust

We don’t know much about time,
Except that it’s wrong, a conjuring,
A wrong conjuring, to understand,
The movement of light,
And the memories of few days,
Upon this green, green Earth
Time destroys us, the ideas of ourselves,
Time does not exist, and neither do we
And it’s funny, how I say that,
And you look on with beady eyes,
Believing me, or not

A thing of wonder cannot have purpose,
Neither can a poem, nor a good song
Anything that’s worth the candle,
Can have no purpose
Purpose destroys, distorts,
The very magic of existence,
Of wonderful things
Purpose, aim, ambition,
Things that point to some other point,
Away from now, behind, or forward
Anything that’s not now,
Is not worth the candle
Is not worth even construing or pondering for,
Life’s now, you see it, or you don’t
It’s all now, it starts off from now, it ends now
You can’t have it any other way,
The things you perceive, the music you dance to,
The women you kiss and make love to,
The dreams you conjure and the philosophies you use,
To understand your own dreams
It’s all now, you see it, or you don’t

Life’s not a gradual movement of meaningful things,
It’s a playful explosion taking form in the mind of a child
Everything honest is child-like, uncaring of perfection
What’s worth in life is what’s worth to children,
The scratches on the floor and the shapes of the clouds

I’m telling you, it’s now,
It’s all now,
You see it, or you don’t,
I can’t care much for that
It won’t matter if you do or don’t anyway,
Just don’t kill the other guy,
And unleash hell on the planet
It’s quite a beautiful place,
And eras older than you
I’d say it’s better if you see it,
You’d do a whole lot of splendorous magic,
For the whole lot of us all

I’m much for goodness and ecstatic things,
And I’d love to see the world smiling,
Every day, loving and caring
I like that sort of stuff, it feels sensible to me
But it isn’t happening through church charity,
Or faithful prayers, or philanthropy
You need to wake up child,
And understand that there’s no understanding
It’s all you, and you’re doing this thing,
And it’s all such a marvelous drama of magic and misery
And it’s great, you just have to see it,
That it’s all you

It Might End Tomorrow

It Might End Tomorrow

It’s easy to be afraid, of yourself,
The weight you carry
Of all these years of people’s bullshit,
Literally that you’re wreaking off
Carrying all those old folks’ dreams,
Of greatness, honor, some more of that stuff
All the normal things like orange juice,
Ice-cream, cricket, and football
What’s good to win and better to lose,
How to call a good game
What to eat, where to run to with wearing what,
So many more things that make the code
The code that we call human,
Some weird code,
I’ve never seen the better of it

And now we’re bored, of the code,
But left with nothing else to cherish
But the stench of our own thousand years,
Of history, violence, peace, and fake romance
Why are we aching still?
We’d ache knowing if there was a way out
But there is no way out,
We’re eating our own vomit in this boredom prison
And dreaming of a heaven with strawberries,
Neat whiskey and crystal ice,
Flowers and virgin damsels,
Dancing to Mozart’s lighter tones
It isn’t happening,
In this life or the next,
And why are we still dreaming?

The problem with poetry,
Is that it feels like weight-lifting
Every line requires lifting the shit,
That’s named in past memories
And unloading it into the dumpyard,
Of your unconscious
And then for each effort,
You get a new line of poetry
That prances through,
Looking wild,
Like a newborn child
Sewed in eroticism,
And might, and, some of those other good things

I don’t know,
This hopeless tale of man and his medley
His long song of suffering and false laughter
I don’t know,
It all feels, very jelly-like to me
Like candy poisoned with orange and apple,
I don’t know
I guess when it all ends,
Most of it will be forgotten
And only rainbows will remind these blind leaves,
Of a strange creature called man
That lived some million years ago
Writing epics, poetry, short fiction,
Singing to jazz music and performing metal songs
Dancing to strange binary sounds,
And romanticizing about the whole being alive thing
I don’t know,
The leaves mighn’t remember
And yet we take our mortality,
With such distaste
Somehow it isn’t plausible,
Considering how far from immortal,
We truly are

Chocolate is good and whisky better,
But these days will be gone
Our farms and mighty structures,
Lost to the dust of stars,
Lurking suspiciously at the corners of the galaxy
Searching for some black hole,
To be lost into forever
The whole thing feels very queasy to me,
And somehow I’ve got this doomsday itch inside me
Like things are going to end tomorrow,
And our unsung songs lost to the distant rings,
Of time

I have for you no good tokens of positivity,
To share with your heart mighty songs of goodness,
To groove your heartbeat into goosebumps on the skin
Today, I’ve just got this doomsday feeling,
And hey, it might be intuition that’s right
Who knows? I don’t
It just might be

Everyday Musings

Everyday Musings

I’ve forgotten prose, structure, eloquence,
Forgotten the art of lies
To turn silly moments of romance,
To beauteous works flowered with bottomless vocabulary
I have forgotten how to walk the path,
Where tellers speak of great histories
Of knights, and magic, and love,
Of little moments where kisses lasted a million years
Of subtle melancholic drama with well-clad women,
On rainy nights,
At fancy restaurants
Making love the whole night after,
At a hotel you paid for with your life savings
I’ve forgotten the art,
Of telling tales that last eternity
Timeless stringing hearts from sorrow to pondering,
To wondering of the depth of the human mind
I’ve forgotten

