manic me … …
momentary desolation, fleeting, instantaneous manoeuvring, shifting gears,
creasing years,
hollowed out, spent,
pummeled bluebrown,
barrage of blunt tears,
blinded by fears,
but not today, not now:
today, now,
dreams soar,
of hopeful, peaceful,
less harsh, more gentle years …
the illusion of control …
… so, life happens,
our infinitesimal plucking of strings,
somehow brings,
an idea, a glimmer of hope,
of control, an illusion really,
of just sort of kind of knowing on the whole,
just how the paths we dream up, are to be tread,
and so,
we weave, we dance,
oblivious to the fickle whims of chance,
we joust, parrying jabs,
picking at wounds,
scratching under scabs,
seeking this, that, whatever,
speeding on highways bound for never,
wearing our hearts on our sleeves, baring all, unashamed,
emotional sentimentality fluttering amongst dead autumn leaves,
starkly transparent,
yearning for that early ache,
that wondrous sensuality of synapses, sparking,
inflaming that early rush,
leaving me numbed,
in my shallow sewer, impotent and dumbed,
wasting away, lost in the well,
where no pebble ripples back
___________________
(brb)
(got to let the cat out for reasons only the cat knows)
___________________
so where we,
before the cat’s bells began to tinkle,
thankfully not toll,
ah yes,
the illusion of control … …
for Dr. Carl Sagan
1934 – 1996
just out of view,
hazy,
shades of hope,
love,
peace,
intermingling, racing through tributaries,
invading,
veins of scarlet blood,
streaking down,
cheeks moist with tears,
seeking,
searching,
hither and thither,
as the years amble on,
as the flesh wrinkles …
leaving behind glimpses of soft,
gentle joy,
slowly,
effortlessly, inexorably,
as dreams settle,
floating between laughs,
onto the barren ground,
soon to wither.
talkin’ yakkitty-yak blah blues … …
why do these tears fall like blood,
engulfed in a torrential flood,
when will these pangs take flight,
fleeing open night,
what can we do,
to be true,
to me, and to you …
sprinkled scribbles …
sketched against skin,
softly soothing, dipped in inked nectar, infused with desires unleashed,
to live, to taste the salt of sweat on flesh, to walk in the torrential rain, drenched in perennial desire,
scorching, broiling, slowly inflamed, centuries, months, moments, decades,
the moth to the fire … … …
talkin’ dreamscapey blues ….
slipping through sieves,
time leaves,
scurrying off, slinking away,
so let me hold you close, tight,
tonight,
as dreams crash, plummeting,
spiralling gradually, slowly, agonisingly,
into freefall flight,
blinded by knowing whats right,
holding you close,
holding you tight …
memories of Madiba …
no more photographs, please!
( Sweden 1990 )
days skim along,
the rapids, white waters,
seconds moments years lives,
fleeting, strings in the common play, strung along,
plucked, teased,
echoes of longpast melodies,
of lips ablaze, tremulous, desirous, insatiable,
seeking yours,
savouring the moments,
since then.
after all this …
when tears have dried,
adhered, embossed,
etching each streak –
pain, joy, sorrow, grief, relief, release, fear, hope, hopeless,
every crevasse dug, every trench buried, in the minefield of scattered emotions, blurred tremors, whispers, murmuring,
beckoning, reaching out,
cajoling, consoling, offering sustenance, solace,
far far after all of this,
this burdensome shroud, these masks, these tongues,
greying,
creasing skin, chiselling out decades, months, moments,
pale,
shackled in crutches,
and still, somehow,
the murmur rises,
a cool crescendo swelling,
urging us to stand,
not on bended knee,
but tall –
for we may slip,
yet, still,
we shall rise,
we shall rise,
taller, with each fall.
hope resists …
pain surrounds, closes in,
encircles raw wounds,
picks at scabs,
freshly coagulated,
while stubborn, impertinent, brash, young, ancient hope,
persists,
resists,
as it has,
&
as it shall!
the cycle of hate …
reeking of venom,
soaked in the stench of rage,
still, silent, prowling,
lying in wait, to pounce,
maul, go for the jugular,
snap, sink teeth into,
then, of course,
allow the hapless prey to bleed out, then consume,
and naturally,
expel …
to be continued … … …
Humanity ?
