20.11.09
10.11.09
Writer's Block.
It feels like an infinite breeze. Raging. Whirlpools of dust engulfing what could be but seems like the only left. And still miles out of reach.
Why is each step a stride and why does each petal die?
Like evening twilights or maybe the street lamps at the eve of dawn.
Flickering to burn but put out. That too after an entire day of exhaustion to burn it’s promised due.
The grass had a faint fragrance of the dampness of the once fresh roses that now smell like the youth in raw bitter myrrh. Of fresh new bodies crammed in between the peace of the old graveyard. That reeked of an overdose of white powder called crack and its itch.
Like the stale smell of spilt ink across paper which could have been the story of the corpse bride beside the major’s coffin. Children died of the plague and the mothers gathered them with love for the lost and mostly inane suffering. Wrung.
The horizon didn’t meet the sea anymore. There was a distance. Of grey. Dorian Grey. The sea was a deep color that reflected spools of light rays in every direction crisscrossing in random directions, bouncing over the sea like a military of serpents charging at a terrestrial army for war.
Why wasn’t it a rainbow after the sandalwood and thyme drizzle that blazoned the earth’s crust? Searing in drop at a time.
The news channels were a bleak promise of an awaiting disaster. The news papers reeked of death and destruction and threat and suffering.
Why would a poet want to write about making love or be bothered by the occasional whiff of carnal instinct in purity of real sin? When all of what would reek instead of epinephrine, were soggy re used cotton bandages to blot blood of skin before we put our kin out on bon voyage across the river Styx?
Why were we killing? Why were children to the old calling pills, happy and popping them like candy and sugar treats? And some of the one’s who didn’t picked up guns and knives that slashed through life, whether searing through the oxygen we breathed, ran bullets in swiftness of dismay; like the stench of a knife in skin of thy kith, of irony it bled as it ended together, him and us, in silence we walk away?
Is life so empty and wasted to us like a drink – a – rum stint by the bay?
But that was with fairy lights and women with hips like mermaids that ran ripples in the pond as you stepped into its icy cold itch and spread love as you decided to sway, with them! It was of music and bongo drums that throbbed in your temples that were now slave to the mystic gaze across the table right there, laughing in her moment with a memory of her past escapades?
Why was it always war? And NEVER the time to celebrate and make merry in stupor of a buzz and zing of crushed ice and the strongest of malts taking over your very body, stealing it from your mind?
Why did men come, only to leave beds? Why did they hold hands and walk away? Why was it not the Cuban cigar and smolder, lit after orgasms but only the smell of gun powder smoke? Cause you sold your soul to it? You won the war, my friend, but sold you soul to gunpowder smoke.Yes.
Are we so distraught like an earthen intricately sculpted pot in a desert? To just remove our clothes at the end of night and be two tired weary lovers that slept on different beds, and never thought of love? Because it was the other, we waited to love?
Fuck you, and you and fuck your Xanax. I could have a thirty of them and sleep like a baby and wake up the next day and do life instead of it writing me out. I could let pens re write over paper, piling onto written words and make a parchment of chaotic lexis and smear it across your bitter face and remind you that you’ll rot alone and never have her touch you, cause she’d be dead and you can call upon your crisp green notes and carry them in your pocket on a walk through the alien park, muffler and all, holding photographs or the skin that burned on your sinew of hatred and darkness of dismay.
Its raining outside like a shower tap was left loose and left dripping in its slowest by controlling and giving it only half of its original path way? We clogged our wells and now we cry for farmers ?
We beat the living shit out of the wild animals and put them in a zoo or now sneakily hit them with tranquilizers. But you stole, what’s theirs, you’ll pay. And now we play politics on wooden cedar and pine chair or rosewood, if you please its scent. Whatever happened to calling out each one of them and asking what they say? Clearing out your demons and drowning them in sin is like drinking to cirrhosis of the liver and refusing to drown yourself in the ocean and preferring to bleed to death, instead?
And I’ll live on in the ash of my unread parchments buried beneath the remains of human hate.
