Broken Painting

Broken Painting

I want all kinds of things,
Like a life with no work, no hardness,
Simple moments floating around,
Like paintings, to be looked at.
I want lots of whisky, laced with magical syrups,
To do all kinds of things to my mind.
To be innocent, I want to be drunk with innocence.
To know nothing, and be in foolish awe at every penny,
Striking glass, spilt water on the floor, boiling milk.
And to laugh with the wind and dance madly,
To shave my head, leave my hair to wildness in winter.
Let the snow freeze my balls and the sun of May eat into my lips.
I want to leave my tongue to touch the rain, leave my ears,
To be slaves to the senseless semblances of old music that live today.
I want to be a bad poet. A good one. To listen to good music, and bad.
And drink cheap wine, expensive whisky, illicit rum,
To die young. To waste my years into old senile rebellion.
I want the world.
But here I am, sealed to a plastic chair and brightly lit screen.
Looking at the reflection of a large universe,
Dying every moment.

I want to fuck her with her hair pulled back,
Pouring peppered boiling whisky into her mouth.
Watching her groan for more, and smiling,
In all that dastardly pain.
I want her seething and rolling in thorned cotton,
Screaming for her blood to come rushing,
Through into the light,
Spurting through tiny holes in her skin.
But we as men make pacts, as women we settle,
For cheap roses and hot chocolate.
For expensive wine, satin clothes,
Plastic condoms and boring nights before a dead flickering screen.

I want me, in absolute insanity giving origin,
To new life. To let the whisky that dances on my lips,
Birth some great new verse. Great new dream.
But then, I’ll stay sealed to these old ambitions.

I want no schooling. I need breed insolence,
Bloody wreckage in all that is orderly.
I want to heat the blood of every working class drug addict,
Every tobacco smoking fool who’s sold his life to repetition.
Every alcohol consuming shit-speaking contract-making,
Hair-trimmed half-spectacled well-dressed dead body,
I want to teach them how to dance.
But then, I settle as a brother to them.

Only defeat makes me write, and I waste my wisdom,
To be ashed into the trays of self-righteousness.
Dead, already.

In those older years the words came from honesty,
Now they come from disgust,
Flavored with a strange taste for life,
To keep on living.
For what? Who knows?
The song keeps pouring away into the future,
And we remain, stuck to yesterday

We are the men and women of our dreams,
Freeing our hearts violently,
Fucking each other with our lies,
And seeing the final freedom in our bondage.
What a joke?
Life! Aha!
It takes a great taste for madness to understand it.
A madness to want nothing and yet all of it.
And then the cowardice to switch your love to that whisky bottle again.
A deep column of sweet shining gold,
In the sweet embrace of which your dreams find a marriage,
To everlasting non-happening.

People have forgotten the charm of tragedy.
To stand and behold, the subtle subliminal flavors,
Of injustice and monstrosity. The evergreen messages,
That linger beneath the ever-elusive grasps of death.
Tragedy is our friend! Our friend! She remains,
Till time frees us from whisky and women, men.

Here comes the bad news, we are all going to die.
And between the lines I see it,
The great hoax. The things I’ve wanted, the things I’ve had,
And between the photographs of red lips and heavy breasts,
Lost trips to wonderland in chemical indulgence,
Forgotten bibles and bashed folklore.
Between it all, I have found myself, and yet,
Not the self I quite expected.

Give me more drama,
Or I will fade away into the backstage of existence.
Forever left unsatisfied,
And screaming for one more breath,
One more inch of open eyes and honeyed lies,
Never to return.

Touch It

Touch It

It takes wounds to write,
Several. And if there are none,
We must hurt ourselves to create;
Through wounds the light can come out.

From what glorious futuristic vision,
Does our elation stem from?
It feels like that good feeling,
Which we chase our entire lives,
Hoping to touch someday,
Forever eludes us, cheating, escaping us.
It seems that our imagination is discontinuous,
With the heat that operates our bodies.
We have decorated ourselves with job titles,
Expensive suits and beautiful wives, husbands, whores,
Jeweled our invisible images with neat talk,
Defensive vocabulary, heavy wallets and hearts,
Spyked with the endless thirst to be emperors of our world

As we build elevators to glassy penthouses,
And leave our eyes in the basements of our dreams
We come to hear the toll bells of our honeyed hells,
Through the streets of our cities, that like garbage dumps,
Harbor and nurse the whims and what nots of our erect penises.

