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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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