The delirium is the insanity of my adjusted - equilibrium reality,
Don't really care for my expenses to exist,
As they do not care for me;
The Difference that doesn't share the Contrast -
Living, Squirming, Loving, Flaking alone,
I believe in the monotonous tone;
Leading to my debauchery brier.
Such revelations you can hear
On this insipid plane
Watch out! Watch out for me before i fade out!
Look out at the sea,
There is a churning - a calling!
"Hear Out!"The seamen they say,
"It's the 'Maelstrom' consorting!"
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Return
Save the turf of folly,
As I again come back crashing;
Boiling with a temptation within this curse,
Of the fickleness that happened to me.
Turned to the times of woven blames,
To find the piece that had landed from me;
Now hearing what had so long been lost,
Came a sound so close to me.
As I again come back crashing;
Boiling with a temptation within this curse,
Of the fickleness that happened to me.
Turned to the times of woven blames,
To find the piece that had landed from me;
Now hearing what had so long been lost,
Came a sound so close to me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Currents
Harshest of the foggy treatments
Met my withered autumn thoughts;
Screeching pleas against the concrete Earth floor,
Howling is my blackened bile as the crescent implores.
There were a many times.
When the hook had to ease the noose.
When the breath had to ease a doom.
Violet of my presented past.
Nestled, girdled in the past.
She wandered off on her own;
I came swiftly after to seek her,
That one summer she couldn’t last.
Laymen, speculated the unexpected chill inside,
I believed –
Much of warmth she didn’t need,
Comingly, some violets I yearn to see;
Let out, dismissed on her grave defiantly.
She wandered off on her own;
I came swiftly after to seek her,
That one summer she couldn’t last.
Laymen, speculated the unexpected chill inside,
I believed –
Much of warmth she didn’t need,
Comingly, some violets I yearn to see;
Let out, dismissed on her grave defiantly.
Without it, should anything exist?
How hollow canals do hear?
Pungent humors yet they bear,
If would they not, how would they exist;
Brawling night that would have to seer.
We listened to it, heard it all,
It said of the greasy golden rules,
Standing for humans and the mules;
Yet if they looked at our sordid past –
Stood the evil reckoning behind the crimson walls.
I am breaking my rules, sadly, relying my past,
Somehow, should have learned – the disgrace, the injured glass.
Believe, Betray for none I care,
Reasons for this day to decay.
Pungent humors yet they bear,
If would they not, how would they exist;
Brawling night that would have to seer.
We listened to it, heard it all,
It said of the greasy golden rules,
Standing for humans and the mules;
Yet if they looked at our sordid past –
Stood the evil reckoning behind the crimson walls.
I am breaking my rules, sadly, relying my past,
Somehow, should have learned – the disgrace, the injured glass.
Believe, Betray for none I care,
Reasons for this day to decay.
The Stranded Craft
Neither Cold, Not either Warmth,
What sets me awake is the humid,
I cast the windows apart,
Waking to the morning break,
- The clear sky.
Nothing instilled but elven blight,
Today was the day to set sail again,
To reach, now, legions beyond – the fog, the mist -
Cryptic raven is now the Darkened Veil.
Should look the harbor anew?
Should be sung the ballads high?
Why are not fed the elven sails full?
And why lies low, the mystic rudder, under a spell?
Replies Reason;
“Master, the Lunar has been sailing idle days,
For it doesn’t lure the tidal nymph too near.”
Replies Eros,
“Pardon the difference sire,
It’s the Love not the Lunar that lacks,
Too much of the Sacred Ocean has been drunk,
Equal the teary grove in every warm bed.
The magic lost in love cannot put sail to your earthly lust,
What had to be put to sail is now aground held.”
What sets me awake is the humid,
I cast the windows apart,
Waking to the morning break,
- The clear sky.
Nothing instilled but elven blight,
Today was the day to set sail again,
To reach, now, legions beyond – the fog, the mist -
Cryptic raven is now the Darkened Veil.
Should look the harbor anew?
Should be sung the ballads high?
Why are not fed the elven sails full?
And why lies low, the mystic rudder, under a spell?
Replies Reason;
“Master, the Lunar has been sailing idle days,
For it doesn’t lure the tidal nymph too near.”
Replies Eros,
“Pardon the difference sire,
It’s the Love not the Lunar that lacks,
Too much of the Sacred Ocean has been drunk,
Equal the teary grove in every warm bed.
The magic lost in love cannot put sail to your earthly lust,
What had to be put to sail is now aground held.”
