Hear my yawp

here is proof
of my indifference
of my humble insolence

let it be clear
the accusation holds
that these are just
hollow words

but know the fact
that birds can fly
only because of
hollow bones

so let me submit
that i do not care
that i do not wish
to be concerned

if i even try
or take a step
it is to move away
from being governed

there is no way
no secret route
that leads to me
looking up
from the things that would
soak up my mind
and let these thoughts
free up

so let me affirm
my final words
let them be
written in bytes
that i will not bend
it will not end
as sure as i survive

Note to my former self

for sure
you will fall
for the first time
you will falter
flounder
but forge on

because movement
is the only thing
that will matter

you will give it
your all
your each
your every molecule
to help it live
to make it strong
with the iron in your blood
and in your bones

for sure
you will fail
feel loss
feel hurt
feel pain

at meeting
expectations
at fulfilling
dreams and demands

because the weight
of words
of promises
of wants and wishes
will prove too much
for your fragile
foolish young heart

for sure
you will cry
watching the feeling
an emotion
succumb to time

you will harden your heart
toughen the walls
sever and seal away
this tiny part
of a broken heart

and promise never again
never again to give in
and if you do
never again to give up

for sure
you will live
despite believing
the end of this
is the end of you

thinking nothing
no one
no other heart
can ever feel
or begin to heal
those old scars
of first love

for sure
you will find
a second hope
somewhere hiding
and you will doubt

but that is enough
that doubt will fade
those walls will crumble
some other will find
that key you hid away

and for sure
you will fall
for the first time
once again
only to rinse
repeat
resurrect
the same cycle

hoping this time
the wheels will keep turning
the hearts will keep beating
and you will keep feeling
the same way
as you did the first time

Scribble scrawl

someday you'll write
whatever it is you might
you'll feel that rush
at putting it down right

by some happy accident
when the words just rhyme
you'll feel a bit confident
at having put in the time

someday you'll caress
a thought in the mind
with rare gentle prods
you'll write out a line

by a will of nature
impossible to murder
you'll fill up a sheet
with every mental blunder

with every aberration
and dark idea you can birth
with a many versed dance
you'll reaffirm your worth

then one day you'll write
when the world seems wrong
when the underlying tones
reveal a strange song

slowly your mind
will shift in the light
tremble nervously
at the fear of being right

someday you'll doubt
the ease of your verse
your tendency to scrawl
might seem like a curse

until the day you will read
of that friend you once knew
see his words out in paper
when it could have been you

that day you'll write
and stop hiding your work
to share it with the world
and finally be heard

Strangely deranged [5]

He should be smiling.

Life is cheering him on with the enthusiasm of a dozen nubile teenagers standing at the edges of the show.
He really should be smiling at the flashes of joy and feminine glory being thrown in his face.

There's no excuse for this.
He's being goaded and dragged with a golden leash towards a fascinating destination.
There's nothing wrong with that.
Nothing incorrect about resisting a forward pull.
The gravity of his mind should be insignificant by now.
It shouldn't be throwing him about and sucking him down a mental flush.

He has to be smiling.

No one can see a reason for him not to.
Love is shining on him.
Fate throws a glance every now and then.
Lady luck even made coffee the morning after.
Their combined effect is expected to work like German engineering,
precise and reassuring.

There's enough happiness spinning all around him to somehow coax his lips upward.
To manage a weak grin from the bottom of his soul.
Just a hint.
A throaty laugh at a lame joke.
A horse walks into a bar and the bartender asks him 'Why the long face?'.

He should be smiling now.

The excuses are running out for this unexplained frown.
Nothing's wrong.
It's all going to be okay.
Everyone keeps assuring him that,
keeps repeating the lines but he can't believe it if the speakers don't believe it themselves.

He could be smiling.

At an inside joke.
At the funny cats spread across the internet like an uncontrolled ejaculation.
At someone else's pain.
He's heard people find those things worth laughing about.
It's only natural they say,
the fact that it didn't happen to you makes it humorous.
For some.
Why not him?

Maybe he should just follow the sheep around him.
Just step into the current and let it carry him with the rest of the lost souls.
With the throngs of crushed spirits.
He should just fit in.
Then again,
even for that disguise he needs to be smiling.

He could try to fake it.
No one would be able to distinguish unless they really tried.
Unless they looked closely at the edges of his lips and noticed the missing wrinkles.
Unless they examined his eyes for a reason why,
no one would know he isn't really smiling.

But he would.
And that makes all the difference in the universe.
Honestly, by now he should be smiling.
He's eliminated the possibility of anything going immediately wrong.
He's found a few strangers to urge a positive emotion out of him.
He even has friends now.
A few lesser than before, but you aren't supposed to count them anyway.

He should be fucking smiling.

