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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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.

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,
Now,
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
Cheers

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,
Something,
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,
Suffering,
Pain,
Misery

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,
Cannot

Just one look,
It will be over

Bliss in All Things Useless

Bliss in All Things Useless

In numbers and figures,
To count and wash,
To see all things for value,
In the light of survival

In our society, we are urged to pay attention to all things that carry value. We strive and work on things only from which we are sure there is some type of gain that is available. Even as I write these words, unconscious patterns in my head question if there is any need for this post, if there is any sort of entertainment, or any type of advantage in life’s scenario that can be gained. I have seen that it is in doing things that carry less value, such as watching the flight of a bird, or the simple sound and rustle of a leaf on a tree, or simply watching the water flow out onto the bathroom floor, it is in these things that the magic of life is revealed.

How many years have passed since we ceased to wonder? As children, the eyes are sensitive to all colors. Every vibration of the world counts as a little piece of magic inside our hearts. Today, those little bits only remain as memories. In striving for magic again in our lives, we turn toward the satisfaction of our senses. There is no magic in the satiation of our senses. We have forgotten to see and instead chosen to seek.

Life is a very big mystery. You see, as hard as I try to pen down what life really means, I always fall short of the real thing. Words are useless, but you see, there is a certain charm in tuning one’s experiences into a textual orchestra.

Because of common sense and calculation, our world lost its path thousands of years ago. When we forgot that all things splendid exist in the perception of life through a child’s eyes. Growing up means to collect knowledge, become serious, and turn all attention toward leading a settled and organized life. But I’ll tell you what, that’s not what growing up is. Growing up is to understand that learning is not accumulation of observed movement but forgetting all that one has accumulated.

We cannot see life for what it is through yesterday’s eyes and tomorrow’s dreams. When God is dancing so rich and decorated before our eyes, in mystery and splendor, everlastingly loving calling us to castles of magic that lie beyond perception, we settle for meager tokens of temporal satisfaction. Our tastes are limited, we are not thirsty anymore for the infinite, we have decided even in desire to desire the little. Do we really know what desire is? We speak of it like we understood perfectly well. But do we even know what we really want? Do we know what hides deep in those untrod areas of the soul? Those subtle, very subtle memories of thousands of years of existence, have we seen those, do we know?

You see, in the digestion of a thousand words, a man can tell a new story. But on listening to a million words, on pure listening, without any sense or sort of sense of any type of objection in that listening, without any type of prejudiced resistance in that listening, just through pure listening, a man will realize that there are no stories left to tell. We are the story, we are the dancing minstrels casting spells of love in the oceanish space of expression.

I must fail in language, I will fail, there is no other way but to fail in language when I am confronted with this, with this phenomenal thing that is life. How can I tell of it? If need be, I will cast all bondage of writing style and lingual hindrances aside to get the closest I can to the signboards to salvation.

You see, we were never enslaved but always free. But somehow in this tale of modern society, we forgot what magic was all about.

Bliss in All Things Useless,
Kisses by an undivided road
Dreaming of a princess with orchid lips,
I sat to fold my million hearts
Can I kiss you if the wind stayed selfish?
Would I still ask you to smile at me?
I wonder my beloved, in which corner you lurk,
Spurning this river of cocky connection