Grim

Every day I hear people
claiming they've lost control.
that they've lost hold on reality,
and I wonder,

did they ever really have it?

I've seen angels dance
on waves of logic.
I've held the hands of devils,
as they laid waste to the impure.
I've hunted with wolves,
for unspeakable prey.
and I don't claim to grasp reality.

The physical gives way
when one seeks control.

Owning your life means
defining your world.

I have forsaken, and live not in,
the world of my birth.

but that which I helped create.

Where magic exists
as a facet of fact,
and not some cold mythology.

Where men are gods by right,
and transcend enlightenment
to become their own truth in technology.

Don't you dare tell me what's real.
Mankind Cannot Handle Very Much Reality,
so let me cling to my laughable, obscure theology.

I don't seek understanding. Just pray for me.

The fatalistic homosapien in me would like to believe that the crux of this
sad sad issue would probably result in the dwindling of what's left of
my respect for love to possible oblivion.

Being cerebrally match-made does a great job of validating the fact that my friends seek comfort in assumptions of me. Comes with the territory of being too
annoyingly combustive in nature, for my own good.
I've learnt today that it is easier to feign annoyance,
then to address a whole plethora of isses; especially when dealing
with matters of such.

Apparently, the hands-on method is surprisingly easy to catch on to.
I'm a stickler for seeking perfection. In both the unfortunate ones
and myself. But thankfully, no-one briefed me on the issues
that came with the famous bitter-pill: disappointment.
That layer of skin definetely did not come easy. ("Desolation, desolation, i owe so much to desolation" --Jack Kerouac)

My poor easily-demarcated character.
Yet ironically, it still serves as a bane to others, rife with its alleged complexities that come packaged with it.
But it warms my heart to know that a shield would no longer serve its purpose if my achilles heel is marked with a generous cross-hair; ala Night Of The Living Dead.
And yes, i'm deathly afraid of the day i lose the resistance to hold up my ever-reliable sword.

I would prefer not to go trigger-happy with my heart.

An ashtray wouldn't do.

Teasing a cigarette,
feather-waisted smoke
giggles past the computer screen
licking lustfully the lot of
chronic wreckage
left over from past fist fights
with willful poems.

The lamp shade guises a 40W sun
singing copper-bellied ballads
to passing bird flocks,
too impatient in their flight to befriend
an autumn of deflated color.

Random evenings, cross-legged on the floor,
creep in like the voice of a woman,
wailing,
light scent of lilac and coffee
renewing an invitation to rummage
under more than her skirt, in abandonment
yellow socks wake to
play hide-and-seek with a single
stuffed mattress of scribbled notes.

To cremate on nights
smoke crouches between eyelashes,
purple and tight like a ribbon
around which one man has weighed the darkness
without her, too long,

"does anybody care how we love,
darling,
with all this time left
to miss?"

Self portrait of a wordy child

I'm told I have a democratic voice
I strive so others understand
the things I speak and write,
or is it just that I found out
the simplest route
is very often plotted
in the most convoluted way?
When I was small
some snotty, snippy silly
neighbourhood girls
refused to play with me
because they said
they couldn't comprehend
the labyrinthine things I'd say.
All day long I'd listen
to their silly nursery rhyming:
Dip and dip and blue and ship,
bad and sad and good and bad,
words that didn't matter
filling up familiar space
with endless freckled chatter.
I spot them still
on the street, in a shop, in my mind
looking vexed and wrong
because they never grasped
no-one finds their way
out of the tangled maze
if all they ever learn to sing
are soppy, sentimental songs.

Even foul names are to be earned

Don't use the fact that i am of self-sufficing nature as a pretext for me to condone your blase actions.
Do me a favour and commit that to heart, will ya?