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    you locked me in your holy palace

    • 11. June 2022 18:37

    you locked me in your holy palace
    and forced me into the robes
    of a voiceless priest.

    tell me
    what could be worse
    than to be
    a disembodied witness to
    your own failures?
    to be subject to
    raucous laughter from companions
    and lovers who cannot hear you
    and yet they laugh when your trousers are down
    your dick dangling
    no, swinging
    like a new species of carnivorous worms
    and this fucking boulder
    writhing in epileptic shock at the
    back of your throat:
    forcing you away
    from that soothing touch of sound
    of your own voice:
    a simple act, but foreclosed
    for the gagged heretic

    why do you torment me
    with words of sickness
    that you distribute to the world?
    words that rip my intestines open
    like glued pages of a decaying book?
    i close my eyes
    i make my attempt
    i stand with an unsteady determination
    against that heady gust of gossip.
    and after this vile circus
    you decide then to remind me:
    fool! it was all just a dream!
    but a dream can be experienced 
    unlike you, with your body of stone
    dangling self righteous from a cross
    come, come and offer me your wisdom!
    pray tell what can one do
    to surpass this loneliness?
    or the constant nagging of
    that all too familiar
    expectant dread that
    exudes someone else’s desire of
    who I should be
    that seems to have managed
    in its snivelling hand-rubbing trickery
    to gain this privilege of pouring gasoline
    and setting fire to the
    very appetite that i need
    to survive on this absolute
    bitch of an earth?

    ah, but i’ve stolen your sacred book
    and i’ve read all your secrets while
    you, cursed by medusa,
    could do nothing but look at me with
    the dead eyes of a lynched man,
    a pretty decoration that
    swindles peoples’ dreams.
    i saw what I should not have seen
    and having no other choice left
    i’ve hidden myself from you
    and i will live the life of a shadow in this world.
    i will learn to become water
    transparent in all my bitterness
    and an elixir to the sufferers of thirst.

    i have paved my route through the forest floor
    and my current will flow seamlessly
    away from your tower of dreams.

    may death follow wherever you offer
    your flesh and your wine,
    may the veil you wear
    fall and shatter like brittle porcelain;
    for this jungle has devoured me
    and I embrace its indifference willingly.

    so come, come and carry your marbled cross and
    find me in this wilderness,
    come outside and look me in the eye, coward
    i dare you.

    The Hot Air Balloon

    • 2. June 2022 03:06

    This is a story on drifting.

    It is midday and I am dreaming. A summer wind hot with sleep has carried itself to the depths of our house, through rooms and corridors and windows that rattle like those old trucks you see sometimes when you’re on the highway. It is a violent rattle. The sunlight followed in places—-where it existed, it painted the walls with warmth, and one could feel the earth steal a slow sigh of comfort. And you in the bedroom, reading. I had given the book to you long ago, and you had been meaning to flip by it. You were just finishing off a stray page when I came in, but you did not look, and you did not smile. It was so beautiful outside I imagined everyone cartwheeling across the city in joyous celebration, it could have been so. I wouldn’t have known, because I was looking straight at your eyes, and they were a little sad. Your pupils moved slowly as you read the page, like as if you couldn’t concentrate. Through the curtains the sky shone a smiling white, vast and intense and fading into a creeping redness that seeped in through the corners, riding atop cigarette-smoke clouds. You had left me by now. The sound of your suitcase creaking as it swung, fading moment after moment is still fresh in my memory, I had bought the suitcase. It was green but you painted it colourful and wrote your initials on them in a handwriting deliberately unlike mine. I had chuckled at the time, and said how beautiful it looked. It did look beautiful, it is faded now. You are still here but you never leave the bedroom, you are a shackle, you are a chain. Nowadays I don’t bother, I am a coward, I am a snail.

