Lament. Cock.

...




Falcon, Falcon. You saoring sexed bird of the sky. You preyer of flesh.
You worshipper of blood.
You believer of freedom.
Falcon, Falcon. Hold me still like a baby, and then flesh me alive.
Falcon, Falcon. I have travelled across an endless sea of hunger and dry love.
Flesh me.




...

Liar.

Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. Shit feeling damn bad abt it. Will talk to you later. ……..

Happy Cats Yuletide

the cats went out feasting for the pleasure of it alone
but after awhile and too much ale they started to fight.
they clawed at each other and spat and then hissed and then
with a roar they turned on the house kicking the furniture
tearing at the curtains and then setting fire to the hearth.
it was the most fun that they had had in years!

HAPPY YULETIDE FROM ME AND MINE TO ANYONE LEFT POSTING ON THIS SITE.

cocaine jesus
x

whilst other team sites fail....

the dark angels stomp on...

discharge3

anti art...anti poetry... anti panty pudding and pie

HI GUYS!!!

Hi guys that i am posting in this blog is thanx to cocaine jesus.

here's my first contrbution,from my other blog.
hope u like it



I love no one,'cos I am not capable of loving anymore.
I feel nothing,
No happiness,
No sadness,
No Love,
No hatred,
Nothing
I am Nothing,
I am hollow,
I don't want to live,
Neither do I want to die

They say time heals all wounds.
Does it?
Does it?
I am still as numb as i was when death came
And touched her on the shoulder,
My love, you told me to live on,
So I am living,
But I am not alive,
I am just a walking corpse.

The Memories of our time together are golden,
They remain etched forever in my brain,
As the only time I was alive.
I am Hollow,
I am Hollow,
I am dead inside,
Just a living corpse,
Just a living corpse.

hope u liked it!!

i know that i am not an awesome writer like the other guys,but i still like to try .

bye!!!

Lament for David “chip” Reese’s last hand

maybe this is the some other time
business school at stanford can wait

forever
calm and quiet like chip
who was a lousy businessman

according to his partner
poker kings but business suckers
of the worst sort
true gamblers

lost outside the realm
of million dollar bets
easy come easy go

sitting now across the table
from the one with all the cards

Wall

Sick from saying old things in a new way. It is the brick wall at the end of my universe.

events

sharp the time like lime on a cloth.

upon the wheel of progress spins the heart.

my day turns to evening while the dawn blinks.

swallow

a virtual painting by cocaine jesus

Regrets

She had a face like she'd commit suicide for someone she loved. And, because of that, I had to love her straight away. I'd never jumped on an emotion so fast in my life.

Delhi.

"I return to Delhi as I return to my mistress..."

Hallo, you. Hallo city sad waning shadows fading by the twilight. Hallo. Hallo new city on the sidelines of my vision.
Hallo, Dilli.
Not Delhi. Dilli.
City, city, fuck fuck. City wake. City sleep.
City streets. Manicured, glitzy. And I hate it.
Oh hallo.

Untitled Haiku

Black water

In the lake today

Smells like death

P.S. This is a picture that I received on one of the many chain-mails that everyone receives. I think it's amazingly done.

cote d'azur

thumbscrew shows
power kindles

Interruptions

Sitting quietly,
listening to voices:
harsh, calm, strange—
and silent.

Waiting for something
to happen, for perhaps
a miracle.

For a time when this turbulent
sea of wasted breath
shall sink into peace.

Stillness will pervade.

But before that,
there’ll be that ominous, almost
disconcerting
calm…

moments

can we find the grace
of little meaningless hours
that pass carrying no burden
greater than a trace of pleasantness
no countries saved
no great heroism
no answer to sciences main questions

the carousel of mindless time
that takes us up and down
with equal gravity
and for all the turning wheel
leaves us where we came from

refreshed
and smiling

discharge 3

go here....discharge3 ...NOW!

Peace To The World

Little Onion – Peace To The World featuring Guru Sandesh Shaunak

this track is donated to the world - free to download

"Peace to the World"say it make it happen

paul conneally

and she's the one with the curls...

i have always been absolutely terrible at sketching. and i know this isn't a great exception but i really like it. i do. any comments, suggestions, anything would be much appreciated! :)

They met
like strangers on a bus
traveling to a town
of no names
and
sunflower dreams.
They met
like they parted,
alone and looking
for each other
in the corner
of their
eyes
where a tear hid from the world.
A tear only the other
could taste.