Us men,
almost always,
men,
myopic, impotent men,
our manliness oozing, seeping,
dripping,
soaking,
in swathes of red,
scarlet blood on infant skin,
hardened,
caked,
dried on cold, dead flesh.
Who am i,
a man,
myopic, impotent,
my swagger puffed on conceit,
my country right or wrong,
my god not yours,
my culture your caste,
tribe, sect, ideology … … …
Who am i ?
a man ?
knitted into,
shared humanity ?
Perhaps ’tis time,
to let this rotten, festering,
glossy, botoxed, tucked, trimmed, diseased skin,
moult,
laying stark this sham,
this theatre,
these lies, the maggots burrowing deep,
into man,
chiselling, smashing,
beheading, hanging,
shooting, bombing, drone-ing, killing, raping, torturing, killing, killing, killing,
excising man,
ripping man out of humanity.
Yes,
i am man.
Mrs. Agnes Msimang,
ANC Stalwart and mother to countless South African exiles, during the struggle against Apartheid tyranny.
Long Live the Spirit of The Women!
Now that You have touched a Woman, You have struck a Rock!
Amandla!
All Power to the People!
( the photograph below was taken at Luthuli House, Johannesburg recently )
the photograph below was taken in Delhi, India, sometime in the mid 1970s
The Women
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid’s racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their ‘racial superiority’, their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
human. merely human …
Mere beings flailing through the quagmire of this life,
Embroiled in this world of emptiness so stark,
Hoping against hope that we find some solace, some peace,
As we stumble along in the fearfulness of the dark,
What are we if not just human…
Grappling with the incessant torturous grind,
The stab of reality that wounds us each day,
While we endure and persevere and with hollow platitudes,
Try to placate ourselves with the veneer of strength which we always portray,
What are we if not just human…
Embracing the world with all the trappings of its convenience,
Deluding ourselves that the trappings will dull the pain,
While innuring ourselves to the outer truths that do surround us,
As we lose ourselves within our very selves,
While we gleefully celebrate the meaningless ornaments that we gain,
What are we if not just human…
Just human,
simply human,
nothing much more and no less,
Praying and hoping for a salvation beyond this realm,
As we attempt to buy redemption with our false gods and our loftily mouthed intent,
While we crawl through the moments of apathy and moral inebriation,
Never truly grasping the very essence of what is to be simply content,
What are we if not just human…
Trying and trying and still trying some more,
To make sense of the senselessness that we feel inside,
While in truth the masks that we wear,
Shroud us more from our very selves, for it so often seems that it is from ourselves, that we choose to hide,
What are we if not just human…
Though we cling on to the scraps of hope that we find here and sometimes there,
What are we if not just human…
If we cannot stop, and think,
and begin to once again to,
simply care,
What are we if not just human…
And in knowing that we are just human,
rekindling the humanity that must reside in us all,
That refuses to smile and stand aloof, while others around us slip and fall,
What are we if not just human…
Finding our feet, as we trudge along the pathways of this life that seems so harsh and at times unbearable too,
What are we if not just human…
If we cannot see in ourselves,
the images of him and of her and of us all,
the images of me and of you…
remember history
1.
remember the slave-ships,
the manacles,
the trade in human flesh,
sweat and bone,
‘niggers’
senegal liberia sierra leone …
2.
remember the genocide,
the smallpox blankets,
the decimation of many entire peoples,
‘injuns’
sioux, cheyenne, cherokee …
2.1.