    When you snore I creep silently out of the second floor window and drift. I have been to many clouds, I have named them. They disappear often but they always come back. They are the souls of stars. They have given me wishes and taken me closer to see the stars twinkling like giant white orbs of a million overwhelming moments, and one after another they hit me straight into my heart through the centre of my forehead and then I smile and say, “I am alright.” They are true friends, the stars. I am especially fond of Orion, for they are there every night for me, whenever I look up. They are smiling and smoking cigarettes. I sing to them. They like drifting. In the mornings you magically disappear from your bedroom and I can smell your perfume on the pillow. It makes me soft and fuzzy and I grow blue and wish it was night so I could have a smoke on the terrace. And look at the stars.

    You are now a creature I don’t understand, and it confuses me. I fear you might be growing a tail. Sometimes I feel that disheartening bump on your ass. Your teeth are longer and you have produced hair on your pupils. I think I can safely say that you are different. And like a wild beast that hunts in the shadows of jaguar rain-forests, I fear you may disappear, slink away quietly into the night while I am busy drifting. 

    Why can’t I stop? I must’ve turned into a hot air balloon. No wonder people can’t seem to get a hold of me.

     

    mind in drift

    • 2. June 2022 00:32

    This mind in drift
    Through golden clouds
    My shadow falls
    On golden crowds
    Who filter through
    The alleyways
    On their Mercs
    And Chevrolets
    While all I own
    My shadow keeps:
    A mind in drift
    Is a mind asleep.

    My little box

    • 2. June 2022 00:10

    Years later, I found a little box where I kept my most prized possessions. It was empty. Had I not wanted anything as a child? Perhaps I had lost everything. I remember losing my toys at a ridiculously rapid rate. Even now I consistently keep losing things, and people don’t trust me with their lighters and matches any more. I pocket them absent-mindedly. I pocket all sorts of things absent-mindedly. (I am an absent-minded thief.) I am stranded in my self-made island of wretched carelessness. I mean no harm. (I am a harmless possum.)

    ***********

    I swung open the box today again. It was empty.

    Are we compelled to put things into our little boxes and spend the rest of our lives scavenging through our neighbour’s backyard looking for more? I hold the ecstatic feeling of every shit in the morning closer to my heart than mere material wealth. Perhaps that’s why it’s empty. You can’t hold abstractions in your hand. 

    I’ve often caught myself in the act of drowning in self-pity and I witness a shadow of me trying to justify my apparent disregard for the enormous web of humanity that surrounds me, with vague philosophical ejaculations. They are all premature (ha, ha). It seldom works. Perhaps it is the sperm count (my philosophical penis is weak). I am like a dog without an appetite in a land of raining biscuits.

    ***

    I have recurring dreams.

    I have recurring dreams of being followed by a dog, rabid and mangy, mouth frothing at the lips. He stalks me everywhere I go like a lonely drifting spirit, inching closer all the time but never close enough. Every morning after, I would awake with goosebumps scourging my back and no morning erections. (I still have these dreams now and then and cannot figure out why he is so intent on following me even into offices, banks and classrooms. I must be going crazy.)

    ***

    I must be going crazy. People mention this all the time but seldom mean it. It is half-hearted and lethargic. It breeds loss of breath. It is death. Often it loses its meaning and observers let it go by without pausing to mull it over. Words die in conversations on the profound. (Words die in English classrooms.) Usually it is a lie. If a man were to truly realise the inevitable demise of his sanity, it would send a nerve-racking chill up his spine (And plant rabid dogs in his dreams. He will be followed everywhere forever and ever.) If I am to go insane, I will need nothing more than an empty room and a box of paint. (I have learned to keep things simple.) I will paint the room to my liking. People can watch me as I paint the walls over and over again. It will be like a zoo. (I am a majestic tiger, and the paint is my roar.) (I am Sisyphus, and the paint is my boulder) They will throw me treats now and then and I will grovel and drool on the floor like a pathetic worm. (Insanity is no joke.) I hope to goodness I don’t become crazy enough to eat all of the paint. I hope it never happens (and now it will because I’ve thought of it. That’s how it is on this bitch of an earth.) That would be a real shame. (What will I draw with?) That is bad enough to be deemed as torture. (What will I do when I’m bored?) I hope they don’t put me in a straitjacket. I expect I will die out of an excess of defiance (paranoia) or claustrophobia (paranoia). It has to be paranoia. I do not trust myself. (Sometimes I feel that everyone I know are aware of something important, and keeping it secret from me) How will I draw with a straitjacket on? I will have to use my mouth. I will have to try. Apparently some people can paint with their anus. (I will have to try.)