We are a “touch it” world, where we need to feel,
Our toes wringing in maddening glee
Every inch of our feeling selves dancing,
Every cell mourning and dying to ecstasy;
There is nothing more than that
In all our endeavors;
Our chivalry, our righteousness, our goodness,
Our poetry, our dance, our glorious revolutions;
Everything is a “touch it” thing,
And if it isn’t worth our mental erection,
We will abandon it by dawn.

Two types; one the suited, the other—the nature guy,
Both don’t know and both are right, both wrong.
They will battle till this chapter of life comes to naught

Our wounds will be ointmented with whipped cream,
Made from steel butter and urine ice.
Our world moves toward a dark time,
When hell will erect its massive edifices on our lands;
Our endeavors flourish only for entertainment,
And death comes racing; greatly motivated,
To move this wheel of time into nature’s deepest abyss

Our satin-saffron clad priests will perhaps survive this descendence,
Chanting their verses in praise of their Adiyogi.
But they would’ve missed, they would’ve missed.
Life is no great thing without the darkness,
Without the hurt, without the fear,
Without the knowledge of possible annihilation,
From a very un-enlightened perspective

I will come back,
To give you better renditions of our mysterious fates.
Until then,
Bask in sweet sorrow and drink to our demise,
Chasing the dreams that you can touch,
Relaxing in crisp and clear sensation,
In confident erection, eyes open,
Tongue tucked behind gritted teeth,
And a loudly beating heart.
We crave all things that ask and beg and plead,
Mourning, “Touch Me.”

Screamjack

A Current of Reflection

A Current of Reflection

This morning, we shall chart our hearts,
And find the few pearls of memory,
That wage war with our destinies,
And win to our delight

Inside sometimes, little drops of heaviness,
Bring a milky solitude to me
Like cream that tastes of infected phlegm,
There are many ounces of regret in me
Through the rays of endless remembrance,
I cannot know if in this life or beyond
I feel a weary ache that decorates me with loss
A fiery torment that rages like the waves in an ocean of fire,
And me, a simple soul stranded in chains of tears
In surrender, in sorrow, in mindless poesy mourning,
At the glorious delight of humanity’s tragedy

If you look hard enough through my sweetened words,
You can find a broken soul, vulnerable, fragrant, yet broken
It’s all yours to touch, for you to break more—eat into my spirit
The currents of reflection come like a storm,
To tease my tired mind out of idolism to elation
We’ll keep on teasing ourselves into this wondrous game,
Of love, rejection, denial, and laughter in autumn forests
We will forever drink from the chalices of friendship,
Finding connection in mutually adored vulgarity
Seeking touch in the palms of our poisonous counterparts
Craving their tenderness when we know that all comes to naught
We will still sell our hearts to our women,
And love them in winter and nourish their wombs,
With more than our seed, more than our hopeless romanticism

We will shake ourselves from our anxiety,
As the winter reveals its treachery in the summers of sunshine
I pray for that hour of redemption,
When our non-existent dreams are exiled into the abyss of awakening
When we look into the eyes of our children,
And see the tricking secrets of our older selves
Tonight perhaps, I will come to see that our children,
Are our older selves
And life moves backwards, not forwards,
Returning to an age of accepted imperfection,
Where we let our fingernails grow into the soil,
Leaving our cheeks to tan themselves into a dark peach,
Allowing our hair to smell of all undesirable fragrances
A world without mirrors, an innocent world

There lies, a whole world of madness and brilliance,
Behind the multi-colored irises of you and I
A secret world, a drunken world,
With fairies and alien whores, with magic
And if we transcend our addictions to touch,
That world attracts to itself the mantle of reality

As I lose myself to perpetual abstraction,
I will put up my hands to bring you along
The absolute place does not exist,
The promised land is here
I am your milk, and you my honey,
And our blood the water of this fragrant soil
I must forget the delightful offerings,
Of this selfish society
I must reject, your ambitious plans,
I am a child of the Earth, a prophet of blasphemy
And here I am, offering myself to you,
To crucify me,
With the nails of your limited understanding,
To the cross of your own demise

There is no word that can awaken the world,
There are a few sounds, a few visions,
But these are too few in this age.
So forget awakening, come smile with me,
And we shall go dancing into unknown galaxies,
And make love to the stars,
And birth more dreams and more eternities,
More words and more numbers,
More wine and more divine,
To feed the curiosity of our future selves.