( and everything in between )
3.
remember the lies,
WMD,
the invasion,
illegal under international law,
of a country that somehow happens to be rich in oil,
and ruled by an old friend-turned-foe,
you know how these things go,
‘operation iraqi freedom’
iraq …
4.
remember the lawmakers,
of the greatest nation on earth,
who voted to deny human-beings asylum,
‘sand-niggers’
syrian, iraqi …
R E M E M B E R
H I S T O R Y
live life now
clutching, grasping,
holding onto,
gulping down, hungrily,
each breath, every breath,
fearing the onset of the years,
the splinters of time
embedding,
piercing,
this moment, the very now,
numbed by repetition,
embalmed by trepidation,
of tomorrows yet to dawn,
suspiciously sifting through the strands of greying hair,
seeking clues,
the because to the whys,
the slow mornings,
restless nights,
jabbing reminders,
as years, decades,
scurry, scamper,
flee,
feeling it all slipping away,
standing, immobile,
stilled by the implacable sentinels at the doorstep,
these immovable sentries,
concealing the door,
that leads to today
A Recipe for Disaster
INGREDIENTS:
A handful of lies about WMD.
A mindful of whipped-up fear-mongering.
A mouthful of brittle excuses.
PREPARATION:
Invade Iraq under false pretenses, killing countless human beings.
Keep the ratcheting up of fear on the boil.
Stir up tensions between various sects, playing one off against the other using age old financial and other additives.
Allow the marinade to fester.
Withdraw your forces.
THE RESULT:
( read the news )
Paris, France
November 13th 2015
doves,
bloodied,
wingless,
their skies slayed,
lie cold,
stiff,
broken,
tattered feathers,
strewn,
mingled with fallen petals,
red,
liquid red,
seeping,
soaked,
slashed doves,
their flight plundered,
plucked from our common sky,
on an evening in Paris
______________
Liberté Egalité Fraternité
for Victor Jara
( 1932 – 1973 )
his song rose,
above the stadium of death,
his voice rose,
with each tortured breath,
they broke his hands, you see,
the fascists,
tearing his guitar apart,
this man who sang of love,
and of solidarity,
and of peace,
they broke his hands into pieces,
to still the raging strumming,
the strumming that is heard today,
and will be heard tomorrow,
they broke his hands, you see,
pinochet and his thugs,
yet,
yet,
his song still rose,
high above the shanties,
across the plains,
infused in the soil of Chile,
his song rose,
his song rises still,
Victor Jara’s song always will …
_____________
http://www.theguardian.com/music/2013/sep/18/victor-jara-pinochet-chile-rocks-backpages
been a long time walkin’
my long tongues been a-talkin’
blistering my feet
slipping and slidin’ down church street
lookin’ for a job
with decent pay
and here’s what all the signs say
ain’t no jobs round here today
so keep on a-walkin’
and a-talkin’
braggin’ and a-baggin’
yappin’ and a-waggin’
knowing there ain’t no place
that’ll bear my kinda face
cos’ i know there’ll never be
home for a-hobblin’ one like me …
bleeding feet
bare,
alien,
calloused feet,
that bleed,
trudging,
scraping souls,
seeking paths that lead,
somewhere,
anywhere from here,
from the horror of the now,
wiping bloody sweaty tears,
of grandmothers’ brow,
seeking refuge, sanctuary,
from bullets,
from epithets that wound,
that slay,
from men, always men,
puffed-up, inflated,
stuffed with raw venomous hate,
to be flotsam and jetsam,
adrift on the seas,
crammed into boxes,
clutching onto every choked breath,
seeking another fate,
not an asphyxiated blueish death,
tossed, seasick,
wracked and pained,
inside,
cattle-cars, slave-ships,
modernised mechanised terror,
the horror of self-righteous zeal,
nations, cultures,
tribes, traditions,
creed,
stoking the flames,
sectarian, communal,
the fuel on which bigotry must feed …
tiny feet, old and cracked,
all kinds of blistered twisted feet,
a death march along the treelined street,
seeking only alleyways of peace,
and,
perhaps,
perhaps, a bite to eat,
as gleaming chariots roll on by,
and if you’re thinking you’re safe,
if you’re thinking it isn’t us, its them,
him, her, they, those people,
for now,