Hmmph

'I look at the world through a microscope and that is my sense of humour. You use a telescope and that is yours.'
'Hmmph.'

RuKsaK

the beethoven of donna

fill me with that face

dark and beautiful as

intimate words

promise me

you will linger on my lips

lost for a moment

and that

open or closed

my eyes will see

that secret world

only we know of

surround my ears

with the silky ocean

of your whisper

in the pendulous light of

a moonlight sonata

for a man

gone deaf on the world

longing

i dont believe it is the effort of walking

that makes me want to fly

sweating on some

hot dusty road

nothing comes free

and sometimes walking

is my effort of choice

sometimes legs just need stretching

its a cold cruel world

when you cant make choices

im not talking about that

about dodging a reckless car

or hanging onto the mast

after a shipwreck

im talking about who will you find

where you are looking

cause where is surprisingly specific

where determines wholl be there

i mean those of the earth

are found in the city of the road

they roll beside me

trapped in traffic

creatures of the sidewalk

they read books

trying to set their minds loose

upstairs in the library

are anchored to their chairs

littering classrooms with questions

until bells set them free

still to linger outside doorways

grouped by gravity

and on to other questions

but its you who live in the city of the sky

and i want to see you

that makes me want to fly

it is my longing that needs to soar

DISCHARGE

we are discharge.

we are deviant.

we are dark angels with bright wings.

we are dysfunctional.

we are blog art.

discharge2

DISCHARGE - the best art collective in the blog world

and on

footprints in sand.
surf kisses beach.
stars chase sun.
night fades day.

bereft

she stumbles across the dance floor of the moon
having failed to hear the music
she cannot soar and sway
in the sparkle of starlight
she looks for pieces of broken glass
her beast is blind and cannot find them
even though they pain her ancient shuffle
her mind cannot paint a picture
nor her ear transcend
the clank of fork and spoon
nor the hungry growl of her beast
for whom she so urgently
cuts her bread
blindly leaving huge gashes
glaring open
in the tablecloth of the night

she carries cold discomfort
which no blanket can warm
and no pillow can make rest easy

sated – her sleep is profound
as the death she fears
but not easy
there is no waltz
over smooth marble
to glide the night away

traveling

some another monday
perhaps in the middle
of a week that was lost
in a wine mist
in new orleans
perhaps that was washed away
in a shower
in a soap smelling pas de deux
that segues into a cool
walk during a sprinkle
on a dutch summer day
by the lake
with the windmills
and the bridges between
the places you didn’t mean to go

afternoons trying to make
the keyboard of your laptop
roar like a grand piano
watching the planes
leap in and out of schipol

ah the fruit and the cheese
on the train going through antwerp
on the way to paris
with vin ordinaire rouge

by hamburg the ennui
has a hint of lust
holding hands in our sleep
turning to smokey smelling whiskey
an hour away from frankfurt au main
playing with the letters of confusion
so as to spell a better word
so as to spell a happier moment
so as to write that really good poem
on some another monday

fireflies

(Van Gogh, "Starry Night")


in the stories she tells
i lie hidden from his glances,
in the light of a million candles
is the darkest hour carefully split.
we're all chasing dreams
that, like fireflies,
flutter
and refuse to touch reality.
i, on starry nights,
like to see the glow
of fireflies die out.
i, on starry nights,
chase her

in my shadow.

the don quixote bar

sitting there alone with all the pretty words

rotating a golden rumitchka

with silky cold of tarnished vodka

all the pretty birds have flown

darkness becomes frighteningly large

another siege of solitary pillow

discovering how huge small noises can sound

trying to narrow down empty space

to what can no longer be called alone

trying to hone down too numerous words

arrow prayers into expanding distance

hope like waiting for an echo

from a night soft as black silk

with tomorrow like a cliff too far

rock-hard and real but tough to see

under rule of empty stool

closing time is here

movement in

a faint breeze blows
the cool sun fades
autumn beckons

vodka chicken lips

i roll like a sloth over land and sea

i am not lazy only compromised

rung tumble slumble

foolish word mumble

i am an advanced agent of a dizzy government

overlooking that laughing land

i have just stumbled out of

i want to laugh and

i am so loose

i know that all things are loveable

especially that all too nervous dinner

that not so long ago was worth having

but now presides over the future

precarious as a long drop

Spilled to Bloodlessness

(dunno where else to write, but i needed to do this)

Do you know of any guy who has been raped so much by skewed Indian penal codes and his lawyer that he contemplates suicide every night? And spilled to bloodlessness seemed such an apt term to describe his condition.