Right now.
For a moment.
For a minuscule instant of his life.
For just long enough that someone can see and stop asking him why isn't he smiling like us?
Why isn't he laughing with us?
Why isn't he having fun?
Why is he walking around with his eyes to the ground when he should just look up and smile?
Why won't he keep up the illusion that this is all perfect?
He has to be happy.
He must be content.
There's no way he's unfulfilled.
Look at his life.

He has to be god-damned smiling.
And if he isn't, we'll make him.
We'll warn him, that he should be smiling.
Or he'll get sent to the doctor.
To the shaman down the street selling cures of smoke and strange powder.
He'll be sat down on a couch and made to answer inconsequential questions about his mother,
his father and the woman he loves.
He'll be threatened with expulsion.
With being excluded and ignored.
Who will believe this world is all right if even one like him is allowed to exist?

He must be smiling.
He needs to be smiling.
He's commanded to be smiling.

To look stupid.
To mask the weight and hide the pain.
To look them in the eye and assure them of the lie being told from yet another smiling face.
For their sake.
For her sake.
For his own sake.

He should be smiling.
He can't have forgotten how to.
It's the easiest thing in the world to tip your lips into an orange slice shape.
He can't be dwelling on some past misfortune.
Jesus loves you they say,
so smile.

Be happy that a figment of religion thinks of you from beyond the pages of a rotting book.
He should be glad at life in general.
He should be ebullient, buoyant, effervescent and a thousand other adjectives.
He should just listen to the wise men.
To the smarter people.
To the intelligent crowd.
He should be smiling.
He must definitely realise it by now.
He must see all the harm it causes to defy fake joy.
He can't be blind to the world in his sorrow.
He should think for a moment about why he isn't doing as they say.
As they want.
As they do.
But all he can think about is,
he should be smiling.

Pandora's song

What makes me love you
despite all the signs?
Despite all the madness
you bring to my life?

Why do I adore you?
When I'm sure it will die.
When I know it will perish
without making me cry.

There must be something
in the folds of your eyes.
In the air you exhale
with each of your sighs.

Why must I want you?
Despite my own mind.
Despite all the voices,
in face of the grind.

Why don't I fight you
Or put up a resistance?
Giving in to insistence
and every word from your mouth.

Save me now,
from this love that will kill me.
Save me now.
don't let your absence fill me.
With sorrow and fear
of not having you here.
Not knowing a way
of holding you near.

What makes me chase you
to the land where you hide?
Over mountains and seas
with black birds by my side.

How long will it last
this insanity of loss?
This feeling of failing.
This pain without pause?

Save me now,
slit my weak wrists.
Clench that hand,
tighten your grip.
Save me now,
I've had it with this
Aim for my vein,
make sure you don't miss.

Fight the flight

there's always a chance
that it won't work out
some darkness can be found
in a corner of every room

there will always be doubt
even when there is hope
every silver lining
requires a dark cloud after all

a tiny voice will never stop
yelling
debating
despairing
just because an exit exists

always the worse way
will be lit invitingly
the easy escape
tends to tantalize

you may call it the off chance
say it's giving up
name it what you will
but you will recognize it
and it will recognize
the fear in you

that door can always be found
leading to the end of all things
it's always hiding in sight
and it always will be

if it seems simpler
take it quickly
and conclude the torment

if it seems what you need
dive head first towards it
and never look back

know that the shred of doubt
will always call out to you
in times of darkness
in moments of weakness
when defences are tattered

but believe me
you must resist it
you must close the gate
but never take off the sign

because the fight must go on
the battle must rage
with that easy way out
laying witness to the story
until you end it by choice
or it ends you

Lost down 25th street

sometimes i wonder
if i should give these thoughts a form

is it really okay?
is it considered the norm?

to assign them scrapers
and equalizer bars

to make mountains out of madness
to design them with my scars?

would the jury be out
if i was to write a verse?

will it rule in my favour?
or make matters worse?

but I just can't resist
these logophile urges
can't contain my voice
couldn't bear to suppress the surges

but sometimes I do wonder
if it's appreciable to do
to place thoughts at random
without clearly thinking through

to build a wall of vowels
a skyline of consonants
with words that show up before me
and make them permanent

this cascade of pixels
and its undulating form
of somewhat rhyming towers
must be the closest to my norm

Shatter

everything just
feels unkind
feels like I'm lost
in someone else's mind

all around me

seems a little unsavoury
dangerously decayed
requiring bravery

these painted walls

these well adorned doors

are full of traps and falls

hiding unfriendly floors

attempting to digest
or touch on any part
of this saccharine world
now seems contemptuously harsh