These days most happenings are random,
Though the sun keeps to its two milestones a day
I see no order in things,
No pattern in the happenings in life
Things just go on, mostly disconnected
With my mind trying to connect the invisible dots,
Trying to sense out some reason from this daze
And the funny thing is, the disorder happens,
In sobriety, in pure soberness,
In daytime,
When all the world seems normal moving about,
With their chores and activities
Sober as a naked duck, at daytime,
That’s when I strip my mind and see the confusion,
That lurks hiding,
Beneath all the romantic dreams that spurned in childhood
Behind the curt and mannerly fellow who wears his clothes,
There it lies, that everlasting confusion
That’s more than a thousand years old

And the funny thing is,
Clarity comes,
In the drunkenness of the night
When the cells in my brain are twisting,
And turning and dancing,
With the spirit of rum
In the absence of thought in these moments,
Without subtlety and confusion
Making all things plain beneath the moonlight
Drunk as a staggering pig,
Smiling like sunshine after three days rain
That’s when most things get clear
But who wants clarity?
Who wants anything at all? For real.

Always getting somewhere, where? Nowhere.
There’s nowhere to go
Nothing to say
Nothing to learn
Come and sing my doomsday song
And make love to my treacherous tongue
I’ll tell you no lies, give you no gods
I’ll give you just one glass of rum,
A cigarette, some other stuff to smoke,
If you’d like
And we’ll chatter on like kings of the galaxy,
Pretending to know how atoms spin,
What makes them spin and why
Pretending to know all sorts of other things,
Lying like superstars
Suspended like hollow skeletons,
On this funny green globe
In the middle of space

We’ll pretend, until we go to sleep
And wake up,
And repeat,
The whole funny thing,
That we call,
Everyday life

Midday Minstrelsy

So many things left to do,
In this little span of time
Every man tuned by society’s accordion,
To hope for a charismatic climax
Everyday with tears and little doses of laughter,
Little children grow to a heroic demise

I’ve got no advice for you,
No words to churn your spirit
To give you hope of some afterlife,
To tell you that you’re lovely as you are
Such things men do to instill the heroic,
That useless feeling of greatness
For which idiots have battled and died
For which fools throughout time,
Have worshipped strange-looking deities,
And given classes for money

I cannot tell you off your death sweet friend,
When it might come,
When it might tickle and torment you,
Taunting and haunting these better days,
Through which you chastise and murder,
Your body
Through which you ache and bake,
Cookies and cake
Through which you drink your dreams away,
Searching for that thing, that hero thing

When you’re dead, you’re dead, see
There’ll be no pure spirit left to see,
The deeds that were done and the dreams pursued
Cause when you’re dead, you’re dead, see

Why do we want to live forever?
When we find it hard to live one moment
When we need to be taught,
How to appreciate color and waterfalls
How to listen to music and judge the best painter
We need to be taught the things we were born to do,
How strange? Such folly, such deceit,
In this amusement park of thieves and charmers

Spend your days in sweet harlotry,
Drink that last bit of aging wine
Or go to church and light a candle,
Take that pretty shiny thing out for a ride
Would it matter what you blew and what you screwed?
I don’t see change to be much of a fanciful thing
You are what you are,
Whether you screw that one eyed harlot in the subway,
Or you pay your last penny to that unclothed kid,
In that dark street
You are what you are

Don’t do the things that make you irk,
Let what makes you irk, do you
I’ll tell you what magic is,
It’s one word for a sermon,
A little bit of food
Eyes that see nothing but light,
And your breath for a wand

Go, go now and throw your magic,
Cast your spell upon those folks who sit and whine,
Off their daytime jobs,
Go and cast your magic,
On those sober souls

Soul Sewage

Soul Sewage

You can’t help but wonder,
If a writer writes because words are his drugs
If you look harder,
Deep into the chasms of individual intention
We look to excrete the things,
That bind us
The very knowledge that we hold dear,
Is what binds us

Most concoctions of lingual wonder,
Are blasphemies in time
Decorated with candor and innocent chirping,
To instigate the wondrous
In seeking hearts,
To captivate the broken,
The mad in the heat of life’s sun,
To show the way to stars,
With a sense of gullible decency
To elate and intoxicate the curious,
And to impress the bored

The world cannot exist without inspiration,
At least the way we know it
Every man seeking fervently,
For the heroic
For magic in these years of endless bore,
For a sense of the excellent,
When every movement,
On this dull canvas of activity,
Seems gray, distorted,
And somewhat senseless
As we are tossed above and below,
From summer to winter,
Unknowing of ourselves,
Of the true things that we are,
Not simply packages boned into skin and flesh,
Not simply that,
But with a hope of being,
More heroic, or at least, lasting

We cannot help but wonder,
Over that evening whiskey
If this entire hoax of living,
Was made by us or something else
But wondering is that very thing,
That creates this torment,
We’ve so lovingly named,

It’s over if you look at it once,
At the whole sham of things
Without whisky and rhyme,
If we see it once,
It will be over

The delights of sweetly-clad women,
And candy and wine,
The many tastes of ice-cream,
And the stench of war and poverty
The many romances of art and revolution,
The chastities of morality and culture
If we see it once,
It all ends

But it ends to begin what?
There is no question like that,
You cannot ask such things
It’s over

Rabbits eating carrot at midday,
Know this truth,
And still love and eat,
And run around,
Like yesterday never was,
And tomorrow will never be

Whiskey teaches you nothing,
That the pale winds,
Of this virgin summer,

Just one look,
It will be over