This is a story of my senior from Banaras. He is a nice guy and was like an elder brother to all of us there. He had a job and we, as students, just piled on to him like leeches . . . spending time away from our hostels, listening to good music, eating good food at his expense. He would cook for us without a frown . . . why aren't you getting married, we would ask him, but he smiled to that as well, without giving us a clear answer.

We later figured that he had a couple of sisters to marry off, which needed a lot of money, and he being the sole breadwinner, just couldn't afford his own marriage.

Ten years passed and we got to know that he eventually got his sisters married off and then got married to a "tall" girl as he always said he would. "why don't you marry X?" we would ask, and he would come up with something weird like "oh, she is not tall enough for me"

Tall girl... arranged marriage... has a kid... and is coming to Bangalore. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting him after so long. We met... he hadn't changed one bit except for his mous gone. Looked younger than ever and still had that smile on his face. My wife (who was a fellow student in Banaras) being his fan as well, it was like the old times revisited. Chick Correa, Trilok Gurtu, L. Subramanium, and Miles Davis were remembered with reverence again and raised toasts to. That is, till his wife came over to Bangalore.

We had heard a lot about her and the day she came, we cooked some food for them and went to visit them. She didn't come out and say hello. I think she just sauntered into the living room once in shabby clothes and walked to the kitchen. When she saw us, she said "oh" and carried on.

My wife was mighty pissed with her behavior, but we attributed it to fatigue after the long flight from Calcutta.

We met her a couple of times after that, but because she wasn't very welcoming, we gradually lost touch with this guy as well .. . let him live his own life in peace . . . I met him later when he wanted to buy a car and couldn't decide which one to buy. Why do you need a car at all? Your wife and kid visit you only once in a quarter, so why a car? I realized he was being forced to buy one but he was doing it happily enough. Anything to keep his visiting wife happy.

One day, he went out to buy mangoes for her. Came back to find the bedroom door locked from within. She had waited for him to come into the house before committing suicide. "I will teach you a lesson" were her last words. He couldn't break open the door in time. This lady obviously expected him to save her before she got asphyxiated. He had to call his neighbors and together they broke open the door to find her hanging from the cieling fan.

The 18 month old kid, Khushi, was in the other room, playing with her toys. She had just had milk, so she was happy. Khushi means "happy" in Bengali, by the way.

Later we learned that she had attempted suicide twice before, knowing fully well she will be saved. This was her only way to put pressure on her husband and make him come home on time. She being a government employee in Calcutta (where people work from 12 to 2 in a day and still complain about workload) could not fathom why he had to stay back till late in the night at work. He worked for an American firm where most of the conference calls had to be taken at the middle of the night.

But this attempt, or the game she tried to play, went horribly awry.

He was put behind bars and the wife's family came and took the child away. They also filed a case against him under Section 489 A of IPC, accusing him of mental torture and dowry harassment. Funnily, I was in the room when the public prosecutor was teaching them how to frame a case of dowry harassment, thinking I am one of them. The girl's brother interrupted the lawyer and asked me to stand outside.

So, as you can see, my friend is a classic example of being spilled to bloodlessness. To get bail he had to borrow money to the tune of 8 lakhs and his lawyer is trying to squeeze him even further. Potential employers want to know where he was the last couple of years. And he is contemplating suicide. I could sense it. He somehow seems ready to jump out of a building any moment.

I feel rather clueless right now. I wish I could find him a potential employer who could give him an ERP job (he worked as an ERP project manager earlier) so that he can sustain the case and keep his lawyer. I also wish there were some good souls (and not sharks as they usually are) who would fight his case pro bono.

I don't know how to save a person who doesn't have any blood left in him any more.

different

1

a day with the sun like a large room

a big bright place where leaves rustle

work is an hour of intense conversation

at the end of which i step out the door

and the next room is dark

2

puzzling views of letters glowing in the air

words spelled backwards hung there in confusion

when the breeze blows there is the dank hint of mildew

traffic lights changing mold in unseen corners

with the metallic-electric sound of switches

echoing hollowly

things scurry close but behind shutters of shade

my pockets are full of shadows and pain

which can be spent to buy dreams i can’t remember

the change comes back always more than i spent

and time has no visible motion

the night is an endless conversation

held alone and in silence and i

shaking my head

find the day has left

taking the door with it

inside me

i have a flower in my pocket

i have a question in my mind

i have a splinter in my awareness

i have an alter ego

who has left me

a message

in a bottle

floating hopefully

in the pool

on whose surface i gaze

hoping her reflection

will have lingered there

lazy as a smile

cute as a wink

one day

one day I might live

within a day

and breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

one day I might live

within a day

and breathe the colours

of a tangerine ray

sing a song, a happy song
and walk hand-in-hand
with the purple tree
around the bend

one day I might see

the seas refill

through my window

on the crimson hill

I might even kiss the sunlight
resting on the sidewalk
in shades of green
and yellow dreams

all I need is one day
that would fall in love with me
like I have fallen
in love with him

Thoughts across the coffee table.

