Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Feigning Fairness

Automated:

the habitual creature awakes
glances at the wrist-watch
more of a gifted accessory than a scheduled timer
performing morning rituals
brushing subtracting molars
thinning hair
a shining mirror reflects a body ravaged by gravity
superficial worries dent the moment
restless calls move the limbs
to cafes and the day's papers
nothing has changed bar the calls for change
ancient dramas
modern settings
quixotic escapades
resigned shrugs
botched hullabaloos
and dodgy repackaged sales of titillating lucid-dreams
rose-tinted
rainbow-laden
promises of the garden of eden
and the coming of the messiah
are touted by messengers of hope
nothing rancid
or trepid
when you see the sea
the shark and the seal
both calling it home
natural habitats with instinctual tendencies to flourish or flounder
as in the waters below
so it is in the earth above
where relentless life meets persistent death on daily displays
and in-between
all one can do is one's routine

Meetings:

idle conversations
keep stirring up the cup as icebreakers
to places more intimate
welcoming hospitality to inner-spaces
where hostility can breathe
in non-judgmental ears
accepting nods
and silent connections
sipping tea
and letting it be

Bond-Age:

frantic servility keeps the streets busy
anxious visitors try looking lazy
even the sky above has gone hazy
its alright to feel crazy
no-one has a clue
why rainbows make you feel both warm and blue
or rains bring down a sigh of mellowed pain
when you see villains crying
you know inwardly people are always trying
when a hero tumbles
there's a certain glee
born of imperfection
flowing from within knowing the innate state of natural misery
whether protecting the mansion or dying without a pension
we are always at a junction
directing traffic
to yet another intersection
whether sitting on your ass
or moving your limbs
we drivel and drive
crib and bribe
its the way of the human tribe
we gotta look at it with humbled pride
as you would your newly garbed bride
or the beaming groom
and when the honeymoon is done
come home to a broom

Ceiling Stare:

i spun a knob and a fan's blades choppers above airing me in apocalyptic storm
it rattles the stale air
refreshing the room's hemisphere
a dim-light dims in an orange pale
lighting nothing
residential bugs in the bed protest my intrusion into their embedded homes
i feel uninvited
but we make peace and share the mat
they walk away as i wave in relief
the bog is functional- a pot with a hole with a subdued bucket awaiting the list
its a miniature dungeon with a view to discolored walls that are etched with signature stories crafted in graffiti
there are crags in the paints
and a lot of peels
and yet there is room for more-
me and the bugs and the lingering tales of former occupants
who probably laid where i do staring at the same scenario
comfortable mansions for some
dilapidated cells for others
overrated busyness heckles
underrated boredom saunters
middle-paths are congested
in that madness thrives the looking-life
through outer, inner and secret passages

with all due respect to mike
we're not the world
or its victims
perhaps persecutors at best
of our ilk and the rest
nothing new
we have impressive records
historical highlights
footnotes clamoring clueless change
over-rated expectations that result in furrowed brows
there's no fool-proof solution
but that's the human DNA
bumbles and mumbles
hopes and dopes
ropes and mopes
kind of appealing in its ignorant innocence
passionate naivety
and all that passing jazz
haunting blues
pop charts
operatic dramas
and rock 'n' roll deaths


Almost:

as enlightenment neared
he felt the razzle-dazzle
and being the wise bugger
put on his sunglasses
-a pair of tinted ray-bans he'd saved and bought tax-free in the bardo


Tired:

bereft of meaning
exhausted by the search
he stopped seeking
when it struck him- there will always be football in the weekends


No Slum:


the homeless are outdoors
see camping tents in their slums
and freedom in such confinements


Nostalgic:

paranoia is the new caution
happiness the new misery-
boy i yearn the days of careless suffering


Numbered:


counting your fingers
from the pinkie to the thumb-
is called a haiku


Embrace the Coil:

legs don't really give a damn about each other
but they do go tight at the hip
(jingle bells can stay hung)
like arms going shoulder to shoulder
(what neck?) 
as for the hand-in-hand
let's keep those chaps private
and if one can see eye-to-eye across the nose
surely ear-to-ear is no big noggin
this is what makes the ass so special-
its a whole-in-one


Sleepless:


insomnia hijacks the slumber
the slumber kidnaps an awakening
now the twain linger
trying to ransom a state of limber


New Sheet:

A brand new page can look serene, almost pristine, when it is left as it is
A sheet of blank beauty containing possibilities
Pregnant with birth
Yet sometimes you do not wanna scribble anything
It jots and crowds something perfect
When the page is yet to be inked
The mind’s a clutter of scattered stories running helter-skelter
All amok
Unable to form a sentence to start of the write
In writhing agony
You stand there in awe
Gazing at this wondrous canvas of nothingness
Looking almost sacred in its white purity
You leave the darkening ink
Withhold that scribe
Bottling it all in
For even as the papyrus invites you
It does so in majestic subtlety you dare not pilfer with your poverty
Recognizing that nobility inherent in its emptiness
You realize the folly of a soiled smudge
The incoherence of a disjointed effort
Thus you restrain
Refrain 
Rein in the horse galloping nowhere
Play patient
Seek a pill
Heal those fractures
Until you sight a telling tale
In verse or in prose
And ever so respectfully
Finally draw a shape
Become a novice architect
Sculpt lines
Form shapes
Letting the mind matter
Finally seeing how it reads and reading how it sees
Knowing every blank page tells a yarn
Whether you pen it or feign it
The page will reveal
All and sundry


Solidarity:


in his disgust he admired it all
liking nothing
yet loving the pampered pouring of destitutes everywhere
mirroring back what he'd long suspected-
we don't know jack


Sign-Age:

when life paralyzes you
and you don't know whether you are coming or going
just stay put
and another useless direction will get your attention


No Grid:


stayed off-facebook on a silent-retreat
obviously it does not work
that's what silent-retreats have become-
a worthless status


Plugged In:

i'm here to kill time
self-congratulate
exhibit
feed my narcissus
fill in various existential hang-ups-
and should the world change for the better as demanded
wherein greed goes generous
selfishness a rare commodity
hunger a well-fed belly
equality well-shared
fraternity well-represented 
with that economic class of pyramid a flattened playground for one and all
yet i'd still come here
strangle time
hang out with boredom
playing with my imaginary legend
pressure of the pursuit of happiness results in the exhibition of happiness
denial of misery
pornography that is lip-service
photography that is plastic smiles, rubbery grins and all.
now let's haw-haw my fellow jokers!


Elastic:


if life's too short
one must stretch it like rubber
see where it lands
or snaps


Will:

paradoxical
to have a mental breakdown
and a physical revival




Sparse:



i'm not losing hair
or balding-
i'm becoming a conscious baldist


Comparison:

europe's a stiff manicure
india an organic mess
yet there's beauty in these beasts


Back on the Grid:

notwithstanding the mental hiatus
one must admit temptation
hitch back on the networking wagon-
that beckons like some omnipotent entity
and cave in, like the cowards we are
mumbling "fvck it man fvck it"
for no matter where you, you gotta love Square One-
it’s where we always comes back
and pick yer own nose- nobody's gonna do it for you
they gotta dig their own



Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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