Friday, July 14, 2017

D.B.C.B.A.

Instead of falling in love
with a human being
I've fallen in love with a song

It cannot be called anything else
After all, I wake up
in the middle of nights
craving to be at home
in its familiar little world

I crave to come back to it
like it was the first time
I can't, of course, nevertheless
it's comforting to know
that it still exists

I smile when my mind
knows where to go back
and where to stay
every time I am stuck
every time I am uneasy

It's an addiction
to the breathing of another being
to its repetition
to the sanctity
of the recorded artificial voice

To love is to be
in the company of another

Not more, not less

Friday, September 11, 2015

Shades

Oppressing interest
pressing foot down on
kindness and hope
illusion and fear
playing slow dance
alone in a tight room
where versions of despair
paint and laugh
and
tearing the throats of men
vainly
until dawn of cool pain
pulls shades of night away.

Here now

Achievement
of me
surreal days
longing moments
usual practices
juvenile discretion
humble requests
whimpering silences
infinite justice
and
listening experience.

Incense

Missing some lines of faith
Any gifts of silent prophecy
Loving thoughts of parity
Those means of preparation
that come with hunger and
come with youth.

Stay informed of the love
and incarceration
of delayed support
and insincere requests answered.

Dreams wild gather
They light up together
And incense flows
into nostrils of pain
and flowers of afterthought
die in the dirt.

Of me

Writing new songs
and casting old ones away
Plying new routes
on new winds
Catching the running light
from the lamp
Younger than tonight
breathing big
I am doing fine
in the future of
tragedy.

You and Your Insides

Your lack of response
Or my lack of faith
Seems to sabotage the same things
Those I never understand
But feel under my very normal life
This one whirl, this one dart
Into you and your insides
That brings me pain
Quite like the one in bed
When you are comfortable and silent
And yet there is no sleep

Monday, February 18, 2013

Balaclava


My friend called in this evening time
when I was wrapping up for the day,
and beginning to slip to Otherland,
swim in the burrows and cat-flying molehills,
into the subconscious pathways of mental cities.

He asked me meandering is not easy.
He asked me for change, and retibution.
He asked me if younger people are cocky, and selfish.
He asked me for understanding.
He asked me ten thousand questions, all abound with picture frames, illusory glasses.
He asked what he had to ask, what he meant were difficult questions, which he thought about day and night.

My answers were simple.
Into the darkness and out of the light, my answers were not double, or triple.
Younger flesh is smoother flesh, I answered.
The greatest saints are more selfish, I answered.
If you look at old and young together hanging out, it's the old that is steamy, cocky,  unclear, bavarde, ill-posed, prostituted, caring too much, hiding, fighting, expecting, I answered.
Worst of all, the old are encouraging, as if they have tamed life, and charmed it, and answered all its questions.
Flowers don't grow, flowers don't grow, the earth starts growing.

And so on and so forth we went talking into the night, early morning bliss waiting to be cracked like a walnut, and clearly our paths were not too separated, maybe we were cocky and jealous and frightful, but we were hoping to undo it, to understand, and transform, and all these beautiful little words which make more sense than hatred.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Random Re-beginning

Every time a new day dawns, we find ourselves again. As we open our eyes, the very first thoughts in a way define what kind of day it is going to be. Then as we look around, all that we see we use to build up a new story, our minds dive into the surroundings trying to explain why and how we got where we are. Passing time makes us see things more clearly and sounds become less blurred.But of course we know who we are. Our pants and heads are all joined in a single pool of identity. Then as we get up off our beds, and walk into the day, the night is left behind slowly. Our images of ourselves start filling up with more matter, several well formed metaphors and facts fill up our immediate consciousness, the room appears friendly. As we charge directly to the next room, some minute details strike up against our faces, as our fantasy begins to break. The dreams of the previous night are thrown against the wall and we are reminded gently and subtly...Thanks to the conversations of yesterday, thinking independently is not much of a problem. We have friends who make us see what we do not see ourselves, and our ideas improve in their living rooms, when we least expect it. Such benevolence is a gift from nature. All accidents are waiting to happen while we trigger episodes of designed light. And designed sound.While boarding a train, it's important to not lose your mind to the imagination. And hold yourself together until the next revelation, the never ending cycle breaks into a single stop before we settle in the new...Let us take this up more carefully. The first step into the train is an initiation, whether you want to admit it or not. Something about the air inside a train makes you doubt the possibility of a clear conversation during the journey. You are almost tempted to step off and suddenly say that you are not going. Getting inside can be a contract, though, especially as it is a journey, and not just a silent film. The conversations are going to begin and end, and the meals are going to be short and small, and the air inside will smell and break, the wind will be fast and slow, the light will bring back memories and show. Letting it go is not an option. Or maybe it is, but not until the beds are made. Aboard a train, nights are welcomed differently, with much excitement. Sometimes, almost because there is no jostling in the night-time, the energies are confused. The body demands much exertion and it will not sleep until it is tired. The journey itself is not tiring enough, the body is demanding in its own right, and it says I'm not sleeping. Not sleeping until I run and brood and think enough. The lights should be according to my moods, the pillow is too small, and the gap between saying and doing is another problem. Classifying, partying, muttering, joking, winning, running, pelting, belching, I do not get time to do anything of importance...

Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Woods


A slow bleeding of sensation
Comes into my faces and hands and slowly
It terrifies me some, slinking in with every breath
It's as if my memories are hitting a grindstone,
the pictures in my head becoming liquid
And flowing with my blood to the source
The source of my passions
To the centre of my narcissus
My headquarters, my middle bowels,
Undoing my skin, my pulse,
My mental-control system's main entrance
The gates of my flooded feeling garden
Master of my spirit and soul
Inside my physical neurotic brain
Not neurotic but neurological

Time for a pause and look
Exactly this time in my last memory
I stayed for three days and found a violin line,
A tune without an owner in a jungle
is like a banshee wailing for nothingness,
Naked and precise and death-like ugly,
The mask that tomorrow wears draped
On the face of the desperate creature,
The fire of its insides scathing the air,
And the weather is not sorry
For the loss of dignity,
Or the passing on of the fire,
Or the extinguishing life,
Or the callousness,
Or the mistakes, the wrong-doing,
Or the hard lifeless, bearded knuckled undone broken passing time.

The brain is watching from the inside,
But is it outside?

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Just Guessing


Even when my body is open
and relaxed,
my spirit shrivels up,
something is inside but vibrating
recollecting the gone past
of every shining rainbow,
the last birth.

Possibly, quite possibly,
another dimension opens up
soon.

Our bodies can take the shock
of our spirits not being comfortable,
and that makes it bearable, I guess.

Or they hate each other completely,
and through the little crevice between them,
we are looking down at our feet,
dust and pensive looking toes.

And the blabbering mind,
which talks about existence.