Would you be gentle, if we fuck? And carry me tender, slow, to a white room with blue, satin sheets?

Or would you throw me down the backseat of your car, and take me, and all I offer below the yellow streetlights and the gray moon in this black night?

Would you remember my name come daylight?

Or would I leave, and fade in silence, nameless, faceless, and ashamed, only to wither along the street wet with rain from the night gone by?

cutting his throat

cutting his throat
with her mobile phone
the morning sun

chrome

well, here i am
neon lonely.
surrounded by asphalt and cold desires.
chisled by chrome
and wine bar sounds.

A & O

Photograph by Itkupilli

:(

In about 5 days, my man friday is leaving for the land of the rising sun.

"Oh, Jesus wept".
and so he should

Free fall

Some people are on the edge. I've already jumped and I'm just looking for the least lethal place to land. A compromise of a compromise of a promise.

How long can I keep pushing? Things are changing. I'm changing. I am stretching so fast it's tearing me apart. I still can't touch the other side. I don't know that I want to.

The music drowns todays issues and reminds me of yesterdays. This iPod feeds the addiction of my ears. My tempanic membranes keeping perfect time under extreme audio assault. I'm drinking it in - floating in a pool of repose. The songs drum up memories. The drums are building to a crescendo. It brings me close that black floating ball. Today it's surrounded by an dark slick. I can't handle its touch. I already know this. This life has developed somewhat of a twitch in me.

The drum beats. My heart beats. I saw my own face, grey and ashen, music playing, coffee in hand, no more worries. My sons bring me back. They tug at my stopped heart. It beats for them. I fight for them. They struggle for my attention. I ration it to them, but I don't know why. Sometimes I love so hard it can crush. She loves so effortlessly. It makes me suspicious for no good reason. She is the lightning rod to ground my charge. She floats. I fall.

walking on

alone, on a brown stone path
walks a shadow,
a stolen glance
and stories
cached in the
cafeteria walls.

Thistles by Ted Hughes

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

Old Poet by Norman MacCaig

The alder tree
shrivelled by the salt wind
has lived so long
it has carried and sheltered
its own weight
of nests.

The Dance by RS Thomas

She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH

from first dawn
by day or star-light
everlasting motion

little jimmy norcliffe
he looked after me
sorted me out
with a good shovel
and a pair of wellingtons

high objects
the mean and vulgar
works of man

showed me how to dig
without hurting my back
to lay concrete slabs
write out betting slips
on a bag of cement

enduring things
life and nature
purifying

Corduroy Sex

In the Arithmetic of Shadows

I remembered the blood between my legs. Suddenly and without consequence it flowed. Dark. Almost brown. As old as I was. As young as I had once been. Ragged stocking on the mantle. Scabbed father christmases doling out happiness in empty boxes.

I counted the hues. A rainbow of red. The naked dandelions still fucking behind our flesh. I picked the colors. One by one. From the gullitone of his kiss.

A constant red.

The thirst of the armor. The stench of skin.

Still there, but ready to be removed.

its only stuff

sleight of hand

“It is just sleight of hand.” She said.
The cards snipped like scissors.
Clip
Clip
Clip
“It gets them every time” she smiled.
The sharp practise of a card hustler with well oiled wrists and nimble fingers had an allure that he found irresistible.
They sat around the coffee table in his hotel room.
She dealt the cards and he poured the drinks.
The clock chimed eight thirty.
“I need the toilet.” She said, giggling.
“Through there, on your right.”
She scooped her self up and moved out of sight.
He took a phial from his pocket and poured it into her glass stirring it quickly with a bic pen.
She came back into the room adjusting her skirt with quick hands and smiling at him.
“Said I wouldn’t be long didn’t I?”
“Drink up.” he said pushing the glass toward her.
“It is just sleight of hand.”
The minutes passed with a watchful eye.
The minutes fogged with a cloying tacky taste.
Memories shattered into broken pieces.
Carpet.
Glass.
Underwear.
Sliding.
Slip, slip slipping.
Fractured moments through a Vaseline smeared looking glass.
When he awoke his wallet and watch and credit cards had gone, as had his mobile phone.
All that remained was a playing card.
A joker.
Written on the card…
It is just sleight of hand.