Lock and key

toes and legs
forever entwined

teeth meet necks
or what they can find

rampant scents
clouding up the mind

sound of breaths
both yours mouth and mine

coursing blood
dripping sweat lines

quiet moans
counting down the time

touch of tongue
a roll of the eyes

searching fingers
reach the end of the line

No one else needed

there's a certain beauty
in the arms of solitude.

a face often forgotten
in throngs of such magnitude.

when presented by force
it may seem the cruelest fate.

but when borne from choice
there are few joys as great.

i confess it requires
a certain kind of inclination

to lock away from the world
and disconnect from the population.

you must promise to ignore
all the threads you are linked to.

you must learn to adore
the silence that could sink you

but i can only assure you
if you do take her as your bride

being alone can become
the thing that keeps you alive

Dreamweave

i could wait
a hundred years

fighting through
a thousand fears

but i will not accept
anything less
than your vision
of perfection

i could die
a hundred deaths

patiently count
a million breaths

but i cannot escape
this hold you have
on every vein
from heart to hand

we could choose
a hundred ways

to live apart
a thousand days

but i can't imagine
losing my mind
unless you decide
to lose it with mine

this will be
our only chance

hold my hand
learn to dance

i will promise
to show you home
where we'll be free
without being alone

so take me
to any turn you can
lead me
don't spurn my hand

and i'll follow
till the end of time
or to the end
when we cannot hide
from the future
we can't depict
and the failure
we try to predict

just stand with me
for a thousand hours

we can count
a million stars

out in the sky
and in your eye
where i can see
damned paradise

Strangely deranged [3]

Tyler Durden: Where'd you go, psycho boy?
Narrator: I felt like destroying something beautiful.

For the longest time, this fictional emotion was a frightful thing. The naked honesty of it was terrifying to this simple mind. Reading these quotes, or rather ideas, that would drive his thoughts to dark places that were sure to morph him into a darker person. The naivete of his own brain is anyway heavily underrated. It is an easily influenced organ, changing to adapt and shifting as a response to the slightest of external stimuli. The brain that wishes to think is more susceptible to inception. Because it is already willing to accept as many new ideas as possible, it can pass off another's thought as it's own with callous justification. It is a waiting receptor. An open port. Which will take any ship in the storm. For him, it is easier to just let these ideas be injected so that there may be someone to blame when the cards fall down. Even if it is the one person who does the best job of clearing his mind in the first place. Which brings us to the point of his dilemma.

If you love someone, wholly and truly, unlike anyone who you've ever had a shred of feelings for. More than even your mother. If you find someone who sparks this insane emotion in you and by some miracle you evoke the same in their very soul, does it matter if your bodies unite? Is a physical bond needed to consummate two souls that vibrate at the same wavelength? Or will it be a shallow confession to say an orgasm is equivalent to heartfelt love?

Admittedly, the honest answer will differ from person to person. But does wanting someone in every way possible make you a worse human being? Intercourse has always been the accepted progression of things, in his case it has often been what begins love instead of what comes next. For the first time the natural order of getting to understand someone before sleeping with them had been followed. Now at the moment of decision he is faced with derision from these unanswerable questions.

If a relationship of sex without love is hollow, what is this love without a physical connection categorized under? Does it qualify at all by the dominant definition of loving another? In his experience he knows that no love lasts. It needs a battle every now and then. Like evolution fights it's predecessor, love takes on the current situation and attacks it to be pushed to the next level at the cost of blood, tears and tears. Naturally, at some point it will reach a stage where the fight is for more than the equation between two people. It becomes a war with who you are.

That is evolution. That is inescapable. But how much can he change for someone he is undoubtedly in love with? Can he suppress his instincts, these animal urges, and follow in the footsteps of love like a blind man being led by a vicious seeing dog? After having seen the precious life that being with someone can offer, can he kill the demon within him to make room for the monsters of both their worlds?

Maybe his whole idea of love is warped like a brain on salvia. If all love is temporary, why struggle? If no love is complete, why search for relationship utopia? There is nothing that can answer these questions for him. There is no one who can change the way things are. Putting himself in her shoes, the empathy for her fear is easy to feel. The dread of finally submitting the one thing she truly owns for herself can be understood. Justified even.

Then why does he feel so horrible? Reduced to emulating a leech that tries to suck every iota of life and joy from her. If he truly loves her, he should stop making her cry. He would do well to simply step back to the shadows he came from, instead of beating down on the effort and eventually destroying the one beautiful thing in his arms.