Tea today, no wine.

Slaves of Eternity

Slaves of Eternity

Look at the things that we’ve got used too,
Spilled livers and hearts of stone
For the whims of invisible gods,
And the comic fashions of human vanity
Bring out the guns and shoot our darlings,
Tell them, on your knees, proclaim our shit
Tether your cows to your clean wooden doors,
And feed them carrots, cane, and juice
And as your children dance around them,
Pull out their hearts and wipe your brows
With holy ash; wash your feet,
My pious child; but let the sewers loose,
Within the temples of your soul

Pull out our grenades for holy war,
Our prophet speaks from upon his tower
The Earth has come to crusading oblivion,
Here’s to a great leap into the past
The future eludes every dreamer,
Our tears serve prophesy to our accepted demise
From our plastic boxes come sweet noises,
Of decorated ignorance and famished intellect
Come preachers of the dawn,
Steal the minds of our children
Teach them the ways of our wicked fathers,
And feed humanity with drunken destruction
For what, did our mother bless us with conscience?
I see none; I see the calls of hungry cows,
Coming from the mouths of men
Selling their children to broken ideology,
Settling for colored paper, cheap security

I rather starve than eat of this soil,
That fragrant with the blood of crying children,
Tasting of goat’s balls and blood ketchup,
The stench of all humanity’s history
Our severe lies and endless violence,
Seeming to see some glorious future
That never came, never comes,
The final sonata has begun
The end comes not from the sky,
But from the work of our own hands
Maybe, one last breath, we might give,
Our children a little chance
To redeem themselves,
But no, pull out their hearts,
And tie their corpses to stone
Hail that same old wasted ideology,
And blemish the new with the whispers of the dead

All these years of the great revolution,
Have come to waste
Our sweet dreams as one great galactic race,
Reaching out for the most distant stars
Our affections as running children,
Looking at the sand as if it were the whole thing
Our great enchantment at little things,
Our wonder at scratches and fire matches
Ah! The sweet gleeful screeches we made,
Our twinkling eyes for touch and trembling
Our love for breasts, windy mornings, rain,
The smell of paint, the whispers of moving bicycles
Our fear of ghosts, our love of smooth rhyme
Our great wonder at the aches of sport,
The movements of our minds in the deepest of night
Our love of food, all kinds of food,
Our fear of pain, simple pain, great pain,
Nail polish, toe nail décor, talcum powder,
Toothpaste flavor, hair gel, fantasy fiction,
Running through the zoo like a new born retard,
Photography, the sweetness of good pornography
Whatever that is
And all things human, truly human,
And yet we settle for ideology,
For gods and genteel mannerisms in this blood desert

Sweet darling, we must be kisses on the wind,
For none last to be immortal
We are passing windows of the cosmic magic,
Little moments of great elation
For this whole wondrous space to celebrate,
Why stick like dirty shades of paint on a colorless wall?
With all these great ideas of eternal life
Why do you want to live forever?
What have you to establish?
Why even be remembered?
Why can’t you be like the wind? Forever glorious,
Eternal without knowing so
Become a flavor for the skies to cherish,
Food for the soil, you endless thing, you wondrous thing,
Come with me and become a whisper in the silence
We have nothing to lose or gain,
This world is a passing frame with a mysterious background
Come live that background,
And see for yourself,
What moves, what doesn’t, what lasts, what doesn’t
Nothing lasts.
It’s dark, kiss me

 

 

artwork: Paul Schad-Rossa – Into Eternity

 

Here Comes the Music

Here Comes the Music

Time feels like a soft fabric, sewed with great care,
Molded into fundamental existence
I watch it slip through my wicked perceptions through day and night,
Through my many calculations and intonations
Through my fiery kisses thrown at the grains of reality,
That find their way through holes in society
Much wine, much laughter, ah, the sweet delights,
Of waking life, of open eyes and sober dancing