Your Kiss...

your kiss is still melting in my mouth…
like tender cherries soaked
in the sweetest of wines, and
undoing themselves, opening up slowly,
ever so slowly -
enticing the taste buds
teasing them,
playing with them now, you see!
ah, the sweet anguish
of the aftertaste that aches
to taste you…feel you…yet again

your kiss is still melting in my mouth
and melting me within -
wish you would gather me
and sprinkle your dew drops all over
while
your kiss is still melting in my mouth…

:)

reflections

whispers

love whispers your name
sweetly, in the dark corners
of my wilting heart

Love.

Nirvana comes.
Nirvana comes in a mid sized brown, odd bottle. It comes down with a rhapsodiac melody in a dim lit bar on a prehistoric wooden table for two where one of seats never fills up. Nirvana comes and blinks twice, before its familiarity stands out, amongst the cool oceany smoothness of the evening that Sinatra offers in New York New York. And before you know, before you’re quite done for the night, you’re far away with that odd, lost bottle, in your own world where nothing stirs and nothing moves and nothing is the very music that fills the void your heart, and you know, that even if the world is blown away by an H-bomb at this very instant, it is okay, for in that dim lit bar, you have just discovered your way to your very own 8th galaxy.
Nirvana does come…

here and now

the humble light fails
a new world races to overtake me
caught here now
in my rebellious boots
i feel as if i were an anachronism
a fading memory from another time
reluctant to embrace
the corporate
the franchise
the empty heaven

ahurani

another old thing i pulled outta the closet ...

(fyi - ahurani, a water goddess from ancient persian mythology, watches over rainfall and standing water .. worshippers invoked her for health, healing, prosperity, and growth.)

Message to Piktor

Sorry if my recent post offended you. It wasn't my intention to upset you or anyone else and for that I am sorry. Perhaps this site isn't one that is a viable blog site for me to post such material. I certainly won't post anything like it on here again.

cocaine jesus

Instead of flowers

Instead of flowers
you sent me butterflies,
But you know,
they die so fast.
I don't even dare to ask,
could you send some more...

Don't worry

messenger

"as you think - so it is."
... and, so, the circle of life
embraced me @ that moment.
as i walked under the cover
of that deep periwinkle bowl -
the heavens -
i glanced into its magnificence
on my journey home.
i saw him there.
an eagle -
flowing, sailing, gliding
high above me.
a messenger?
"yes, my child,
a messenger.
grasp the courage
you know you lies within.
fear not the abysmal unknown,
fear not."

[i'm 7 days' clean ... & counting]

Regular people

the black veil

... just some old thing i pulled outta the closet ...

Hawkesley Square

Police Community Support Officers engage with Paul Conneally's piece 'Hawkesley Square'.

This is a Wordsearch made up of key words and phrases written during the Hawkesley Square Renga - part of 100 Verses for 3 Estates. The piece is a psycolexigraphic art work. Each time a participant finds a word and circles it they engage directly with the person that wrote the word/s during the renga and the time and space it was written in.

The piece was set to run over two hours on the 28th of April 2007 in Hawkesley Community Centre.

Interaction

Performer

Spectator

aberration

{inspired by some bob dylan lyrics,
some words from quasar9 and, also,
the darkness that lurks inside me.
btw - the aberration? its me.}

behold - a soul.
such a frail delicacy -
a beam of light,
trapped inside a dark cell
swallowed –
(or so it would seem) -
into the cavernous unknown.
darkness,
messenger of despair?
darkness,
a looking glass
reflecting
with such fine, exquisite detail,
the labyrinth of a soul.
a constant, habitual display
of every flaw …
every wound we collect …
reflected back to us.
the reflected. the reflection.
one seeps into the other,
in that slow, agonizing
trickle of time.
what’s real? what’s mirage?
impatient desperation
gives birth to thoughts
that eat souls alive.
we fester –
in our madness.
inertia –
a beam of light,
trapped
inside a dark cell,
melting back
into the night,
where everything
inside
is made of stone.

eye of the storm

angels

the fog drifted in like a gauze of mystery.

cotton candy frail.

damp.

clinging.

it swirled and clawed with tendril fingers that etched ephemeral shapes.

sculptures in vapour.

ghost shapes.