    ***

    I will have to try and put things into my little box. Maybe cut-outs of pretty girls and some money. (These days little boxes are sometimes known as banks).

    I hope they’re worth it. 

    The Earthquake/Where did my voice go?

    • 22. May 2022 18:52

    my words crumble
    all earthquake-like
    into an unknown darkness.
    i submerge myself in
    eyeballs that spew
    warm self-criticism.
    i escape the unfamiliarity
    of these redundant verses.

    the eyeballs
    pry into past thoughts
    into bygone poems:
    “why the hell did you romanticize
    this fragile ego?”
    they squelch to me
    in unison.

    i harvest
    the humour of the eyes
    and they watch me
    suspiciously.

    they zap my wanton squishy
    thieving grey-matter brain
    (possibly with skull-piercing lasers
    or other equally alarming weapons
    similar in purpose,
    and often the cause of
    gaping holes in my
    imagination.)
    such weaponized pests
    search fiendishly for
    whatever self-serving scraps remain
    of my lonely, silver tongue.

    this is why
    strings of rotten words
    of estranged letters
    squelch naked out of my fingers in hoards:
    but these verses are without love.
    these words disregard
    how they used to lie still
    silently fulfilling their purpose
    on my piece of paper.

    and nowadays
    the only thing that i
    can honestly muster
    out of this vile brain
    that now resides under the
    constant vigilance of my pet eyeballs
    and in the seemingly perpetual absence
    of actual talent —-
    is this satisfyingly weird
    predictably vertical
    sort-of-ugly
    arrangement of words.

    Resolution

    • 20. May 2022 11:00

    these people that are now a crowd,
    these people that have screamed aloud,
    their sorrow hides behind their frown,
    their stories i shall pen them down.

    To A Bird

    • 20. May 2022 10:57

    in the streets that we have bought
    i have seen you lost in thought
    in the plains of grief and naught
    i have seen you walking.

    and upwards you had hitched in lifts
    and downwards i have moved in shifts
    and never have we paused for gifts
    nor water nor conversing.

    and i have seen your inner world
    and i have seen your sighs unfurl
    in fits and screams they swirl and swirl
    without rhyme or reason.

    and as i drift on further down
    through our moon’s dressing gown
    there is no tear nor grief nor frown
    only quiet acceptance.

    and as you circle up in time
    through fields of forest smoke sublime
    most definitely in your prime
    too soon you reach the sun

    and when you touch the fireball
    one day baby you have to fall
    and spiral down where angels call
    to you in dreamy murmurs.

    so do not breathe another sigh
    for in my dream you learn to fly
    and in my dream you never die
    this dream that spirals downwards.

    and in the streets that we have bought
    where we have drifted lost in thought
    where the city groans in grief and naught
    existence has no meaning.

    Abandon

    • 20. May 2022 10:49

    We laughed, we cried,
    Side,
    By side,
    We danced, we danced; However—
    The shine we held was thus expelled,
    And she hid her face, forever.

    I searched our cheers for years and years.
    I searched, until today.
    She was, perhaps, a dream, of sorts:
    A dream that slunk away.

    A Letter Of Apology To The Little Man Inside My Brain

    • 20. May 2022 10:47

    Little man, speak;
    For you have been silent for many nights
    And I have made you wear silly smiles,
    As you walked back,
    Endlessly,
    Back to your curious little cave-lair,
    My head.

    Little man, scream;
    For you are very very angry with me,
    I know,
    And I would really really like to make it up to you.
    Truly, honestly.

    This time, we walk back together,
    Endlessly,
    Back to our curious little cave-lair,
    My head.

    Elation

    • 20. May 2022 10:44

    Wave goodbye to moments akin
    Ferment the flesh from the fruit of sin
    If I take a swig, with nonchalance
    In death I will live my foreverdance.