The Sanguine Dust
A kiss of whispering wind,
Has now again set forth what hath time stopped,
Jovial resolution that remained unchecked so far,
Why have I stopped now to see what sagas it beholds?
It was since the times of my unformed creed,
That has lived on my planet, an occurrence to breathe,
Forged through the betraying times
A ripe rosy texture living to this day
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
Monsoon had left it humid,
The summers had it crippled,
Autumn covered its fame,
And now have the winters left it slain.
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
On it had once the Great Asoka tread,
On it the Enlightened One shone,
On it rubbed a many million crimson foot been borne
And on it too has been boiling ruddy been strewn.
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
Mirth had told many a times
The promise of its aurous gilded roads,
And it has been vowed on the great warriors,
In whose valor the blood shone.
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
Yet again it rises stringent in my senses,
What had hath lain amongst us so bare;
That which always kept sparks of prosperous demeanor,
Something from which our bodies had shared,
It came to me,
Through me to my land it veered –
For it have times to tell of before we leave.
Has now again set forth what hath time stopped,
Jovial resolution that remained unchecked so far,
Why have I stopped now to see what sagas it beholds?
It was since the times of my unformed creed,
That has lived on my planet, an occurrence to breathe,
Forged through the betraying times
A ripe rosy texture living to this day
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
Monsoon had left it humid,
The summers had it crippled,
Autumn covered its fame,
And now have the winters left it slain.
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
On it had once the Great Asoka tread,
On it the Enlightened One shone,
On it rubbed a many million crimson foot been borne
And on it too has been boiling ruddy been strewn.
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
Mirth had told many a times
The promise of its aurous gilded roads,
And it has been vowed on the great warriors,
In whose valor the blood shone.
For it have times to tell of from its smell.
Yet again it rises stringent in my senses,
What had hath lain amongst us so bare;
That which always kept sparks of prosperous demeanor,
Something from which our bodies had shared,
It came to me,
Through me to my land it veered –
For it have times to tell of before we leave.
The Maid of Repugnant Sorrow
Streaks that mars the sphere of light,
I saw the halcyon that came in my dreams;
The temple’s clean, sanguine lips meant to gleam,
She is sentient with the elixir of a new bride.
With tenderness stands by the window in worsted gray.
Fe real the countenance is yet wry,
Pearls from the heaven smear the shadowy blush on her skin;
Death-shade is a natural kin.
Through the grayness of the imperative glass,
Becoming frail by the transom;
Looking at the unexploited street,
Her core tides with deep dejection.
Her maid rich in embroidery hangs,
By her through the time;
But she cannot spare sight from yearning of the Prince,
For whom she would give up every dime.
Mist is in her inner soul,
And is in attendance from her eyes;
In the umbrage of the worsened clouds,
She does scream in the silence of her painful life.
“Prince come and save me from the cavil of this vile,
This chasm will either burn me alive.”
I saw the halcyon that came in my dreams;
The temple’s clean, sanguine lips meant to gleam,
She is sentient with the elixir of a new bride.
With tenderness stands by the window in worsted gray.
Fe real the countenance is yet wry,
Pearls from the heaven smear the shadowy blush on her skin;
Death-shade is a natural kin.
Through the grayness of the imperative glass,
Becoming frail by the transom;
Looking at the unexploited street,
Her core tides with deep dejection.
Her maid rich in embroidery hangs,
By her through the time;
But she cannot spare sight from yearning of the Prince,
For whom she would give up every dime.
Mist is in her inner soul,
And is in attendance from her eyes;
In the umbrage of the worsened clouds,
She does scream in the silence of her painful life.
“Prince come and save me from the cavil of this vile,
This chasm will either burn me alive.”
The Inhibited Spring
The new frigid spring has ruptured,
Free, are the broken scavengers!
Frantic in their strife;-
To grope in the dark and to,
Scrutinize –
The paralytic Love
Devour –
Some flurry hunger set on course.
Free, are the broken scavengers!
Frantic in their strife;-
To grope in the dark and to,
Scrutinize –
The paralytic Love
Devour –
Some flurry hunger set on course.
Tardy Passion of Gelatinous Gold
Brick the fallen bout – a fallacy,
A crime for leaching times.
Realise, as you never could ;
Under the balance an undivisible force
That nauseates the passions old
Nerves from the golden autumn leaves – Behold!
Bleach from the same realm – Lies underneath.
Put up your better to enclave and block out my melancholy – my belief.
For us all poets, for us all.
A crime for leaching times.
