Wendigo

Boasting in your light, you

have forgotten the strands of flesh that

once made you human.

I had to be conjured

from broken

Memories.

 

I’ll feed on your stories of thunder.

Your charlatan tales

of valor, creating you

but not you.

 

Read me in your legends.

I am the one who roams in fear,

creating grandeur out of

carcasses.

 

Bone and ashes under

a licorice sky;

Lust stamped with a smell of

Wilderness. My screams

unrelinquished, yet

familiar.

 

How many bullets have you left,

Traveler?

Let me show you the way.

The hope of a city amidst pop art, cubism and neverending psychedelia

Drip. Drop. The darkness takes shape

like a building, or the sky – shifting

in between often. Lights and lives

twinkle into existence at their whim,

and then flee into ether.

Somewhere, a camera whirs

and grainy diaries are made

from whoosh-hushes at the Phoochkawallah,

dreams by a gray river, rickety trams

with nostlagia ; failed poets and cathedral bells

collide. A chime of untold stories

on an Empire State, a state of Empire~

Once, centuries ago, now

buried under slogans, curry draped

melancholy, mom’s food – vapid 

relationships of body and a maggoty 

mind, screaming for air,

breathing high, sniffing low, stifled

by undercurrents.

Distant Memories

There was a time when we sang lullabies.

Artificial – be it, yet magically believable emotions

ran wild on our skins, in our

hearts. Those

were eons ago. Now you and I

are just a mix of yellow wallpapers

and history books; the purpose lost, the intent

buried, the spark dead.

We are just timid memories, not asinine, not pungent

not the least repulsive. We are bubbles that forgot

to breathe unto air.

We are just a notion of us, of what was, and

what could never be.

Let’s just start by saying I’m partly human

Let the bionic hand that caresses a child be

more machine than motheresque. The eyes that

only see, doesn’t shine

be vermin and not

vermilion.

Tethered echoes

floating through our conscience – let them

drown in the black abyss

of the burning smell of

capacitors, resistors, transistors – silicon and steel.

The isolation, let it be

complete, man from himself, reveling

in things that he invented, but forgetting

what invented him.

 

The Modern Nomad

In vastness of Patagonia,

I’ve heard hoofs making noises of muted

conversations; terrible wind notwithstanding,

a lonely Condor circles around

the last refuges – after which

human powers doesn’t

withstand.

An Armani blazer kisses the dirt that was once lava.

The naked body up for swim in the

acid lake amongst the Flamingos,

I eat sulfur for breakfast, and spew

magnificent Cadmium red and green

poems.

I sniff the fresh smell of snowflakes on

skin, running with Bisons and

diving with the gray whales.

This new earth is brutal,

but I love it. No love,

no connection, just

nomad-ing.

 

 

Waardenburg Syndrome

Whims tinkling like a lure shaped nausea,

bright hands look for escape. But I’m not running

away.

 

Founding fathers have become preachers, and cities

cotton-candy laced with drugs. The faint tolling of

churchbells have drowned in the

morning boots.

 

Did somebody say rainforests were

dying? The same masks are being sold in

bulk, and the civilization is

H

A

P

P

Y.

The lives of others

What good is your life, if you’ve been told it’s not yours?

That you need to follow somebody else’s; someone

with a shinier mask than yours – home

cars

trophy wife

Money.

The storm that rages and decimates calm shores

doesn’t follow another one, but you do.

With all your sanity, you drift into the road much trodden

where the grasses

have forgotten to grow. The uninspiring throne

is your bed. You don’t lust

after women, men – you are

raised to lust after a bucket list.

Your legacy is yours, like the crow’s nest cuckoo’s, and

the circus a joker’s.

The river meanders along paths unknown the first time it

jumps from a mountain. Thousand years later, the waters turn grey.

Souls turn grey too, only there aren’t enough eyes

to realize.