Incurable

honestly
sincerely
truly
i am

madly
mutely
acutely
i am

helpless like
the early worm
i am

hopeless and
in a whirl
i am

fully
wholly
in the jaws
i am

quickly
silently
without a pause
i am

hung and drawn
a marionette
i am

out of control
you can bet
i am

at the mercy
on the sword
i am

hanging on
by a word
i am

insolently
against the crowd
i am

incredibly
without a doubt
i am

without a fight
without a sound
i am

nose to stone
ear to the ground
i am

incurable
i am
immutable
i am
invincible
and in disbelief
i am

by the heart
by a thread
by the gods
i am

blind in faith
against the odds
i am

where do i start
to say how much
i am

hungry for it
for your touch
i am

Amorephobia

love is fear
this does not mean
be afraid of it

it simply educates
that love
is terror incarnate

it is living in dread
of losing
forgetting
or otherwise misplacing
the living other
that makes you
feel love in the first place

love is fear
this does not mean
you should hide from it

it only assures
the lesson all of us
any way adhere to

of facing it
by putting a face to it
mixing a body
and a mind with it
accepting you are scared
and knowing
someone else accepts it too

love is fear
this does not mean
it is your enemy

nor does it hint
love could be
your friend

it is only confirmation
and personification
of it's inexplicably
random behavior
and it's ability
to play both roles
with equal ease

love is fear
this does not mean
it will kill you

but give it a chance
and i promise
love will not
let you live

Veritapoem

there's this thing about distance
the physical kind
mutates into an emotional strain

it's not a guarantee at all
more of an instinct
a gut feel that punches you
right in the jewels

leaving your insides muddled up
leaving your mind befuddled

because the thing about distance
isn't geography
or distrust
or frustration

it's the editing of identity
it's the lack of instant connectivity
it's living a 2D relationship

through a computer screen
through phone conversations
through letters and poems
through time zones

it's a software update
on two compatible heart disks
let down by a lag in the system

it's the strange thing about distance
the unshakeable feeling
of being left behind

of being undefined
because your meaning is miles away

it's calculating the next rendezvous
it's the end of chance
and the death of happen-stance

distance is being clear in words
because your faces are blurred
sending your memories out of spin

so that pixelation
replaces the true life HD person in your arms
as the edges fade
and your sanity follows

that's the thing about distance
being unclear
being inconsiderate
trying to be at two places

divided between the now
and the coming soon

being granted the curse
of thinking before writing

magnified by the ability to turn away
or disconnect
and blame the technology
whose mercy your equation is at
in the first place

love they say
is the easiest thing in the world
distance is what makes it hard
and slowly hardens the heart

you get used to the tears
you grow numb to wishing
you accept the ache

but that's the thing about distance
it amplifies the absence
so the presence
seems more precious

so every minute apart
builds up to your collision
creating sparks
that rival magicians on stage

and that moment
you were holding on for
erases every other
horrible
emotional
and inevitable
thing about distance

Distance dementia

Come here
and hold the world at bay.

Tie it up
with every word you say.

Give me this,
my moments of peace.

Come here
end my torment please.

Hold my hand
stem the flow of blood.

Save me now
from this coming flood.

Come here
put the heart at rest.

Give a chance
put the lies to test.

Come here
in to my nightmare.

You can't hold me
from all the way there.

When the demons
rise and swallow me whole

come here
and salvage my soul.

Strangely deranged [1]

He wasn't at all surprised to find himself falling back on the unreliable self. Although a familiar feeling, in his head depression was a horrible crutch to lay weight on. It is stronger than most emotions, true. But it's like holding a red hot iron for support, not being able to lean on it or move without it. In hindsight, baring his very soul to another human being may have been a spectacularly bad idea. He should never have gone that far when she came along. Especially knowing that she wouldn't be around to deal with the aftermath. So far, not having anyone to hold and treasure created this cloud of misplaced bliss for him to hide under. A place of ignorant happiness; Population 1. Suddenly, his world had to make room for twice as many people and as always, it's hard to accommodate strangers. Somehow he managed to let the beautiful spectre in, shifting the garbage in his head so that thoughts of her can have some unadulterated space. In both their minds, this was a temporary arrangement. At least it started as that. A relationship with an expiry date. An equation with the uncomfortable solution already written out, waiting for both of them to just run the rituals and reach the conclusion. That didn't seem to stop it from being the best thing in his life. So, despite the voices in his head and the warnings ringing all around, they kept at it. Trying to disprove logic with emotion. But in his head, she walked out of his life the moment she stepped on that train. Or was it a plane? Bah, it doesn't really matter. The fact remains that she left and left him behind. And all the love, joy, fulfilment that he felt for that little while took to the wind after her. All the space he made in his psyche was left hollowed by a lack of her physical presence. His already scattered brain was shaken up so much that, for a while, everything made too much sense. Like a reverse black hole, it started pushing out from the centre, crushing his treasured garbage bin of dark thoughts and strange ideas. His whole and soul slowly being eaten up by an emotion he was never prepared for. He'd never felt these things. Depression, solitude and a few fake laughs was his entire existence. Covering the face of his fucked up self from everyone around was just the right way to be. Now he felt exposed, veering towards the deranged. Despite being alone throughout his life, for the first time, he understood what it meant to be lonely.