think again,
and think how,
“… first they came for the communists … ” *
_____________
* Pastor Martin Niemoller
The Naked Face of Racism …
I met some folks the other day,
and they spewed bile and hate,
to put it bluntly,
they had nothing but shit to say,
talkin’ about ‘Kaffirs’* with self-righteous hate,
vomiting forth on the imminent doom of the South African state,
Oh but I did try some old fashioned reason,
only to be barked down,
it must have been my socks, cos’ my socks you see,
they don’t fit in with the haute-couture of this springs’ season,
and so these pleasant, well-fed, well-clothed business folk kept on blabbering,
about how stupid and corrupt all ‘blacks’ are,
and all this and more said in tones sickly-sweet,
as they guzzled their Blue Label whisky neat,
still I tried to reason,
though in truth I do confess,
I was tempted to terminate the fascist shindig,
and say,
fuck you, you racist pig,
but alas I tried and tried in vain,
but I was left cold, empty, shaking with anger, and filled with a deep pain,
that after all we have been through as a still-healing nation,
we barely haven’t even left the train station,
and I thought of my heroes,
Walter Sisulu,
Oliver Tambo,
Nelson Mandela,
Bram Fischer,
Govan Mbeki,
Ahmed Kathrada,
Chris Hani,
Moses Kotane,
Chief Albert Luthuli,
Lillian Ngoyi,
Helen Joseph,
J.B Marks,
a few amongst so many, many more,
giants of our collective struggle for equality and freedom and justice for all,
just like Dr. King who dreamed a dream while standing proud, dignified, and tall.
And so I left at long last,
stunned, broken, and aghast,
at the raw face of naked racism that I came to see,
in truth I was shaken to my very core,
but,
but,
but let the racist fascists know this,
and they better know this well,
that we shall always be many, many more,
and we shall consign them to the trashcan of history where they belong,
because their hate and their racism,
can never, ever,
and will never, ever,
silence our unfinished song,
a song nourished by the blood of those who died for the internationalist ideal,
and that,
that is something even those hate-filled businessmen can never, ever steal!
*’Kaffir’ – a racially derogatory term used to refer to black Africans in Apartheid South Africa
“As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.” – Nelson Mandela
“No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.” – Nelson Mandela
broken wings, shattered,
hugging the frigid ground,
emotions scampering,
flitting between smiles and tears,
peaking crests, plunging into valleys,
of loss, of fear,
of future unclear,
of that,
of this,
often pain,
and,
sometimes,
sometimes,
a shard of,
bliss.
ode to my hometown, commonly known as yet another pompous scribble
taste of gol-gappas,
drowning tongues,
in dreams of monsoon-marinated dilli,
of cycle-repair stalls,
sweet-lime soda hued shawls,
dtc at minto bridge stuck as always,
see how tragedy binds us still,
to the olden days,
nostalgic kisses, quivering lips brushing each other,
during stolen moments,
on friends’ fathers’ “loaned” vespas,
aur phir Diwali would announce its imminent arrival,
smog-filled galiyan, diyas alight in the pre-winter night,
and then, sheher ki roshni dazzled us all,
( not very acceptable, granted, in this eco-age )
and we danced into the chilly autumn night,
barely touching each other,
yet our souls,
hearts,
the sum of our desires,
our innocent yearning,
seemed sated at nights end,
and to that,
that feeling, hardly ever felt since:
contentment.
enoughness.
that,
keeps me dreaming these nostalgic,
spicy dreams,
of leather against willow,
setting fields,
the sight of middle-stump toppling,
memories etched,
engraved, tattoed into my being,
along with you,
my constant,
fellow traveller,
mere humsafar,
and though dilliwaalas are known to spin a yarn,
let’s leave it as it was,
meri dilli, meri jaan.
feelings falling off,
like flakes,
off,
moulting skin,
shedding
detritus:
moments past.
and now,
they ask,
as to why,
trepidation accompanies hope, always.
simple:
mirth,
vanishes,
flees,
as do I,
the perennial overnighter.