spectres of haze and mist and colossal uncertainty formed on the far flung reaches of slowbound smur that wraps its nebulous self around the harsh reality of rocks and trees and darkening undergrowth.

and as swiftly as light crossing a vastness of space two shapes form from the vague and amorphous miasma.

fey shapes.

strange shapes.

sensual and sexless like swans bereft of gender. elegant and dire and without substance or sound.

fell and fearless.

moving as though without movement like mercury across ice.

they see each other and hands raise in silent recognition.

an epicurean signal.

a coitus in semaphore.

they float and circle. filaments in a chimerical ballet.

a vaporous vicissitude that coalecesses and shifts as though governed by the random breath of the breeze.

their tongues touch and slip and slide. their mouths lock.

they embrace and tumble and grow into each other and move like the oceans at the beginning of time when the sun warmed the earth and the ice caps rose and fell and steam rained in a concert of condensation and the spray threw a drizzle that clung like the dew at the birth of creation and all is in echoes and light folds the morning into obscure shapes and designs and then silence explodes from the distant glimmer of clouds.

and they part with a kiss and a sigh.

and their wings spread like the memory of heaven.

and then,

they are gone.

Gabriel's Bane

A god won't do it,
but we in mortal guise
embrace the hurts taken and given without thought.
You decay in my mind,
a stray cat trapped in a sealed wall of bricks.
Your inconsistencies aren't poetic.
You've killed me inside.
My begging heart tries to say
yes- come hither, my love.
Take my soul into your calloused palms.
Let's ride, cowboy.
I can't lose you again.
Baby, I'm dead to the world.
Curled in your arms, I live again.

I love U

A loves B,
B loves Me,
I love U
U love C,
C loves D..

But, if B takes A,
and D takes C,
would U take Me?

Whip my hips!

Your Kiss...

your kiss is still melting in my mouth…
like tender cherries soaked
in the sweetest of wines, and
undoing themselves, opening up slowly,
ever so slowly -
enticing the taste buds
teasing them,
playing with them now, you see!
ah, the sweet anguish
of the aftertaste that aches
to taste you…feel you…yet again

your kiss is still melting in my mouth
and melting me within -
wish you would gather me
and sprinkle your dew drops all over
while
your kiss is still melting in my mouth…

:)

sinner (for susan)

i was a sinner
a sinner was i
for i didn't know reason
from madness in the sky,
i wielded a cleaver
with a bloody resolve
mutilating females whose
bodies i dissolved
in a bath of acid
hidden deep in the woods,
my sanctum sanctorum
where i did no good.
i used my cleaver
and a rusty old saw
to cut through the gristle
the hip bone and the jaw
of women of beauty,
be they blonde or brunette,
who i woed with my charm
and my blue corvette
that i drove for hours
through the swamp and the glade
avoiding all sunlight,
feeling safe in the shade.
i lived off of road kill
or wildlife that i shot
cooking their remains
in an old tin pot
that i heated by a fire
that i built beneath a tree
seasoned by the blood
of jane, sue and marie.
i'd slice up their livers
and chop up their hearts,
cooking their uterus,
chewing their private parts
for in truth there is nothing
that tastes so sweet
as the cooked flesh of women
and ladies of the street.
i was a sinner
and a sinner still am
so take care in the woods
of the old woods man.

Lisp a little.

Vexation

Death does not frighten me. It is the thought that I might not be living that vexes my soul.

punished

religion women iconography s&m

Little Lambs Not Lost

tacit pneumonias of orgasm
split her down the ribs

she is gutted like
the so many fish
he's caught before her

suffocated on the very
same air that lets him live.

i say tacit because
hurt is the shiest
of all the torments

and pneumonia because
there is no cure
but sometimes there's recovery

mary mary, what say you now
of the sheep you've lost?

flshbacks (iii)

the zephyr derails
as my thoughts avail
the rich indulgence
of your kiss
as it carries the song
i know i'll miss
as you whisper
the tune
around my hair
and all i want
is to fast forward
the memories
to a moment in time
when
the breeze
the breath
weren't mingled
in an obtuse fallacy

I am my past

I am made of my past. Everything in my past was built for the future. I don't know what to do now.