Realise, as you never could ;
Under the balance an undivisible force
That nauseates the passions old
Nerves from the golden autumn leaves – Behold!
Bleach from the same realm – Lies underneath.
Put up your better to enclave and block out my melancholy – my belief.
For us all poets, for us all.
Screams of the Lifeless.
Rise the emerging
Been are the days of the hovering gloom
Alive or Dead It’s only you to choose
A Pen kills better than onslaught Doom.
______________________________________
Blitzing on sorrow has overturned
Surrounded by Symphonies of Shame are passed
Game the blame
And before you know the tyranny is the squealed harassed
_______________________________________
Entrenched past seems to bellow out
The Guilt of gruel unhappiness
Dam the damned spirit
Will, the forbidden, rakes the lands of the barren.
_______________________________________
Birth of the ignited
Simmering the Devil at hand
Shaman has the gone the reverend
Laugh the daemonic divinity
_______________________________________
Jabbering revel the beaten
Alien words and prophesies
Untune the beast that harnesses
The divide, the brim, is easily shamed.
Been are the days of the hovering gloom
Alive or Dead It’s only you to choose
A Pen kills better than onslaught Doom.
______________________________________
Blitzing on sorrow has overturned
Surrounded by Symphonies of Shame are passed
Game the blame
And before you know the tyranny is the squealed harassed
_______________________________________
Entrenched past seems to bellow out
The Guilt of gruel unhappiness
Dam the damned spirit
Will, the forbidden, rakes the lands of the barren.
_______________________________________
Birth of the ignited
Simmering the Devil at hand
Shaman has the gone the reverend
Laugh the daemonic divinity
_______________________________________
Jabbering revel the beaten
Alien words and prophesies
Untune the beast that harnesses
The divide, the brim, is easily shamed.
Port Wine from your Eyes
That certain fixture,
Of that brazen and promiscuous texture,
Vows me of a revved night.
Can her eyes tell, of my bland pages?
In taste that of wenches and maidens,
I want a draught of that amorous wine,
That but keeps me from brimming into your eyes.
Can I belong to what’s not mine!?
Or at least cherish from her lips;
In the dimming lights;
The madness of her stringent wine.
Of that brazen and promiscuous texture,
Vows me of a revved night.
Can her eyes tell, of my bland pages?
In taste that of wenches and maidens,
I want a draught of that amorous wine,
That but keeps me from brimming into your eyes.
Can I belong to what’s not mine!?
Or at least cherish from her lips;
In the dimming lights;
The madness of her stringent wine.
Pale I am! Do I need the Sun?
Standing above me tall,
A blushing green atoll;
Craft with its rusty pieces,
Has been the grounds myriad past.
But waist above I am held, I am chained;
Cannot throw my wit, vision – afar,
Cannot I complain?
Has my nurture been in disdain?
Above is my folly, above that my Past.
A condemning wish to Bury, not to Last.
A blushing green atoll;
Craft with its rusty pieces,
Has been the grounds myriad past.
But waist above I am held, I am chained;
Cannot throw my wit, vision – afar,
Cannot I complain?
Has my nurture been in disdain?
Above is my folly, above that my Past.
A condemning wish to Bury, not to Last.
The Mould
Dead cold morning he despised, every time he saw his face in the settled mist, of the second month. He walks as if he had stored his contempt within himself. Pursed lips, which feebly hold the roll, forces the tobacco to smog him to clarity. Walking down the lane as many others have he stops to correct his bad posture. Soon before he realizes it over takes him. Ruffling his beard and his stubble makes him think about all the enemies that had sworn against his beliefs. As he walks again the yellow line, never had he felt so naked, in the warmth of his tux of complete black. Being a creature of Yin he is left shivering on the open road. No house has he seen yet that comforts him. Static in his head disturbs him as he wrestles with his demented coiffure against the winds of shame. Feeling beat up he has lost the hope and means of reproducing him. To see the eyes that shine with his name in them. To be theirs. Succumbing to his own reality he makes his away from inside to know what’s left of his outside. The yellow trail never makes him loose mark. He needs that instant drive to kill him. Something that prolongs his misery but also provide him with a need to show them. The world that he praised, the world that he dreamt of making one. Now turns to be a curator to his own epitaph. To show with contempt what he brazes when he make something far apart one.
One Muddled Lie.
One Muddled Lie.
The Lucknow Misanthropy
Swoon today for Better tomorrow
Not may endure the reprise,
The judicial curse of unqualified horror
Cert it does lead to emasculated demise.
