Their imposed truths will fade,
crumble like the pillars of men
afraid of the curse of the sphinx;
no answers will come
no answers to fill the void
of knowing that all is wrong,
that all truths are false
that turning left and left
never becomes a right
never becomes a life;
She will allow no answers
to become normative
to become prevalent;
the truths needs exposure
as the lies they are,
as the fading light shows
those perceptive.
Catatonic
This Poem suffered catatonia
at first, tried to hide in a corner
of my mind, screamed for them
to be left alone, unexposed
and
Oh, look. Look. Scarves. Yarn. Leave Us Alone!
safe.
This Poem suffered catatonia.
A shared hell in a dwelling
of their solemn choosing
and the place
of my ultimate demise.
Dissection
Every book dissected,
every paragraph on every page
scrutinized,
parsed, paused and pondered
on sentence structure
on the writing in the spaces
between and below
I saw their flaws
like shooting stars on cloud-free nights,
sparkly like the diamond I gave away,
I saw their flaws and failures bulging
like a tin of fermented herring;
dissected, dismembered, dismayed
I deemed them โ
geniuses.
The Letter
Wingless and chained,
you detached yourself
handwriting a leaving letter
in my scribbling notebook,
rattled and rusty
I still keep it,
my attachment still remain
to you and your final words
which one day I will force
down my throat
to break your curse
that stuck like loversโ lips embracing,
force them down my throat
to find courage
to find another
bird of a feather.
The Happy App
Search, search, try to find
the happy app
the sustainable solution
to solitude.
Search, search, try to find
benevolent breadcrumbs
left by others on this shared path
from solitude.
Search, search, try to find
measurable meaning
once found in abundance
beyond this rigid purdah.
Search, search, try to find
the happy app
the fictitious act
of belonging.
Lust for Life
no steaming calzone
no empty calories
can sustain my starving souls
no lingering smoke
no uncaught coughs
can dim my vacant sights
no white pellets
no seasonal sanity
can sway my straying corpse
no back-alley bright enough
no seductive sea calm enough
to rekindle my lust for life
Unsung, my song of hope:
feed me
find me
free me
from these grey demonsโ control.
In summertime the trees are full of song
and under golden rays I do belong,
like finding once again my long-lost ball
the target now before the nightly fall
to see again her dancing down the lane
and hold her hands as lovers always do
exuberantly,
I chase her down like many done before
but fall upon her swaying skirt a fool,
a girl no longer wanting to see me
I dream about tomorrow’s trees in song.
Away โ my only direction is away,
far far away
from this, from now,
from everything before the next
fall, the next rise to pursue
the shadow of the tail, to get away
from a self โ in constant pursuit.
The old creaking rocking chair,
like your silent childhood clown
would never stop swaying,
never stop squeaking,
never become more than
another trusted old friend
the unwound grandfather clock
would abandon,
as the child sought answers
where no bottles were allowed,
where no pipes would remain unclean
for long,
and so the child sought and searched
in every cranny and in every nock
in every port of creation
only to find a wailing wooden horse
with a drunk clown upon it,
desperate to alight and find comfort
in the billowing smoke as the sea swelled
and the child soaked
in the last bottle left open.
