My books have been boxed up.
Their words tombed away from light.
My hands ache to touch them again.
The skin that has flaked from me
settles in the spine like snow
in a gutter. The covers are doors
to houses in a village long lost.
The pages are dashes on gravestones.
The printing date is birth but
when the next is I do not know.
The boxes build like memories
but where will they settle?
What light will open them up again?
Where are you going my friends?
Make sure that you are not enchanted,
Get a pinch on your bare hands
To check consciousness from being hunted.
Indeed, surrounded you are by the cheaters,
Recognise them by whom you are led.
Be cautious of the greetings of the greeters
And in acceptance between the good and the bad
Maybe, you are hypnotised by their eloquence,
Well transparent to expose your debilities,
Compelled to be indifferent to consequence
And unmindful to your potentialities.
Wait for a while and have a look behind
And a long breathing too to feel comfort.
Slowly the way you can bring in mind
That can build a future with self-effort.
Love- a thorny fish
Neither to swallow it up
Nor to eject it.
~~~~~
phobia of love–
compartmentalisation
Makes lovers gummy.
~~~~~
A shield is enough
Even in the war-field
For a peace lover.
~~~~~
Winnowing is a must
But be- careful always–
May make us bankrupt
The world does not fit on the back
of her neck, but she tried to hold me up
never allowing me to see a moment’s
weakness, always a mask of peace.
When everyone else said I was not good,
a worm boy with large glasses, slithering
from under a rock somewhere, the nothing kid
that grew up on top of a mountain,
she said words like could and enough.
Last time I checked,
it was still on my neck,
What now is a mark,
once was a speck,
Protected by the freckle,
I can now never forget,
Tattooed into a bad mood,
the ink I still regret,
Smooth surface, epidermis,
let color fill the pores,
Black lines, abstract designs,
around the open sores,
Follow my fingers
from the valley to the summit,
Let go of all your baggage,
watch all your worries plummet,
Rub it in a circle
’til the purple turns to pink,
Palm against palm
let our fingers interlink,
Wrinkles and folds,
crevices and creases,
Capturing the beads
a sweat gland releases,
Scars and birthmarks
and lipstick kisses,
Fleshly desires
and skinful blisses,
Cuts and wounds
and bumps and bruises,
Believing the lies
when beauty confuses,
A tingling sensation
while waiting patiently,
Exhale into the navel
and let creation breathe,
Scriptures and phrases
that raises goosebumps,
The laying on of healing hands
and disappearing lumps,
I’ve spent a lifetime,
counting freckles and moles,
Skin against skin,
like magnetic poles.
More at http://psalmsandpsychoses.com.
Blank expressions.
Empty, fading words.
Brittle and
meaningless actions.
Without pain,
I would feel nothing,
and that’s not living.
Regret,
scruple, faltering doubt.
Have I done enough,
to be loved?
Or to be pitied?
Hoping I deserve more,
but I try not to think
about that.
To love is to be loved,
faltering, I still try.
My wordless apathy,
driving, exiling
my connection to this
world.
I can’t go back.
I can’t.
I.
Even the sappy Xmas music
in the supermarket
didn’t make me want to break something
that was surprising
I let my dog pee
on an Xmas tree for sale
somehow that me feel good
am I a bad man or did the dog win?
I don’t miss my Xmas rage
but it always amused me
others were waiting for it
I promise to try harder next year