🙂
there shall not be peace …
as hunger rumbles,
desolation stalks,
poverty numbs,
apathy dumbs,
there shall be no peace,
until hungry mouths are fed,
till poverty slithers away,
back into the coffers that prey,
the greedy upon the needy,
this is how it has always been,
is this how it shall always be …
faultlines …
jagged faultlines,
sears memories,
singed,
scorched,
ashes swirling in the breeze,
dust unto dust,
infusing our parched common soil,
with blood,
with tears,
falling, swirling down pockmarked cheeks,
as ceaselessly,
as the rolling of the years.
charades
tears bleeding from bonedry eyes,
souls crucified across bloodred skies,
walking and a-talking,
seeing this, that,
wearing soles out,
following the bout,
of wracked nerves,
skewered on stakes,
regurgitated, restrung,
ready to be,
once more,
wrung,
left out to bleed,
as long as the crowd applauds,
the insatiable beast,
needing new feed.
this migrant skin.
tin-cans, discarded cartons,
garbage bins,
littered with fragmented shards of myself,
shed, left behind,
amidst by-lanes,
pieces of who i was,
slivers of me,
ever trying to belong,
to be,
so we moult,
social chameleons,
slimy, deceitful,
charming, soulless,
casual, empty emotions,
flung aside here,
bits of that life,
of this,
leaving laughter, pouring tears, down drains hugging boulevards,
strewn with crushed petals.
this migrant skin,
this malleable face,
numberless incomprehensible masks staring back,
a mishmash mosaic,
shadows of yesteryears faces,
worn and torn,
ever straining to flee,
the restlessness growing,
gnawing,
teetering on tightrope,
as year turns to close,
I’ll see if I can find me.
( inspired by Erich Fried’s “In Hiding” )
two gasping flames,
flickering,
straining,
in disjointed unison,
tripping,
falling,
ashes and rust,
corrosive, acidic,
dust.
automatons.
bathed in spicy-cinnamon springs,
flying on cotton-candyfloss wings,
kissing darkest-chocolate lips lush,
all else we gleefully airbrush,
yet we feel not a thing,
numb,
dare i say it,
dumb,
and still,
are we not beings,
of flesh and of bone,
or have we mechanised this too,
merchandising, through and true,
cold, deadened,
numbed & dumbed,
akin to a lump of jagged stone.
lie.
as we lie,
awake,
surrounded,
engulfed,
by so very much,
mostly fake,
do we see,
can we,
anymore?
see,
you, me, him, her, us,
the enslaved,
free,
to maul the mall,
bye-buy dubai.
Ode for Gaza …
we seal our mouths,
lips sewn shut,
furiously wagging tongues,
hushed, shushed,
mute, impotent,
the deafening silence apalls,
while innocents are put up against the walls,
still we remain mute,
hushed, shushed,
just so it isn’t me or us,
human beings, all,
helplessly desolate,
forgotten petals,
of weeping olives,
perennially crushed.
breaths interwoven,
tongues tied, waltzing in unison, skipping across tendrils of sparkling sensations, tingles racing through, this being entire, lost in the deluge of your gaze, rendering me mute, inflamed, aflame, ablaze …
apologies.
walking through this neverending thicket,
thorns jabbing at my side,
cold, shimmering blade,
slicing emotions apart,
as she prepares once more,
to depart,
and settle in some corner of my manic mind,
shedding yesteryears moulting skin,
beating through the thicket,
feelings flailing, to mania akin,
while she leaves and buries herself deep,
in the convoluted recesses of my remaining senses,
having stormed the ramparts,
overrunning all defences,
so tell her I miss her,
and our moments shared,
and tell her that I am sorry,
I was cold.
