detachment.

bhikshandehi

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.

ennui

u n i

the melancholy of romance.

and if each drop
of the most tormented
fall of rain
fell and drenched
those pearls pf sweat
that trickle down
the silhouettes of pain

it would be like those
words you left
unsaid
and i would bathe
in nothingness

and if each yawn
withheld
during those nights
that perturb the mind

in lost thoughts
of frozen memories
that your head
thawed
into my lips
leaving it bereft
of thine own
while you stepped back
just like the berries
left uncolored
by a coating of thick snow


I'd drink all your poisons.

and if pain was
only agony
your red bean
on my cherry
would disprove

those moments
like bubbles of faith
would burst
just
in one stoke of lightning
that colored
the flush on my cheek

as you gave rhythm
to my movement

and this is pain
for it shall remain
etched in my skin
for the depths of hell
are only the gravity
of the measure
of its nadir

for if hell
was the worst
I’d confess
To all,
That it wouldn’t be worse
than your leaving my womb bereft.

hannibal

Those magic rings of menthol she exhaled.
Without using her fingers, she puffed away.
A breath, a curl of a lip.
The rings levitated in the air.
Vanishing in pendulous motion into the surrounding air.
She stopped tapped the butt to its end and crushed the cigarette or what's left.
A swig of ruby red liquor to start the evening, a round of red wine before taking swigs of white rum.
Beer was welcome as a snack substituting brunch in the time after evening.
And then in a thrifty yawn she entered into her room, tip toeing, she lived in her small apartment, quite small for all her belongings, the one's she had over time.
The plus sized shirt slid off her shoulder blades, it was his.
Or maybe hers, now in his absence and deficiency.

In thrifty yawns she moaned her last sound and probably the only meaningful one.
Cynicism kills, curiosity just becomes a habit that if not sabotaged leads to its occurrence that renders melancholy and thoughts of death to an extent which becomes pleasurable.

Good night world, as she cocooned in the thick layers of fluffy cotton a muffler the only piece of clothing on her body.
Apart from the cotton rug.

She held her belly and tightly clenched all of its lower.
Her second eye shutting, a trickling tear.
A drop of blood from the fingertip
or far worse from the throat.
Death knocked upon and she knew she'd choose life.
Being bruised was too much of a familiarity to be amused by a strumming guitar sans the mesmerize of the thunderbird, that got us in each other's arms.
The blues, oh honey , Meredith whispered.
And in a lullaby of a loving woman she shut my eye lids tight and clenched my soft skin, kneading it as I drifted into the world.
World.
Heh.

She woke up quickly, rolled tobacco in a rizzla and let out a puff after the light.
She always used a filter so as not to burn her thick pink lips.

She blew smoke above her head as she lay down.
She looked at the mirror on the ceiling.
Mirrors were a solace.
Sometimes iconically ironic of the past.

She drifted finally, she was simple, sleep saved her from the complexities of the forbidden mind.
The drop of wine across her neck trickled down drying across her bosom.
She looked outside of the window and her eyes shut.
In a last conscious breath she smiled and then curled her lip into a pursed line.
Heartbeats were made of those smiles.
Now they just put her to sleep.
As a habit.

Goodnight, world.

birthday week

The pack of wolves walk by
Ravens swivel higher skies
in the mighty dark plumes
cawing the most defying agony

The raven shrieks in harmony of against
the deafening silence of victory
Soaring the most higher of elysian
reflecting skies

In the bristle of wind against
blades of grass
tushe' ing through air

the eagle flew
ravaging life

Walked in all its might
a step
two step
then
Looked up
whisking the air
with a prod of the chin to gaze
at what lay ahead
a glint of fiery blaze

in zig zag mazes
borne across its back
the tiger stood
bathed in shattering silences
all so high

the phoenix shot up to the horizon
burnt by the passion of birth

And exhausting the womb of the sky
engulfing all of fire and then into the oceans
it drew a somber veil
to paint a misty haze of night
which was but the
darkest of black in vacuum
of destruction
its deafening mourns
not one near the eie
and this was what the passion of birth evoked
all of destruction
and heralded by a small glow worm
which warmed the ice sprinkled skies

And through the point of darkness
pitched in through the circle of life
Roared He,
piercing through silence
shattering the skies
its veils
its sublime cold beauty
to its best the radiance of warmth

shook his majestic mane
walked past
and all mesmerized;
lead astray by strength
now involved with its intricacies
walking by
in mighty strides
raking cool dust clouds from the womb of life

Ars est celare artem

Abyssus abyssum invocat

Amicus.

the underdog he was
till born

In gruff heavy breaths of elixir
Strode past the Lion.

Optical Optimism.

And so I walked upon some dry leaves.
All crumbling to dust.
Wondering where all those mental handicaps had wandered.

And so I took a boat to the shore across
and swore to find
why rowing was of no use
as the angry river flowed by.


Were they lined across a grave?
the most wilted poppy
across the heart of the
cold intricate tombstone
that seemed to cynically remind
of how it adorned death
till it wilted away.

