Boasting in your light, you
have forgotten the strands of flesh that
once made you human.
I had to be conjured
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
Bone and ashes under
a licorice sky;
Lust stamped with a smell of
Wilderness. My screams
How many bullets have you left,
Let me show you the way.
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
There was a time when we sang lullabies.
Artificial – be it, yet magically believable emotions
ran wild on our skins, in our
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 the bionic hand that caresses a child be
more machine than motheresque. The eyes that
only see, doesn’t shine
be vermin and not
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.
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
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
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
Whims tinkling like a lure shaped nausea,
bright hands look for escape. But I’m not running
Founding fathers have become preachers, and cities
cotton-candy laced with drugs. The faint tolling of
churchbells have drowned in the
Did somebody say rainforests were
dying? The same masks are being sold in
bulk, and the civilization is
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
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