I should have cared.
void, empty,
plasticine smiles, obsequious snorts,
fattened, gladly so,
for the inevitable slaughter,
snouts deep in troughs,
snapping at each other, sniping,
a cacophony of meaningless squeals fused into an ocean of empty mewls:
a pig farm?
nah, society,
and all the lies we live.
A Poem for Jawaharlal Nehru
Pandit-Ji*
1.
The moon cast an enveloping shadow over the teeming multitudes,
as they made their tryst with destiny**,
with you as the bearer of the light,
and at the stroke of the midnight hour,
you emerged an icon, from the long and desolate night.
Long years had passed,
since those humid evenings spent,
languishing in jail,
yet your mind remained unshackled,
putting words on paper in the dim candlelight,
as the gaudy glare of empire began to pale.
2.
Today,
you live,
within us,
though not amongst us,
and,
your discovery,
your glimpses,
smoulder within me,
your immortal words,
my compass.
I am now,
the soul of nations,
once suppressed,
that have,
found utterance.
I am now,
me.
I am now,
finally,
free.
_________________
* – ‘Pandit-Ji’ was the name that Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of independent India, was respectfully called.
** – excerpts from Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech on 15th August 1947
what of this shell,
this shroud,
this cocoon, fragile,
familiar,
now untethered,
released,
hearts kicked to the ground,
soaring into gay, abandoned flight,
surfing a silverlined cloud,
unshackled, wings spread wide,
these endless skies ahead,
afloat, away, beckoning,
welcoming,
surfacing from the cesspool of tears shed, bled,
cried,
taken, tugged gently,
away from the freshly moulted:
free,
to surf the cottonwool tide,
free,
to flee, another hide.
searing into blinded eyes, they say tempus fugit – time flies, so lets fly, drift, float,
on dreams, in an old junk,
swaying to the waves,
in a creaking boat, yet sailing against the incoming jibes, breaking free of the tentacled tides, free at last to seek the new day, bidding farewell to the bland, eyes seeking out coconut land, where gurgling brooks, waters pure, may wash away these sins, discarded bluntly over the years, in neatly lined dustbins, weighing me down, as the beach of promise nears, a visual balm, soaking in the marvel, even as the mirage clears.
on forgetting.
these days, these nights,
slicing to the core,
momentary joys, buoys,
merely afloat as beacons,
for lost travellers on the waters,
in flight,
holding on,
onto, clutching close,
hugging,
clichés aside,
holding on for dear life,
while days turn into more nights,
nights into years,
passing us by:
spectators,
ground down on rehashed tales,
finally, feeling the waft of fresh air,
knowing at last, at last,
the past would really, truly,
be the past
and when this shroud,
the skin we moult,
traversing eons, sipping kisses, lapping tongues,
mingled meadows of scarlet red,
the standard waves amidst,
the smoke, the swollen pollen, detritus of ills-scarcely-forgotten,
to flutter on the ramparts,
aloft, again,
for the pot simmers,
and the light of hope glimmers.
raw
what is this yearning,
this furnace, this cauldron,
this raging, fiery burning,
this need,
this ache,
these forms, entwined,
between clandestine half-nods,
semi-smiles,
momentary glances,
all those forgotten miles,
yet, still …
intertwined,
wanting, knowing,
the unsaid,
rendered unsayable,
by norms, forms,
blushes avoided,
rituals sanctified,
morals beatified,
while emptiness roams the heart,
as it feels itself,
anaesthetically,
ripped, torn apart,
yet, still …
inflamed by raw,
wild, ravenous desire,
hunger, famished souls,
seeking release,
from this deep freeze,
this styrofoam, inured,
buy-this not that-ness,
these shackles, obliviously embraced,
yawning phoney smiles,
in this world, these walls,
this society, these halls,
this whole racket,
looking back, bamboozled,
as to how one slipped so comfortably into,
this disturbingly comfortable straightjacket.