I walk past the ocean
letting all of my senses
to flit right above
the retreating tide
soothing my silences
drowning me in its still.

Across the expanse of crystal
and its playful lies
of light and water
stretched out to the distant sun
I looked under the ocean bed
and in empty oysters
that didn't bear pearls.

And as a flash of lightning
caught the eie
were perceived in my ear
in echoes of thunder
I once more looked up
to the heavens above
and noticed not the elysian lawns
but the grim veil
of the lull before a storm.

And then the cliff
and scented pine and rosewood trees
and then was the edge
and beneath lay eternity or what
the eie couldn't see.
A single stone
was never heard of after it rolled off.

And around the mast
fluttered strongest of linen
that still was moved by the breeze
and from the ship
I looked above
and before I knew the journey
was at the end.

So I still walked home
in dreary steps
and huddled inside a rug
watching rain drops
slither down the window sill
and breathing across the pane
in hot steams
doused in aroma of coffee
and then pitter patter
on the ledge
reminded me again
of thoughts of vex

And then lay sight
upon my eye
a twinkle in
the distant sky
and believe it
so,
because I tell
It told me
to stop finding

It said to me
If you look through
eyes of hell
of what's left
and the worst
It shall be what
you shall get

And then it broke out
into fire
and drowned into
the ocean
and as I watched
and stopped and stooped
I knew how
secrets could kill.

:)

Pagan Thoughts.

Her bangle slipped and ran a quick swivel through rounds of itself, in itself, running directionless.
A sudden expansion.
The bangle withdrew and like a dying swordsman, legs cut, grueling to keep combat, it fell.
Swinging the sword in honor of death.
It fell on the cold mosaic floor.
Its rubies scratched in dust.
Glistening untouched.

In a mighty swivel of her hips, she walked, the water, from her hair contouring the midst of her wet thigh, along her dainty legs, as she walked to it.Lunging forward, in an arch of a mighty monument rich in sensual intricacies.She picked it up, pouted her lip in the tiniest circle, perfect for air to pass.
To blow off the dust.

In a silly twitch of her bushy shaped, eyebrows, she jerked her upper body in a cruise as she struggled to fit the bangle through her wrist.

A distant whiff of hot sambrani in the cool evening air.
Right through her moist hair.

And then she disappeared behind the shelled veil, separating a part of her room, to show the fresh flesh hidden and opaqued underneath it.

And then she dressed.

His breath ran out long back.
He survived long enough , to gasp his last words, left unsaid.

Thank you.





"This idoll which you terme Virginitie,
Is neither essence subject to the eie,
No, nor to any one exterior sence,
Nor hath it any place of residence,
Nor is't of earth or mold celestiall,
Or capable of any forme at all."
- To Lust.


"Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.—
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!—
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena."
- To Love.

Seasons.

The tuft of of lift
like that of ruffles of the
dress
of a spanish tressed
broken into fervor
of a fast beat.
The once, spring
in my staunch walk.

As autumn blew willows
and acorns hardened
in prepare of winter and its
symphonies.

Compilations.
those rain drops that brim within my mouth
as i shut my eyes tight
embracing brevity
trickling down my shoulders
my bosom
cupped between ravines of
the hard of frozen buds
and gravel across its roots
like the shrivel of a nipple.
just like the wholesome taste
of it in your mouth
to the brim.

Winter echoed and whined
the ghosts
whistled past the
white flowers
adorning the cleft of the
bushes on the right.


Swiveled scorched
in the bright of the radiance of sun
following her soap soaked feet
into the womb of hot sand
like crabs biting toes.
just small baby ones
that get crushed
because its for you.
thats when summer flocked
upon the hem of a skirt
shriveling them to unravel
stockings
that teased from beneath.

The blackest of rain
turned purple
after crimson dowsed it
to the grey of time
and then simmered a purple.
The Purple of timeless stains
embedded in a classic snapshot
of black and white
under the Eiffel like light house
shwooshing through the air
all its brilliance in the reflections
of it in the water
the same
over which rocked our boat
as you row'd
us to the shore.
The only shore with the light
that shines.
In little twinkling lights
in your eyes.
Of corsets and coffee shots
that followed.
In the moist dew
on hay of pure viscosity.
We floated, oh did we?
And only clouds could
tell, how it felt
to carry the light heart
weighed down and set free
by love.

By Jove, How
is this.
But a tale of Eos and tryst.
In hymns and chants
of the october rust.

And in lieu
Karma, is burst.

Lets live those seasons.
That as I walk everyday
through death,
remember,
that, its this dream
in my realities,
that I pine.
That keeps me
walking through
dirt
falling apart in it
each time
and ingrained
as sea serpents
un-entwine
from beneath
the churned waves
of an eternal splash
in emerald oceans.

A cacophony of distant
exotic bird whistles
echoing through opacity
of water
diminishing
as fishes gurgle into my nostrils
of secrets of the pearl.
Beneath and bequeathed
between
the most feminine of flesh.

And as I lost breath inside
my face in
a large bowl
of iced water.

This wait.
Won't be long.
These seasons.
Will pass.
Just live.
This time like
the last was divine.