Can I drop the waking awareness of myself?
Can I drop myself?
Drop my deadly awareness of you, my notions of you,
Her and him, I, you, them, us, all these slipping dreams
How can I come and dance at your doorstep,
Without a mind for a soul to hold onto
The sweet delights of escaping piano sounds color the space,
The space around me to birth something new
I cannot put forth anymore song that is your story,
A story of your past, of our history
No more music that will stink of nostalgia,
And be beaded in fading, faulty, old décor
Ah! How we dance! Look, its ecstasy knocking at your heart,
She’s come seeking fervently for a lover
And you, a busy snake meandering through yesterday’s dreams,
Sell your heart to sorrow instead

Come look with me into the gaps of creation,
Into the friendly darkness of the void
Come find yourself with me, come, I am
Let us go naked into the sunshine of the lord,
Seeking nothing yet being it all
Being the fabric, the very source of this all,
Of this great endless tale of waving light

We are the fathers of tomorrow,
The children of yesterday, beholding old dreams,
Seeking ancient archaic desires in the wilderness of illusions,
The illusions of different lives, several lives
And how we seek, with throbbing blood pumps and shining eyes
With innocent despair and mindless wanting
Ah, the sweet adventure of it all
The pain, the seething pangs of existence,
And its subtle yet glorious delights
How can we not see the whole cosmic joke?
As it unveils its tremendous humor,
Before our waking eyes,
Before our yearning non-existent selves
Before the dust, the fleeting dust that we are
In dust here I see the beatific vision
From dust I am, to dust I am,
And I am

Some symphonies never began, and they never end
Some take the grooviest turns and some persist,
Forever feeding the unspeakable magic of the universe
Look, there’s great music out there kindling our wisdom,
Great sound, great vision, there’s something glorious happening here
But we aren’t seeing it! We’re lost to clear glass and mirroring windows
We’re lost to hazy dreams of meager delights
We don’t really want everything do we?
If we did, we’d have it all
We don’t want enough, we don’t seek enough,
We’re lukewarm soldiers in destiny’s war
We haven’t the slightest idea of what this life really is,
Not the slightest idea of what we ourselves are
Foolish folk given such tremendous gifts,
I don’t see how these many men walk,
Six feet under into their cozy homes,
Without ever having realized the real spark of it all

Ah! Life, it’s too sweet to taste and too delightful to behold,
And yet! We are it sweet beloved,
We are it all
Aren’t it such a magnificent thing?
Ah! This magic, isn’t it wonderful?
Let’s strum our guitars sweet beloved,
Bring out the grandest pianos into the deserts of our society
Humanity needs no saving, it needs good music

I have heard salvation, but never seen it,
I have let it taste my blood in deep sound,
Kiss and lick my heart in silence,
The soul has ears but no eyes,
The truest of things exist with eyes closed
The deepest feelings, the most magical moments,
Close those eyes my love
Feel that invisible breeze reaching your insides,
Salvation is here. It wasn’t anywhere else, ever
And now it comes as wine in crystal glasses,
Before our eyes. To be drunk in splendor,
And enjoyed, as the sun sets,
For a trillionth time

Artwork: Garden of Delights by Toonikun

Modicums of Fall

Modicums of Fall

Fall comes, raining down upon us in orange,
Red, and little whispers of green through the trees
The world spins into delirious oblivion,
With lovers pausing from their thirsty kisses
Suited men in ties and bows pausing,
To look at how the whole Earth mourns
There’s a woman smoking a pipe at the edge of the forest,
She’s here to tell us how we shall break
As winter comes to steal our solace,
As the icy winds of Jupiter’s wrath,
Come to change the courses of our dreams

A little too much e-mail etiquette,
Brings our sensibility to cheap thievery
Being gentleman in the rain with umbrellas,
Only burns our innate imagination
See, Mrs. Candylady, she’s running and it’s raining,
She won’t get wet and ride a rainbow,
She seems to want only death and sunrise
See, Ms. Clockwork Angel dressed up like a man,
Somehow she put her heels on,
Got to work on time
And added more flavors of boredom and beer,
To her decorated fears of death