RuKsaK

hailstone tea

hailstone tea
a patch of purple crocus
by the ninth green

.

judy blue eyes

there was a time when judy didn't dribble.
a time when her eloquent voice echoed the sharp flourishes of her mind.
slow now. so slow now.
the ticking of the clock measures the dreadful daylight hours with clipped phrases. a pendulum that travels one way.
the wrong way.
she can't remember raindrops, nor the brittle light of early spring sun with its watery kiss floating in the sky like a promise.
hot days ahead. summer shine.
she cannot use the simplest of utensils not even a spoon. and that is all they feed you with in here, plastic spoons. you see you can't slit your wrist with a plastic spoon and you cannot penetrate your chest. you can gouge out your eyes though. just ask henry.
old henry.
blind henry.
he knows how to use a plastic spoon does henry.
there was a time when judy didn't cry all the time. a time when her laughter ran like the sense of water running. powerful and strong from the tributary of her heart to the ocean of her soul. no more laughter now though. just pebble stone cold tears.
'she doesn't know anything poor love'
'nothing?'
'no, not a thing. her mind is a total blank'

how come she weeps then?

Being born

My Country Tis of Thee

 

Sometimes I don't know what it means to be an American. Then I look out the car window, and all is revealed. God save us from our bloody hands.

Multiplicity

I am a father of two.
I am a daddy to one.
I am a caregiver at work.
I am the lover to her.
I am a husband till death.
I am compassion's embrace.
I am a friendly face.
I am empathic by design.
I am a predator of the weak.
I am a monster in the ring.
I am a sociopath for defense.
I am acutely attuned.
I am ignorant.
I am arrogant.
I am the silent enemy.
I am a god among men.
Be wary of my presence.
I can't control some of them.

burning

a fiery obsession that'll burn a civilization

Backdoors

Chrome vessels maul her thighs. In jaundiced clucks and and serrated stabs. Perforated breaths torn out of her chest. Hollowing covers. Shivering spirals echo the rape of her absense. Dead clouds in a dead sky. Crying tears already wept so often.

The vacuum of her cunt devours him. In monstrous heaves she chokes him all the way inside. Until there's nothing left to swallow except the slit of moonlight that decides the difference between them. The comma in every sigh that comes after this.

Insinuations scattered like dog shit. Willing us to step in them. His touch like cum on her face. Only serving to make her a victim.

He never loved her until she cried for him.

But by then it was too late.

Templates, Smemplates!

Guys, now that we are on the much improved beta blogger (NOT!), I can do all sorts of funky things with the template. I did try the other day, but for some reason I couldn't get the colors to change and it came out black and white. So I switched back to the classic template. Now I can just stay with this template and play around with it or do the beta thing or leave well enough alone. Any thoughts?

observations 2

she wears a teepee on her head.
i mean it sits there like it is giving birth to her.
like it is pushing her out of itself.
large.
shapeless.
woolen.
she looks like a hobbit from a vision of the shire conceived by Tim Burton.
wrong.
she looks wrong.
less of a gamgee and more a gammy.
not a baggins but a bag end.
a very bad end.
the hat doesn't fit her but she fits it.
it owns her. she wades and wallows beneath its lofty weave.
the dog being wagged by the tail.
she seems very proud to be the lamp stand to the resplendent shade as she shuffles to her seat with innocent feet.
and even the breeze outside the bus seems to hush its rush to a whisper as if to confer with the tyrants of trees the idiosyncrasy of milliner fashion.
they concur with me.
that ain’t no hat, it’s a bin liner.

Untitled

"what did you want Meryl Streep to do?
Tell me from your heart.

searching for your heart?
i bet you left it in some long, steel corridor"

you never answered, but I wanted her to leave
and join Eastwood in his truck...
I would have, had I been her
but you never answered

you remained my early-morning sleep
when i had a bus to catch . . .

so i never caught you . . .

holding

G and C

grim store grime store
growing grey by the green shore
grubby gelatinous muck.
given G's are better than C's
and C's much better than B's
do any of you give a fuck?

A New Year's Party

That there is room for other conversations too
is a thought, a double-edged sword
for me,
and for you.

My friend on the next bar stool
is mesmerized with your heaving breasts,
your slender frame sitting straight,
laughing, sipping wine, while the world waits
to genuflect to the moment
when the woman in you will glow.

“Yes! Yes! I know what the world has come to!
Hunger, intolerance, head-butts, Zizou!”

Please! Please take note of what I’ve become too
but I don’t know how you do that
I forget my misery; laugh at your jokes.
You caress my cheek, playfully pat.

“No seriously! I mean there are more bombs than childbirths.
Ask a man gone casual walking in Baghdad, Madrid.”

