Dream

It isn’t about what broke you down hard
or how loud the sirens were
It’s about how you piled up the wreckage
and carried it on your back
It’s about the shattered pieces
the new empire of moldy rocks
Maybe we were never destined for a whole
Maybe it was always about the delicate bits
the bits that we gathered and moved on with
the bits that were always more important
and how we borne them with pride
That
and a lil’ bit of sunshine
Because last i saw
that was how all galaxies were born

beat

sweaty skin and squeaky beds
entwined, oozing with
promises of tomorrow
and hopes of day after
maybe you didn’t know this
but i was listening
to your heart
beat
to the things you said
and the things that you didn’t
I guess it’s a good thing
how soon we learned
the little things
it was never about
the when
but the now

I’malice

life has these carnivorous holes that show up
unannounced like knocks on quiet house doors
football field size pits of angst and grief
this is what your mama never told you about
because who wants to paint a picture
like that
who wants to tell someone
that someday
they will be
wading
through
life
all thick
like a madman
desperate
So please
When you walk across a crowded room
just tell me it’s all going to be OK
just lie to me
all night long

Not just yet

I was born in a quasi consumerist era until one day it consumed us entirely and laughed at our fat asses stuck in some chair too tiny for us to shove out of. Listening to Morrissey and quoting Bukowski like bible. Nurtured by the ideas of a rebel, never ever with a cause. Harbouring hopes of being young and dying young. Never deprived of role models who so glamorously endorsed the destruction of the within, Ms. Plath? Seneca the Younger? and how could we forget Mr. Hemingway and his shotgun? Do i dare disturb the universe? Or just be old and saggy and little bit pseudo frustrated maybe? I cannot ensure you any kind of future with me, not even a single breathe in the bracket of space and time. If only I knew how it got this bad..

The weeping willow, the moorish idol and the lover

She threw herself on the bed with the same conviction as troubled youth often hurled themselves off cliffs, dazed with confusion and
then with a loud thud of despair. The sighs of the world around her grew louder every second as she sunk inside the pile of blankets. The song of the very same world once cradled her to sleep every single night but now even a breathe hurt her ears like a scrape from shredded glass crystals.It wasn’t much, her world,a weeping willow bonsai, a moorish idol named tony and a lover called taylor or maybe it was the other way round. She tried hard to remember as she buried herself as deep down in the quilt as possible. Exactly eleven days back she tried to gag the lover with a pillow because he burped in his sleep, tony was it? or taylor? It’s been over a month since she hasn’t figured out which one is which. That’s her world now, tiny and traumatic from lack of simple humane recall.

knick knacks of life

we clutch onto things, dreams, hopes, people and whatnot. we clutch onto them until it hurts,until our fingers are dug in deep, until our nails are shredding those things into pieces. we clutch them and shove them in that empty space between our ribs. we keep harnessing them, now and then, between the knick-knacks of life, when someone’s not looking, when we get a minute to sigh, a minute to exhale and at the same time inhaling all of it at once, inhaling it in till the point that these same dreams and hopes explode in our insides. Contaminating us unto the point that we regret for ever having had these dreams within us in the first place. Asking yourself how it all started.Wondering what made you go this crazy, regretting every second of every minute you ever gave all those things importance in the first place.

Porcelain

Corridors leading to corridors blending into never ending hallways, some filled with bright patterned porcelain some dead silence. You hear a whimper somewhere, then sirens and red lights. Park bench conversations and jungle gym rustles. Some one passes you a cereal bowl with green pills and candy, tells you how it’s going to be okay while you just sit there counting some whys and why-nots .You can’t see yourself as a person anymore, more like a reaction to people’s bullshit. Made from scratch, a perfect collage but  hollow. Left with nothing but some sticky memories from the backseat of a worn out buick and traces of nicotine clots in a world full of insinuations.Life is like that game in a crummy arcade you always lose with 3 dimes in your pocket. If only you cared a little.