Nostradamus

i've seen the end
of this crazy play
let me pretend
till you go away

there's no happy song
or a lullaby here
that wouldn't sound wrong
in this moment of fear

so listen up
i know times are tough
but we're strong enough
to pull through
to wherever it is
we're headed now
rolling off the screen
misguided somehow
to the end i'm sure i've seen

though i know
our chance seems slim
and we hope
a second wind
can power our sails
and take us in
to the place you love
and the people who
fit you like a glove
and know your every whim

so don't you look
back at me
when the doors they close
on this memory
and a stupid prose

about the end i've seen
explains the way i've been
and the way the the story goes
until you go away from me
and the night that had me saved
closes in on me

you have to let me go
even you must know
the things we want
and the things we'll get
are seldom too hard
to differentiate

so we hesitate
hoping for a perfect time
waiting in the same line
as everyone else

though i know
it makes no sense
why you and i
choose to cry
and still pretend
when we're standing here
fighting fear
and the end i think i've seen
the end i think i've seen

Man and monster

Self-doubt has become the dominant emotion. The inability to think freely, without the bother of a ticking clock is getting under my skin. Maybe I chose the wrong life. Worked towards a dream that came true in the most horrifying ways possible. Maybe being listless and lost is just the way to be. Knowing oneself isn't an easy thing, especially if the understanding leaves you feeling more than slightly uncomfortable. And highly disoriented. Like a blindfolded dog, chained to a post running in loops but not knowing exactly where to. The feeling of making progress is always there, but it's a lie. Moving ahead must mean something according to people, it must count for a measurable value. Writing these words as therapy has always been the way but is it the right way forward? It used to seem so simple earlier on. When the Ghosts of Future Uncertain weren't haunting my every step. Now it all seems like a waste. Today everything seems worth the second letter in the word - zero. The utopia I promised myself is a pile of rubble and a strange shadowy figure is leering at me, laughing at me. Just to look him in the eye and take a solitary step is a task too hard for this faint heart. To pump blood into the limbs and lift one foot over the other. What is the worth of this after all, if the only thing I do is pay my time to see nothing in return? No end in sight that I would ever want to trundle towards? Only questions and shadows making friends with my past demons, giving birth to scheming and conniving monsters.

They make sleep seem impossible these days. Mostly because of the nightly demon I thought vanquished, has resurfaced with even more intricate fears at his disposal. Sometimes disguised as a mere axe, meant to cleave through my subconscious like a twig at the mercy of an over-enthusiastic gardener. When I steel my mind against the flashing edge he attacks with ingenious tools, both fragile and deadly. I can feel tiny pins poking holes in the all-too-imperfect armor and the effort of morphing my defenses for the changing harass works perfectly as a counter-measure for rest. But it's not the weapons that could ever defeat me. To some extent the tools are flawed by their very definition. They are things meant to serve a purpose, built for it and existing because of it. And when their purpose is unearthed, they are pitifully easy to counter. In all their complexity the weapons hold no court with the face of this grand beast. That ungodly face.

I cannot forget it. I cannot erase it. I cannot control it. For I am not sure it even exists. In the stead of a face, or rather as a face, this tattered-skin and bone-winged warrior has only layer upon layer of darkness. A mass of no discernible shape or logical purpose. Built wholly out of tar and ash flying up from the shoulders, hiding what can only be the eyes of the satyr. Yet as much as it is meant to, strangely enough, the unseen face doesn't frighten me. It keeps me up, yes. It pushes away my dreams and rest, true. But it does so because it intrigues me. It strikes a dark chord somewhere in my very soul that rings with foreboding. Enough of a death knell to spend lonely hours battling it. Enough of an echo to keep me coming back and stand in front of the demon himself, allowing him to strike me down.

Finally, a worthy opponent.

Foolish emotions.

love so it destroys you
so you can feel
the sting of fingernails
as they clasp
on your heart
leaving behind treads
changing the landscape
of your emotions
like a plough
through a dead field
awaiting some hope
to burst forth
from the earth

love so it consumes you
so there's nothing
left to be taken
apart from cinders
and smoke
just the evidence
of a fatal struggle
between mind and soul
between head and heart
laid to rest
at a scorching touch
as your waves of lust
consummate
the fiery tango

love so it completes you
so a million pieces
could never break you
testing your walls
battering the door
even as the armies
venture forth
like soldier ants
chipping at your defenses
brick by brick
vein by vein
unearthing who you are
from the ashes

and rubble
of who you claim to be

One from the archives

If I'm high
I could never lie
If I mistell the truth
It's under influence of youth

I fear myself
On the changing plane
Younger days
Pass by in vain.