That will turn dust and blow away.
killing me killing you.
Why is each step a stride and why does each petal die?
Like evening twilights or maybe the street lamps at the eve of dawn.
Flickering to burn but put out. That too after an entire day of exhaustion to burn it’s promised due.
The grass had a faint fragrance of the dampness of the once fresh roses that now smell like the youth in raw bitter myrrh. Of fresh new bodies crammed in between the peace of the old graveyard. That reeked of an overdose of white powder called crack and its itch.
Like the stale smell of spilt ink across paper which could have been the story of the corpse bride beside the major’s coffin. Children died of the plague and the mothers gathered them with love for the lost and mostly inane suffering. Wrung.
The horizon didn’t meet the sea anymore. There was a distance. Of grey. Dorian Grey. The sea was a deep color that reflected spools of light rays in every direction crisscrossing in random directions, bouncing over the sea like a military of serpents charging at a terrestrial army for war.
Why wasn’t it a rainbow after the sandalwood and thyme drizzle that blazoned the earth’s crust? Searing in drop at a time.
The news channels were a bleak promise of an awaiting disaster. The news papers reeked of death and destruction and threat and suffering.
Why would a poet want to write about making love or be bothered by the occasional whiff of carnal instinct in purity of real sin? When all of what would reek instead of epinephrine, were soggy re used cotton bandages to blot blood of skin before we put our kin out on bon voyage across the river Styx?
Why were we killing? Why were children to the old calling pills, happy and popping them like candy and sugar treats? And some of the one’s who didn’t picked up guns and knives that slashed through life, whether searing through the oxygen we breathed, ran bullets in swiftness of dismay; like the stench of a knife in skin of thy kith, of irony it bled as it ended together, him and us, in silence we walk away?
Is life so empty and wasted to us like a drink – a – rum stint by the bay?
But that was with fairy lights and women with hips like mermaids that ran ripples in the pond as you stepped into its icy cold itch and spread love as you decided to sway, with them! It was of music and bongo drums that throbbed in your temples that were now slave to the mystic gaze across the table right there, laughing in her moment with a memory of her past escapades?
Why was it always war? And NEVER the time to celebrate and make merry in stupor of a buzz and zing of crushed ice and the strongest of malts taking over your very body, stealing it from your mind?
Why did men come, only to leave beds? Why did they hold hands and walk away? Why was it not the Cuban cigar and smolder, lit after orgasms but only the smell of gun powder smoke? Cause you sold your soul to it? You won the war, my friend, but sold you soul to gunpowder smoke.Yes.
Are we so distraught like an earthen intricately sculpted pot in a desert? To just remove our clothes at the end of night and be two tired weary lovers that slept on different beds, and never thought of love? Because it was the other, we waited to love?
Fuck you, and you and fuck your Xanax. I could have a thirty of them and sleep like a baby and wake up the next day and do life instead of it writing me out. I could let pens re write over paper, piling onto written words and make a parchment of chaotic lexis and smear it across your bitter face and remind you that you’ll rot alone and never have her touch you, cause she’d be dead and you can call upon your crisp green notes and carry them in your pocket on a walk through the alien park, muffler and all, holding photographs or the skin that burned on your sinew of hatred and darkness of dismay.
Its raining outside like a shower tap was left loose and left dripping in its slowest by controlling and giving it only half of its original path way? We clogged our wells and now we cry for farmers ?
We beat the living shit out of the wild animals and put them in a zoo or now sneakily hit them with tranquilizers. But you stole, what’s theirs, you’ll pay. And now we play politics on wooden cedar and pine chair or rosewood, if you please its scent. Whatever happened to calling out each one of them and asking what they say? Clearing out your demons and drowning them in sin is like drinking to cirrhosis of the liver and refusing to drown yourself in the ocean and preferring to bleed to death, instead?
And I’ll live on in the ash of my unread parchments buried beneath the remains of human hate.
That will turn dust and blow away.
killing me killing you.
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