Amanda/Celia

You string beautiful vanilla scented words on a satin thread. Those perfect little things, those sweet nothings, some people call it your “A” game.You whisper all you’ve got in her ear.It’s exactly what she wants to hear.You knew that all along.You knew that because something about her reminds you of someone, some girl you once met in a coffee shop. You hooked up with her later that same day. Someone said you scored a big fish. A fish? You remember whispering the exact same things to her. Something you said made her confess that she loved you. You looked her in the eye and told her you loved her back.That made her blow your cock.Perfect little words, it had nothing to do with love.You don’t even remember her face, just a big naked smudge instead.But today it’s different, you are convinced you are in love. Although you use the exact same words you once did to “score a big fish”, wait what was her name? You notice the girl sitting at your feet, resting her chin on your knee, gazing at you with a naive wonder, stark naked, drawing patterns on your skin with her finger, nudging you to say something.You tell yourself you really mean everything you say this time, even when deep down you know it doesn’t feel that way.Now you remember the coffee shop girl, Amanda was it? Yes definitely,She had hazel eyes and a birthmark on her waist that looked like a watermark of a crow’s feet.You kiss the girl at your feet, a frail attempt to remember her name this time. You know it’s unfair and even though a minute back you were convinced that you were in love, but now all you can think of is Amanda and her silly little birthmark. You wonder if she still works at the same coffee shop. Celia? you faintly recall, unknowingly you say it out loud. She doesn’t notice it’s a question.Something about the way you said her name makes her confess that she loves you.You tell her you love her back.That makes her blow your cock.You can’t stop now, Amanda takes a hint and conveniently disappears leaving no trace behind. Perfect little words, it never really had anything to do with love.

a cube of mozzarella

You collected tiny plastic animals since you were eight.She just happened to sell you a bunch of golden snub-nosed monkey figurines you had your eye on for a long time.As she warped them up in a flyer that just happened to have a picture of your favourite band on it, she told you how that gray tie you wore made your eyes pop.That made you smile for the first time in the entire day.You lingered around to gather the courage to ask for her number.Before you could do anything, she came up to you and wrote it on your palm.That made you smile again.She told you she was a vegan and loved neoclassical poetry. Every intricate detail about her made you want to live up to her paradigm.You told her you worked at a video game company, the one that was famous for the bloodshed of nazi zombies.To which she looked at you in an awe as if you were the one who averted the apocalypse.You asked her to move in with you over a date of pancakes and tea.She said yes.You were promoted to a job you never liked and started coming back home late. Her hours didn’t match your’s.You almost walked in on her when she was trying to gag her cries with your red sweater.You didn’t even pretend to make it right instead you hid behind the door.She saw you from the corner of her eye.Then one day you ordered chinese for dinner that was the day she packed her bags and left you.She broke up with you over a cube of mozzarella while you were too busy trying to live up to her “paradigm”.

someone so mundane as you

He wrote songs about you.He would never let you read them but sang them facilely in front of a room full of strangers.Strangers who swayed at his words with their burning lighters.You owned a cat and worked in accounting’s.You never understood how he could write songs about someone so mundane as you.He didn’t fit in your friends, neither did you with his.Yours wore suits and talked about fiscal policies, his smoked pot and never had much to say anyway.You met him in a bookstore, he was wearing a ragged jeans and a beanie. That beanie was the only reason why you noticed him.But you hate it now.He wears it all the time.It smells of sweat and seared tobacco .He wrote a song about you that made him famous.They play it on the radio every morning.And every time you hear it, you realize that you were nothing like the person he was singing about.How could it be both so beautiful and about you at the same time,you wondered.You could no longer be in the same room with him for more than 5 seconds.Your aloofness broke him down and you both ended up crying on the bathroom floor for an hour.Then you got dressed and told him it was over before leaving the apartment for some air.This was the same day your cat was run over by a car but you think it choose him over you.You hate cats now. Although, he still writes songs about you.You know this because they play them every morning on the radio.And then you cry.Everyday.In the parking lot.Alone.But you still haven’t seemed to figure out why he would write songs about someone so mundane as you.