There’s literature dancing at the edge of my brain,
But I will not kiss it with eloquence
I will not give Eliot some bloody reason,
I will not let his ghost into my room
To tear the beats of my blazing heart into false lyric,
To sum my music up in his foolish equations of verse

The West lost their souls too early in dancing,
And let Newton wander about in their ecstasy
They let that mechanic ruin their hearts,
And now they’re running after Einstein
Let it go stargazers, leave your numbers to the leaves,
You come along sweetly and dance with me,
And we’ll leave your political pathoses to drench in rainbows

You will forget me, for I’m much of an ecstasy man,
And these people don’t like happy men
Happiness distracts them from their addictions,
Their addictions to boredom and dreams
They will crucify me to their sealed offices,
And tell me, ‘Keep your bloody music to your poetry.’
And I, sober like a black duck in cold water,
Will walk along on these roads of tar and paint,
To a little quiet death,
By the countryside

When we were young we spoke of meditation,
Like it was candy that we bought from a store
And as we stare into the raging fire of humanity’s tragedy,
We leave all those constructions of delight,
In the backyard of our worry
Liars, liars, sweet liars,
Children of the moon, children of assumption,
Children of the future, children without souls
Tell me more lies that I can tell myself,
For this world begins to move now too slowly
And the peaks of boredom come crashing down,
Into the valleys of my passing youth

We’re never too young to look back at life and say,
I’ve lived enough

We are the children of the moon, of the night, of fall,
Dancing to the orange waves of natural corruption
Death is all about us, calling to winter,
Like a child calls to his mother
And winter will come to make our cigarettes more delightful,
Winter will come to help our sleep be more complete

Mrs. Candylady will take off her heels,
And put on her new ones
And she’ll let Christmas kiss her hips,
As she wipes her face with shades of peach
And when spring comes along with its splendid dreams,
She will whistle her new tunes,
Of softness, purple eyeshade, appraised salary,
Minted tobacco, wheat beer, and cardiac arrest

And as I stand there at her funeral in summer,
I will sing for sweet Ms. Clockwork Angel,
Who stands beside me mourning her friend
Still wearing those long murderous heels,
Leaning on my shoulder, I smell those false tears
As I watch summer smiling through the clouds,
Smiling at the inevitable laws of our universe

Coat the seasons with your memories,
Tell your children the many lies of the sky
Coat it all with sugar, pepper, and chilly,
And bring drama to the corners of your smiles
Life’s too short for disastrous things,
It’s too long for ecstatic dreams
I see it all, now, above her grave,
The autumn leaf feeding off the sorrow
The autumn leaf, bringing life beyond,
To the evolution of dreams,
Into reality

Names of . . .

Names of . . .

Belligerent, as a man’s thirst for the ecstatic might reach,
Curling and swerving through the highways of rich sensual delight
As dissolved in selfish abstraction he deviates from natural cause,
Seeking women with eyes that milk the finest of his memories
The fault lies in wanting things that were never there,
Giving one’s vision dreams that never dared to live
The trouble has been harbored much in the endless search,
For an altitude at which most things under the sun, are perfect

I have wanted good things and chased worse for many moments,
Delighting in cloudy minutes of elevated self-uplifting
Scrounging at the clever discoveries of older groovier men,
Putting their sacred renderings of goodness into my own elevation
I have made myself an edifice of crafted lies and smiling masks,
A skeleton of all things that have delighted in the history of hearty things
Look at me, much too less now for you to see, lost in a menagerie,
The menagerie of existence that floats unfounded, in the halls of death

As we walk like shadows through the several nights of the long rain,
Groping for every little tickle that holds to glory our feeling selves
Hopeless, and meaningless, I can never find a sentence end
That will justify the torment of entrapment to this raging fire
The delight lasts as long as the eyes see, things they cannot understand
And once they discover, the name of the dawn, the song of dusk,
The light that brings life leaves sooner by the way in which it came

Everyone is cursed to feel the sky and be lost with no words to tell,
Even an ounce of the glory that one beheld, an ounce of that wonder
Is it our endless agony to know that some things can be named, yet not all?
Our endless agony to know of the infinite, and left with no other words to tell
For the eyes of man see things that words hardly tell,
His skin feeling things that no poetry, no sensational song no dance can tell
We see, and we know, and yet we leave without words to keep our sanity