I've lost my will
To write a song
I've lost my need
To carry on

A broken heart
Mends over time
A borrowed life
This isn't mine

So I promise you this
Oh friend of friends
Light it up
Let the night not end
For if I'm high
I could never lie
If I mistell the truth
It's under influence of youth

Cocoon

Fly away
My dear butterfly
This not the way
For you to keep on trying

I can see
The stormy winds
Come to kill us
And to stop you from flying

We can't stand
In the face of this
With fragile wings
And a will to fight the tempest

Give it up
Or the final beat
Of your flight
Will be cause of my madness

So leave me here
Go to your home
To the shell
That will keep you protected

For if you choose
To fly through this
For a hope
For a foolish kind of sadness

I will fight
The winds of change
Or I will die
But not for lack of trying

Though my
Weakened wings
And their tiring beat
May slow or still from fighting

Just let me see
As I'm crashing down
That somehow
You lived to keep on flying

And I will rest
Having known
You were there
Even as my breath was dying

Au revoir

When the morning comes

And you're unsure 

Where you're meant to go 

On the borderline 

Of our promised land 

And dreams we can't ignore 

With the hour 

Drawing closer 

Don't you give in 

To the posers 

And the fakes that line the walls 

Skulking down the dim lit halls 

Where I'd found you 

And we had found it all 

When the bitter night ends 

If you can't see 

Where you find yourself 

Like a blinded man 

Just hold my hand 

I'll help you reach the shelf 

Where our dreams 

Hide with our sorrows 

Beside the treasures 

Of tomorrow 

To hold us up right when we fall 

Straightened spine to keep us tall 

Till this darkness 

Makes the way for dawn 

We'll somehow carry on 

So don't you fear the morn

Voight-Kampff

beautiful lie
tell me why
I should fall for you

will I see
a bluer sky
if I were to follow you

I have no qualms
at giving in
to your every word

give me a chance
before I burn
the things I've always loved

beautiful lie
tell me why
you would do this to me

touch my heart
tug the strings
and then just leave me be

won't you try
to tell me what
we are meant to do

give me advice
show me how
all our dreams come true

beautiful lie
let me try
to read past your perfect smile

just speak your mind
and I'll believe
even if it takes a while

beautiful lie
I could die
beautiful lie
I won't cry
beautiful lie
don't ask me why

Momentary lapse of conscience.

tonight
let the wind speak it's mind
just hide within my arms
forget about our crime
let us first learn
how to survive the night
and then worry about
the coming charge of life
the train isn't leaving
until a far later hour
we've still got a station
or maybe two from afar

though the urge to pull the chain
may linger every moment
and a single shred of weakness
might push us on the pavement
we cannot give in
to the sensible line of thought
we'll end up derailing
wasting all that we have fought

you have to understand
this is no small amount of torment
or some short-lived sadness
keeping us from living in the moment

so tonight
forgive me for my sins
forget the train
give in to your whims
the time of surrender
is just a fleeting chance
this feeling of going under
I promise, it won't last
I promise, we won't last

Waging peace.

10 megatons of a better life
the mushroom cloud
of liberation

we just want to free them
from the sadness
of existence
a slight push
in the right direction
down the path the dodo was led
and the liger
and our conscience

so we grouped them up
in the name of freedom
to give their lives
a sort of upliftment
like a quick fix
for the sagging tits
of an eighties star

as we strapped it
shipped it
and dropped it down
10 megatons
of a better life
the mushroom cloud
of liberation

Narcotic girl

She's ecstasy
And I'm tripping out
In her doe shaped eyes
Those lips and that mouth.

She's cranium fog
Clouding my reason
The perfect little sin
Enough cause for treason

She's living chaos
But I was never a fan of order
So I shouldn't be worried
When she pushes my borders.

She's a free reign
And I surrender to her rule
You can take me for an idiot
Or sell me as the fool.

If she's everything wrong
I'd rather never again be right
So I'll follow her into the dark
Until she forever fades from sight.

Immaterial.

Don't give me a throne
Or a piece of the land.

I don't ask for your riches,
No more than what's in my hand.

You can keep to your ranks,
Stick to your titles and names.

I don't crave your piece of pie,
You have nothing I wish to claim.

I wouldn't implore you
To give me a house too big for home.

I find that space doesn't matter
As long as my mind has room to roam.

Keep your wine,
Your gems,
Your flowers with little stems.

I will never ask
For such worthless things
I don't wish any part of them.

All I want is to be my own
To see the world my way.

Just the steady pulse of a heavy heart
And nothing left in gray.

No shiny lights
No golden goose
No games I wish to play.

