karate – water

Water sinks in
Faster then thickens.
My Pockets, my pockets are drinking.
Your fingers, my fingers are sinking.

and again

listening to: Chromatics – Night Drive

Your words are the delicate sprinklings of shredded wafers and chocolate atop an ice cream cone. The swirling breeze helps them land carefully, softly, into the moulded delicacy.

They’re still a lie, though.

Just like the sprinklings, they’re nothing but ostentatious meanderings of hypocrisy. Your hypocrisy.

Fireflies will rain down from the sky on your funeral procession. And I, I will dance. I will dance to the melancholy that shall pervade the rough-house atmosphere your despicable death will bring. The rain will pound the Earth and the sounds will echo through the mountains and the snow, but I, I will dance. I’ll scream and rejoice, as the gatherers will profoundly weep.

Don’t worry, they’re liars too. Hypocrites. They want to join me; to absolve. But their menial allegiance to you prevents them. God knows why, though.

————————————————————————————————-

We’ll walk through the streets, and glance at alleys tempered with back-lights. The magesterial sounds will bounce of walls and disappear, as the evening light causes your shadow to slant gracefully. Like photographs blurred by a lack of concentration, we’re nowhere. Our mistakes make us who we are, not our achievements; and for this, for this we are sufferers. You and I, walking, on these streets lit by the dull orange glow of dying sunlight and worthless lamps.

Some coffeehouses are open. You want to go in, but I don’t. To sit amongst whom? Those lazy poets and writers? Those forgotten creatures of God, or those arrogant creatures of God? Both of them are the same, I hear you say. Perhaps. Their words are exercises, worthless mundane exercises of their neglegible capabilities.

We aren’t different, I hear you say.

Atleast I know i’m one of them, as opposed to prancing naked like a Prince in his harem. Acceptance separates the idiots from the cretinous, I say. You agree, but with some hesitancy. I guess you can’t be bothered. I guess I can’t blame you.

I don’t want coffee, not anymore. You still crave it, but my decadence makes you reconsider. Our decadance, makes you reconsider.

There’s a group of young girls, scantily-clad, masquerading as whores I suppose. Recalcitrants; that’s what the law calls them I think. You agree, and I can’t help but sense a little futility in your agreement. There’s no need for enlightened discussion, no need for either one of us to say how they’re in unfavourable predicaments, and how their body may be their only way out. No need for that, everything’s understood and refuted anyway. We’ll get nowhere.

You agree.

We always do.

I want to quote Wordsworth. To sit on the curb and to quote Longfellow, Eliot, Dante, Auden, Neruda. I want to quote the Eastern masters; Nizami, Tagore. I wish I could quote Faiz, but my Urdu stinks.

That makes you laugh. I know you agree.

Your hands are cold. I can’t feel, nor can I see as the light offered by the half-dead street lamps is non-existent, but I know they’re cold. It’s a shame.

I wish I had a coat to put around your shoulders, but I’m a naked man. I have not even words, only half-formed thoughts.

The sky is dead now; a pitch black. Time to call it a day I whisper.

You agree.

a silent, fallen reprieve

the sun rose from heaven’s ashes,
and bathed the stairway
in glorious white light,
contrasted against the ebony
of the window frames,
and the missives of stone that
bore the brunt of the my soul.

I stood there, naked as a sparrow,
weighing the skins of moribund men;
I stood there, aghast
as light shone on the blackened walls.
soot and dust, thrust,
at the dawn of a thousand new days,
and I, below, must now helm
this decaying decree

outside, clouds full of ashes eat the sky;
and the flowers fall to the earth and the
birds drown in stagnant seas.
forests collapse and the trees indulge
in their colloquial vagary.
as caves full of three strung men,
in their blind disparity, are flung
to the edges of earth; and consumed
by limbless concretes of man,
and papers painted white.

I stood there, and I could hear,
the piercing cry of her only angel;
buried in the sands of the beaches,
with trumpets blaring and the angel
of death singing, on his steed and
whispering to the clouds to run
by his side.

I stood there, and from the frosted glass
I could see, the reprieve of Adam and Eve,
the return of man and his somnolent,
philistine, soliloquy.
I stood there, the floor tottering under
the weight of the glories and sins, that
I bore; in that grey cloth full of bones.

The bones of old men,
the bones of righteous men,
the bones of wicked men,
the bones of men who raped and pillaged,
the bones of men who burnt and destroyed,
the bones of men young who sought carnality,
the bones of men young who lost themselves
in that appetition,
and the bones of men who fell from the heavens,
but regressed into perdition

I stood there, as the tower quivered,
and I could hear; the conjurer whisper
with withering slight:
“Prometheus! Thy words reverberate,
in glorious austerity! Oblige!”
and lightning burnt the tip of their toes,
turned into sand with blood for bear.
I stood there, and I could hear,
chanting; in the tongues of snakes and lizards.

I stood there, as the unsufferable noise maligned,
and I could hear, the distant whims of an apostle,
for us; for the old men, and the young men.
Words minced, they slipped off his tongue and
danced like madmen, scurrying to the sounds
of thunder and molten rain.
“Our lives, sought! Destroyed! Our penance,
our sin, our purgatory!
Cursed be their children, and their wives!
Cursed be they with the boils of Egypt!
Cursed be their tyranny, let it be their fallacy!
Cursed be their filth, their tiny muddled papers of gore!
Accursed be they, and their thirst for infant
blood, for our dissolute land.
Accursed be they, for our infants muddied bodies
lie on their crowns; on their figments of gold
and diamond.

I stood there, and I could hear;
the vultures convulsing, awoken from their
age of coalescence.
To feed on the smoldering
ruins, to feed and then be aflame.

I stood there and I could see,
ships full of flesh and ash, drown into the sea.

fucking hell

Vertigo.

Alfred Hitchcock.

Masterpiece.