they do not see me at all …
as i walk through these desecrated avenues
of soul-deadening frenzy
i see them all rushing past me
and no matter how hard i try to holler and to call
they do not see me at all
it seems at times, that invisible am i
for when i reach out, and shriek out, and when on my knees i crawl
they rush past me
for they do not see me at all
i have tried to raise their ire, i have taunted and goaded them, till exhausted and fatigued, to the cold damp ground i fall
still they rush past me
for they do not see me at all
i stand mutely then and wave my hands all around while scribbling verses in my unintelligible scrawl
and yet they rush past me
for they do not see me at all
they rush past me, knocking me over without ever looking back
and then trampling over my fallen form, they look past my limp crumpled shadow, as they whine on in their monotonous drawl
for they do not see me at all
and when at last i see them look my way, and as a flicker of recognition crosses their faces
i wish to crawl back into my nothingness
where they cannot see me at all
capitalism 101
when it breaks,
shatters,
rendering souls mute,
hearts in tatters,
does it bother you at all,
that for you to rise,
so many must fall.
lives | lies
and when all lies are spewed,
intricate threads promised,
eternal jazz and all that,
only to be summarily screwed,
by words of fluffy dreamscapes,
by incantations of endless service,
by mouthed lies,
time after time,
even as time flies,
the only constant – lies.
forbidden dreams …
dreams tug,
nostalgic caresses tease,
moonbeams skipping along monsoon puddles,
nights of sweaty torrents,
washing, crashing,
lapping at the beaches,
of dreamwoven phantom fragments,
of dreams,
surrendering,
enticing, earthly release,
etched on beads of sweat,
a million sighs,
waltzing to the dance,
of breaking waves,
hand in hand,
on infinite grains of talcum sand
blah-de-blah-blah …
the ache persists,
dulled, at times,
numbed by flotsam and jetsam,
the daily grind,
a busied mind,
strapped-in,
straightjacketted,
hazey-dazed,
seeking the elysium:
closure.
yet, still, continually,
the ache persists,
gnawing,
a talon piercing,
jabbing,
in the inside,
locked within a live shell,
the ordnance of gloom,
closeted away,
secreted in a hollow room,
yet, still, continually,
yearning,
the ache persists,
burning,
wracked by fire,
as the talon,
prods,
turns, twists.
desire, trepidation, & hunger …
sprinkling cinnamon caresses, scribbling odes,
etching my words on your bare back,
desire inflames, engulfs flesh and blood and bone,
dispelling all trepidation,
the sin of hungering,
in a sweltering furnace of longing,
scribbling odes,
fingers meandering across your body,
desire, trepidation, & hunger,
fleeting, momentary,
yet abiding, infused,
relentless,
welcome.
if you choose, allow me to wander off into some dreams –
dreams not of riches,
material and plush,
dreams of the sublime tingle,
pulsing through my being,
our lips brushing – an intoxicating rush –
dreams of us under the copper sun,
brushing your hair from my face,
as we cascade on rivulets of lapping waves,
far, far away from this time,
this desolate place –
dreams of feeling our souls entwine,
your breath against mine,
released from this sham of being,
unshackled from the ritualistic pantomime –
dreams, yes so many dreams,
afloat on the currents of murmuring desire,
alive, aflame,
there is no doubting,
this furnace,
this raging fire –
dreams, meagre paltry dreams …
evening arrives,
bidding yet another day adieu,
precious moments,
slipping,
fleeting,
amidst a maelstrom of tears,
ever swirling,
knowing always the promise of open arms,
of human touch,
a soothing balm for so many fears
Scribbled Verse 
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