Just some words to leave behind
When my days finally die away.

CPR

Why do you nurse
A broken heart?
She asked.

Is there a reason
Your words are always sad?

You're too young
To feel the way
You say you do.

Forget the fools
You aren't mad.

You shouldn't hide
From the tides
Of fate like this.

You needn't worry
About risking a chance.

You miss every one
Of the shots
You don't take.

Let me remind you
How to dance.

Rendezvous

Meet me at
The same new place
Let me show you
The world from somewhere else

We can safely share
Our stories in the silence
No need to hide
Won't partake in their violence

Meet me at
The edge of the earth
I will pile up the wood
And build our little hearth

A place to warm
And rest your tired feet
Come the morning
Our roads will not repeat

Meet me at
Any place that isn't here
Somewhere to lie together
Where there's no quarter for fear

It need not be
Heaven or some paradise
It may not even be
Something seen by our eyes

So meet me at
The turn to the long road
I'll wait with a cigarette
As it's embers grow old

Leave behind your bags
Throw your conscience to the wind
Let me show you
Everywhere we could have been

Write things that scare you. Something you'd think twice before sharing with the world and attaching your real name to. A thought even your imagination is uncomfortable harboring. And then launch it as a front page fugitive to see who it riles up in the world. It's only after you've pissed on their ideals will they ask why you did it.

A sinking feeling

There's an unrelenting torrent of words spewing from what seems to be emotional turmoil in the left aorta. That coupled with the drug induced self-doubt should be enough to question surviving the night. I had always imagined that love would be an easily managed thing. I never thought it would claw at the scabs of my wounded heart like a crazed rat. Each painful nibble opening old scars a little bit more as the arteries pump all sorts of darkness into, whatever it is that's left. Not much hope for a broken heart. Take off the gloves, lock up the defib, this one is done. The boys will bid me well and float me down the river. Tell my mother I'll miss her, tell the girls I wish I could say the same. Let them watch the torrent of words finally drown this broken barge of mine.

Mirror, mirror.

We want to be just so broken
that someone
might want to repair it.

The hopeless heart.
The unlovable soul.
All wolf cries for help.

Just illusions formed
and allusions made
on close inspection of empty words.

Never meant to show the truth,
only blur the vision of it.

We want to create
this image of us
so the reflection might seem more real.

So we might become
what our eyes think they see.

So that we may find,
in this miserable world,
someone
to share our miseries with.

Bounty Paid

He rode up
With the early dawn
Two pistols by his side.

"Come out old man,
And pay the price."
To the window he had cried.

"This is the time
To face your fate
There is nowhere you can hide."

Slowly then
The doorway slid
And the guilty stepped outside.

His face was scarred
His eyes were dark
His hair was surely dyed.

"You call upon
The wrong man"
Came the feeble alibi.

"I was here at home,
With my wife and child
I promise I do not lie."

The rider paused
A second still
And considered the dice.

He sought to make
Sense of the face
That stared into his eyes.

As the sun rose up
Behind the mill
And shed its blinding light

A shot rang out
Gunpowder smells
Choked up the countryside

The scarred man
Stood in the doorway still
While the rider slowly died.

He walked up to
The bleeding man
And knelt down by his side.

He pulled aside
The two guns and said
"I'm sorry for my crime.

"There was no way
For you to live
And me to keep what's mine.

I know the day
I'm judged for this
There'll be no mercy to be had

So let them send
Ten thousand more
If it makes them just as glad."

The rider gave
His final breath
To have two words as his last

"Burn down"
He cried to the dark eyed man
Still clinging to the past.

The murderer
Picked the body up
By sundown it was lost.

While the two guns
Raised on a mantelpiece
Reminded of the cost.

A man who seeks
Another's blood
Should dig a pair of graves.

There is no hope
For vengeance when
Luck and fortune saves.

Rebound.

I refuse to be,
Just another name.
In your list of strange bedfellows.

I choose,
Not to remain.
The fool you made of me.

It wasn't by your glance,
Or your lingering hand
That I was slighted.

I don't think it was,
Your affliction to the phone
That made you seem benighted.

For a moment there,
You got me going.
I believed I meant more than every other.

And you even had me,
Happy with the fact
That we had no great future.

But I refuse,
To be just another name
In your list of strange bedfellows.

I don't think,
I was made to lead,
But this time I refuse to follow.

I don't think,
I can become.
Another lover whose heart turned hollow.

I would rather,
Forget you today.
And look to a calmer tomorrow.

Still useful.