Wake up to the dimming advent to the most wretched dignitaries. The truth and the lie, that consumes every eon existing far beyond the fathomable measure of any cyclical process of nature. To relive to a glob of evanescent energy everyday has left me tired. Every night I pray for my Death, which lives, beyond any repercussion of the cadaverous anthologies setup by the structural measure of time.
Foresee, Forgo,
Forbid, Forlorn.
Justice does not hold true for us who foresee the pallid fallacies of the moribund times. It is hard to believe that such an era lacking in vitality and essence of life could, with such brute force, take command of survival and existence. Comfort comes to those who by petulant reasons choose a ‘clink’ over a ‘sigh’.
Forlorn are those who cannot see their faltered steps aching towards their desirable itch of insolent cravings deriding the need for happiness for everyone.
This milieu of my morbid reality now forbids me to write further as it did strike upon the compassion herald on my every altar of humor.
Not may endure the reprise,
The judicial curse of unqualified horror
Cert it does lead to emasculated demise.
Wake up to the dimming advent to the most wretched dignitaries. The truth and the lie, that consumes every eon existing far beyond the fathomable measure of any cyclical process of nature. To relive to a glob of evanescent energy everyday has left me tired. Every night I pray for my Death, which lives, beyond any repercussion of the cadaverous anthologies setup by the structural measure of time.
Foresee, Forgo,
Forbid, Forlorn.
Justice does not hold true for us who foresee the pallid fallacies of the moribund times. It is hard to believe that such an era lacking in vitality and essence of life could, with such brute force, take command of survival and existence. Comfort comes to those who by petulant reasons choose a ‘clink’ over a ‘sigh’.
Forlorn are those who cannot see their faltered steps aching towards their desirable itch of insolent cravings deriding the need for happiness for everyone.
This milieu of my morbid reality now forbids me to write further as it did strike upon the compassion herald on my every altar of humor.
Life Without a Picket
How about dissolving a well nurtured place in life to revive your passions anew?
How about living in a place where you have nothing to live for?
How about giving up everything that you had lived for?
Well the direction where my life is going I do not know, but it is certainly a direction I deserve.
How I wanted so badly the way to be having the best of everything but now it is very bland, insipid. Simple, I cannot live in this moribund life. There is more than the veil of my covered glance gilded by the silhouette of money and many fragrances of materialism.
But there are facades of living a life like this. To buy things at my own ease, to look the best with what I have, to learn more. Realizing still that money is still a major part of a human’s life. Had I not had it I wouldn’t have had been on this computer writing my heart’s insecurity. I know that I have to be thankful for everything that has made my ease possible. I know but it was something I never wanted. How I wish that education came easy without a cost in this world. And I would strive to give back to the world what I earned from it. I am no educator by any means and I cannot be a good one. They are but worth their part of wisdom and I will give them.
Illusion of Loving Desolation
Is it the simering of the flame,
Or the dwindle in my eyes;
For my vision is dry –
But, with meager moisture,
My search posed to surrender;
Pour from your eyes into mine,
Most brilliantly red robe of wine;
Is in your heart a famine -
Or in mine, a crime.
Or the dwindle in my eyes;
For my vision is dry –
But, with meager moisture,
My search posed to surrender;
Pour from your eyes into mine,
Most brilliantly red robe of wine;
Is in your heart a famine -
Or in mine, a crime.
Humanitarian Vaccum
Every dew of that single human voice.
Is filled with a hollow speech,
And Nature, its voiceless mother tongue,
Saying of itself, weighs so much.
Here, orphaned from my Mother,
My Nature.
Is filled with a hollow speech,
And Nature, its voiceless mother tongue,
Saying of itself, weighs so much.
Here, orphaned from my Mother,
My Nature.
Fare Thee Well
Fare thee Well!
I walk backwards, not to see;
The Present,
To bear the vision of my past,
Shuffle harder.
Against the institutions of my Future;
I walk backwards (a stringent stride),
As my antediluvian thoughts hit harder this time.
I walk backwards, not to see;
The Present,
To bear the vision of my past,
Shuffle harder.
Against the institutions of my Future;
I walk backwards (a stringent stride),
As my antediluvian thoughts hit harder this time.
Autumn Chore
Skin and its Earth finally find warmth;
As the autumn coaxes it
To the ruddy blush,
Incensed passion rising into my mind,
Lusting, with a new passion, my rust.
As the autumn coaxes it
To the ruddy blush,
Incensed passion rising into my mind,
Lusting, with a new passion, my rust.
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