night tremors

there is a discord in my veins
when I can’t sleep at night
when I feel that the darkness is
equivalence to my solemnity
but also the rhapsody of my prayers

there is nothing to shy away from the day
only insubordinate time with its longings
and unkept wishes; I can’t garden time
though I wish I could kill its weeds
gently and feel it snap at the touch of my fingers
these fingers hungry for some communion
with the diary of dreams and the origami
of sensuality nipped lightly by the logic
of the moon in parallels with the stars.—

crashing on boredom

What is this feeling we call boredom?
— was it always a paradox?
should be; life is in the roots
in the air — zigzagging between the nodes
in some membranous digits
and some pockets
the chemistry of boredom can only be measured
when you have really lived; or vicariously searched
through the folders of lives in some others’ kitchens
— the image, the simulacrum — those bread crumbs
that led you to some candied house — were you some
anorexic dandy fidgeting on some other street
tiptoeing through the woods
and the urban sprawls
you seem like a nightingale; singing some memory
of a future. Your posterity begins, when you fold boredom
and piecemeal it with the wings — you know you are borne
and bound to take off — outside yourself and inside yourself
ennui is a happenstance; struggle the happiness.▬

a scratch by a purr

there is a sensation in my bones
a chirping of molecules like crickets
fastened into my mouth and throat
like some oral fixation

feel myself moving like thuds in the attic
a ghost of a heartbeat manifesting
in poltergeist steroids of adrenalin and noise

I was flesh before I was matter
I was wind before I was echo
throating my whines and neighs and snarls and howls
making the most decisive decision
to not mute my speech.

when I cannot sleep

I cannot sleep; the dust of it rounds my eyes
into separate spheres, a sea in each
dipping night’s ink like a chance of lead
into the silvery apparition of a reflected moon
cradled between the sinews of a hammocked brain

there is a long sigh, a long echo — followed slowly by a song
tethering is a lullaby in glades of sun and shadow
day hinged and riveted like a solarnaut in crucial voyages

and my mind sits there, ancient, stubborn — like a shard of shell
fossilised and unmoving, indifferent to the throes of sleep
and voyeuring on the agonies of silence.

I know I wasn’t a tragedy; I knew it seemed so
after the hallways laughed menacingly
and the bells that chimed once in my favour
grew to sand in some lothario’s hourglass of moves
glued to the stationary casket of time in motion
faster than sound and faster than quantum

it aches my head and bones; not my heart
she flutters still like some newborn butterfly
doing her pilgrimage of movements, she never tires
when I do — there lies the problem and the sanity.
I am sleek with the covers, I am armed with the pillows
salient are my eyebrows playing tic-tac with particles of skin
and the dreams that are coiling to these feathery antennas

I will sleep soon
then wake to conquer the seeming
unconquerable
for I am too
a shade of moon
encased in an hourglass of night
measured stably by a rush of adrenalin
in a spoon of reverberations.—

wilts

I want to open up to nothingness
and wilt away my feeling skin
see it shed like feathers and be happy of it

this is a metamorphosis
flying with iron wings
rather be a meteorite

that can cause craters on the moon
fuel the sun — raise mountains from flat beds

a gardener of the waves of the oceans
and the corals excavated from the sands

the dunes of richness and the ferocity of the valleys

being fertile in bone and soul.—

reinvention of a flower

what I feel is an aperture of sunlight
sliding in from my curtains
blue then silver then flashes of green; slants of gold

in the morning light, my mind half-awake, feeling
half-dreams and half-premonitions; tucked between
loose blankets of my dream and reality
not bothered by the critical analyses of politeness

my heart desires to be voracious, selfish and rude
like a gladiator in an arena or a highlanding bandit
robin hood tongue; stealing from the egos of the higher ups
and giving to me and others like me — what I feel is a rigid happiness
in isolation.

it comes up my flanks like water on the banks
like reeds and flowers on the bay
tying my short hair with flowers and flowing skin
with thorns and petals

a rose to be desired and has desires
has the weapons and fortifications of an emperor.—

erasing pain

my heart has swallowed a large pitcher of sadness
pre-summer days quote in heat
and sigh in zephyrs like commas
in a run on sentence —

building up my bones like a house
or a locomotive; both nano and steam
evaporates through the lines
of osmotic transcendence

quiet was the night
adjusting the windows
as the rains come hot and sleek
like predators hunting for water
and my eyes thirst dryness
like a line smoothed by clay
my mouth antagonises me in silence
but I don’t turn the page —

what is a lost cause? I think trust
or trust blindly? a thrusting motion
reminds you of juvenile dreams and
naive conceptions — love sings over the hills
canopied by clouds and conceived heaven
love sings over the earth
only the desert welcomes the monsoon

if my heart was paper, would it be easier to write the codes?
to relearn myself in small accents like apostrophes and periods?

would it have been easier to write down some commandments
that never altered; set ink as stone and made it roll so it
gathered no heresy of moss? — shanties of sand come climb
and crumble but never swayed the reign of those staunch routines

automaton of apathy; pincushioned by wavy joints of empathy
never fully light or fully darkness: just a fruit with many seeds
like a rose with many thorns. Beauty is a trait that can defy kindness.
Why should I javelin throw my self when others watch the macabre
in a seated box in the opera of their own lives?

hearing something like rain fall down like it has pockets to fill
feeling partly tired and partly smarting from a wound
there is no chime that elopes with the blow to the heart

knowing the quiet I trace it like a scar,
a skin that should be immaculate
I sigh, whimper and whisper

the wall is broken; pain can’t keep me down.—