I love using words that have grown almost completely redundant. You know, the ones the English language forgot to evolve in its own sick etymological-darwin method. These are words that just fell by the wayside as spoken word evolved and clear definition went the other way. It’s not like these words stand for anything anymore. They’re just there. Lying sad and puppy-eyed, asking to be used in some half-meaningful conversation. People haven’t really forgotten them. We happen upon them in some weird crevice of a memory where ages ago an Enid Blyton novel had implanted it with all the might of the three golliwogs.

Like ‘flabbergasted’. That’s just one of the words that sounds like it makes sense but if you ask most people, they’re simply too flabbergasted to answer. We all know what it means... but do we? Then we Google it, which kind of means we didn’t. No one knows where it came from. And it had nowhere to go towards. That doesn’t seem like latin to me. It just seems like a bunch of alphabets flabbergasted at finding themselves being taken seriously. It’s a word that’s dying. It never got the fair trial of an abbreviation. There is no #flbbrgsted.

It’s not just the long words though. There are a few short little quips that beg to be recalled, but aren’t because few would understand what a quip is. Which poses, what I still like to call; a conundrum. Or rather a word that just sounds made up. Of course you might try to solve this by pointing out synonyms. But that’s the point! Such phrases are synonyms for things we use every day yet we choose the many others and forget these rhinestones of vocabulary. These are just the bastard words of the 20th century. Except barely as precious and half as likely to survive without our help. As a collective whole we have decided to leave them behind and move on with our hash-tags and our ever growing urban dictionaries.

Yet every once in a while, these words just creep up on me and grab at my mental tongue, twisting it into shape. They arrive at these uncomfortable places in life where I’d least expect to run into them. There’s this awkward silence as these poor, neglected, uncared for ‘expressions’ find a way to be themselves. And it’s on my able voice that they hope to somehow leap into the limelight once again. So that someday they too can leave people flabbergasted at their utterance.

Bad Advice

All the voices in your head
are just things you've heard
or somewhere read.

They are just words meant to misguide you.
The only thing they know
is how to deride you.

There isn't a rule of thumb for you to follow.
More an echoing sound
in the world so hollow.

Pay no heed to the herds of storytellers
and don't you listen
to the easy lie sellers.

Leave them be with their pointless games.
Let them lose their minds
in search of their names.

There is no need for you to drown in worry,
happiness is a slow mover
you'll outrun her in your hurry.

Remember who you were a long time ago.
The years have been kind,
the trails are easy to follow.

Maybe as the journey ends
you will find a simpler place.

Somewhere with a cleaner mirror,
the reminder of a familiar face.

Until then beware of being so easily defined,
that the interest of strangers
cannot be confined.

But mostly beware the smoke you will breathe,
for it can make you write
verses like these.

Prosewhores

I've always wanted to be a writer. For as long as I can remember I've relished the idea of giving thoughts a tangible form. Whether it be pencil or pixel, any arrangement of words would satisfy me. Somewhere along the way I started to yearn for something more than being just another forgotten wordsmith. So I chased one such profession that, I believed, valued ideas. And I found my way into advertising. The transition from writer to copywriter happened smoothly and passed unnoticed by my preoccupied subconscious, which was busy tackling below-the-belt puzzles. I began to settle into the role with apparent ease, never suspecting what it entailed.

But now I see that I've sold my soul to the consumerist culture. Creating something has become a matter of purpose, rather than the habit it used to be. Squeezing a few sensible words out of this mind is often a task only completed within the icy confines of my office. It has become impossible to think freely, uninhibited by the chains of an ageing company's values or the intelligence of the least common denominator. I don't write anymore. I simply sell things. I'm the pimp who whores my ideas to the only bidder I know; the brand manager. And often, he doesn't think too highly of the assets I bring to the conference room anyway. His choice is unique. He is happy with the drug spoiled street wrangler as long as he gets a place to stick his embarrassingly puny unit. He will not think about the better commodity a creative mind can bring. He doesn't bother with spending time on an idea. And the problem is, he's the one paying for my unique services.

And I promise you, they are unique. I find myself frustrated at the indecency of it all. We aren't creatives here. We should be ashamed of the term. Here we are just a bunch of strugglers playing catch-up with the world around us. And we are so afraid of being discovered that we've built a nice bubble of ignorance to keep us safe and disillusioned. A fact which we attempt to blur with the sheen of grand award shows packed with emotional and hollow applause.

No matter what part of the industry you go into they chase only these two things. They chase awards or real work. I want to chase ideas. That's a higher ground no one seems to offer. This fucking profession doesn't allow it. I cannot become a round-the-clock mental prostitute. Doling out ads like blow jobs at throw-away prices waiting for my turn in the big league where someday I should feel grateful at tasting some Cannes cock. I joined advertising to change the perceptions of people, not brands. I came here to be some kind of voice on mainstream media that everyone can stumble across, not be bombarded by. I came here as the fool I find myself making of people.

I'd rather be unemployed than foolish.