Perhaps I’ve come to see that the name of the dawn cannot be told,
That the names of most things are ramblings that carry hopelessness through time

We come to see that the names we carry are the sounds of our memories,
Echoing through a delusional vortex of undressed time, naked in the moonlight
And the sounds of our memories hardly come to tell the tales,
That we sew and spin through the many days of this moving moment
This only moment that always is, this now

All names are but the sounds of memories,
And memories tell us of nothing but time
And time tells us nothing, but of things that are gone
Leaving us to mourn helplessly,
Remembering how most things could’ve been,
And of how we always fell short,
Of the better sweetnesses of life

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

Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Old friend, sweet friend,
You might remember those sunny afternoons
After having our chicken rolls,
Laced with egg and ketchup
We lay in that old famed tropical garden,
Smoking things that made us remember
Of fantasy, and lost angels, and genetic memories
How we looked into the endless expanse of blue,
And wondered of nothing, and everything

While men were titrating acid in large halls,
We were drinking it and pressing buttons on the sky
Revealing to ourselves stories of the moon,
In the shapes of clouds
We saw the clouds for what they really were,
Story tellers, painted by someone we never met
Maybe, it was us who painted those clouds,
Who forged the figures that told our minds,
Stories and histories of things,
Most people would seldom care to care for

While men read and wrote about the Earth’s endless green,
We smoked it and sat in wonderment
Speaking of things we never understood,
And laughing for things the world cared a little too less for
Do you remember, my old funny friend?
Of those summer skies we painted,
Sitting on that elevated terrace tank,
Smoking and joking, drinking and winking,
At the fact that we were alive, that we are alive

I’ve learnt so much and yet it feels like I know nothing
Memory is a cruel thing, a vile thing,
And yet, it makes me smile,
And drink

I wonder if those buttons in the sky still lurk about,
Waiting for us to explore,
To open our wanderings to unexplored meanderings
The world is a large place, and the universe larger
And yet we only think of what lies at the edge of it, and beyond
And much too less for what lies within it
I can’t care much for aliens and spaceships,
I’m a color man, a painter man

My wanderings always sought mystery,
In the beauty of little things
In the movement of ants, that trippy old fool,
The moon. In little words and pointless poetry,
I’m a color man, a painter man

Do you remember old friend?
Of how we tasted the sweet delights of teenage women
In our minds and much too less in our flesh
Dancing to the curly departures of our common sense,
Selling our souls to the breasts of young girls
Leaving our wisdom to be absorbed,
In the moisture of their lips
But you know what old buddy, you know what I learned?
I learned that the heated pleasure of a sweet damsel’s legs,
Give you heaven and sweetness in a simple moment
But the weary sting of her sudden departure,
Gives wisdom, that lasts eternity

Do you remember, bro, do you remember?
The songs we sang in the long summers of May,
With the produce of the short winter,
Green, smelling like mango,
Cherishing true comradeship in the blaze of our youth
I remember, but it’s true that sometimes I wish to forget,
For these things were beyond ecstasy
And to carry memories that have such goodness in them,
Is heavier than carrying those that foster sadness

Together we treaded the edges of the world’s finest music,
Wizards who forged sounds that nobody heard before
And dam, sweet brother, that music was good,
And it still is, and it’s been the greatest discovery,
We ever made.

Gandalf told me,
The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass.
He was a teacher to me more than anything this world could offer
And hey, as funny as it is,
The teachers of our imagination,
Do us an ample more good,
Than the folk who teach us,
The ways of this world

But old friend, this will all be gone
You me, the endless summers with green and gold
They will be gone, the gifts of the prophets,
That sobered our violent minds,
And gave us wisdom incomprehensible
We will become memories, but memories to whom?
Without us, without me, without I,
Is there a world?
Is there this life at all?
This summer of ecstasy, this winter of agony?
Will it last?
Who’s to know?
That’s why I choose to listen to the wisdom of the rain,
The whispers of monsoon’s drizzle,
They tell me tales of myself, and make me smile
And I think of you old friend,
And how we smoked the finest green,
In that lovely young summer,
So many years ago

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