Somewhere the ghazal singer croons Faiz…

“Aur bhi gham hai zamane mein mohabat ke siwa…”

Ah no! I remember “dukh” in the original work.
“Dukh” is stark, naked, intensely painful than
“Gham”; a ghazal singer's mellifluous, melancholic version.

“Ha! Here speaks the poet
whose only tool to a woman’s heart
is semantics!”

Everyone titters, I feel naked.
You giggle, wink, blow a kiss.

“Don’t you think it was chilling to watch Saddam today?
As if he’s walked into a bar asking for a table!”

I feel a shiver up my spine.
Raise my glass, toast the wine.

“Long live America!”

We all laugh.
“I love your sense of humor.”
But I wait for the inevitable.

I wait for the moment
when your own thoughts
conspire, chain your heart.
I wait for the moment
when my poetry's logic
play tricks, seal your lips.

That there is room for other conversations too
is a thought, a double-edged sword
for me,
and for you.

Ah! She sings my favourite Momin ghazal now…

“Ulte wo-h shikwe karte hain aur kis ada ke saath,
betaaqati ke taanein hain uzr-e-jafa ke saath.

Maanga karenge abse dua hijr-e-yaar ki
Aakhir to dushmani hai asar ko dua ke saath.”

© Dan Husain
December 31, 2006

Two views from the Black Hill

The hill was windy and the clouds were scattering light over the land in very odd ways. To truly see changeable weather, as opposed to just experiencing it, go up a hill.

{For some more pics I took yesterday - please go here.)

observations 1

she sits on the bus using her hand bag like brail. enveloped by a dowdy, drab coat that shapes her.
ankles drip with lard like indolence that hang flesh pelmets over her broad shoes.
i cannot see her face for she sits in front of me staring steadfastly at the rain speckled window. the back of her head shows a life of routine Monday's and Friday's.
of washing days and fish.
linens and starched creases.
i imagine her arms, elbow deep in suds as she wears out the patterns of her chipped crockery with soap and cloth.
chubby arms and red raw elbows.
a lifetime of potato peelings and sour gin.
i wonder if anyone has told her that this is the twenty first century?
she, canute like, defies the tides of time turning, this lady on the bus, this totem of camphor and womans own.

WINTER-LIKE SPRING

Singing in the street
is loving life;
is not giving a dam what others think but living in the moment -- the now.

A pauper asks, “Can you spare me some change?”
I quickly scurry by
pretending he’s not there—
can’t help but notice his huddled shaved form.
A tinge of regret creeps through my soul
but not enough—
I walk on by.

To enter a world where steel is THE metal,
highly prized over gold—
kind is good but harsh is better,
he is honored who froze and climbed over others’ hearts.

The schoolgirl sings as her best friend giggles,
they skip along in winter-like spring,
hearts are pure
souls are fire—
not yet familiar with the bittersweet sting
of emotions dripping icicles.

The Curling Brew

She wears a pelican for a hat
The feathers line her face.
She shops for clothes in old arcades
Where women dress in scales.
And every future she has seen
All look like bottle green.
Despite the fact that time itself
Hides in corners full of shade.
Her son she named as Milo
For his father was a Duke
Their honeymoon they spent
Lying besides a pale lagoon.
Where courtesans and pilgrims went
To hide from kingly priests
Who forever search for messiahs
To lead them all from grief.
But all they find and every time
Are princeling sons and thieves.
So she left the kingdom far behind
To search again for love
But all that she ever finds
Are messages from her gods.
So upon a cavalcade of bikes
She drove down to the sea
And there she drowned her sins
And cursed the tide that retreats.
And there she drowned herself
Beneath tides that time neglects.

Our Consuming Fire

But who is stronger than death? Me, evidently . From Crow by Ted Hughes

Brother slew brother.
Someone called it good.
He drags the remains,
tossed on the Mesopotamian funeral pyre.
Flames devour the flesh--
ah, but the soul shifts outside,
curling into the very cup of trembling
planning his revenge,
all in the name of God.

Celluloid Statisticians

Certain details notice us before we do them. The sigh of the wastebasket as it catches the condom. Or some random breath that trundles over their lips. Too bored to inhale again. There's so much to learn about someone in the lapse between making the call and waiting for the food to be delivered.

How hungry they are. How long they can stand it. The way they'll remember you after it's over. An earnest fuck. A callous friend.

Certain details confess themselves at the most inopportune of moments. During a blow job. In the midst of an orgasm. The gauze slips from the lens. The real picture snatches its way into the film before you can stop yourself from pressing the button.

The real picture. All the details about yourself you never wanted to know. Irrevocably permanent.

Skin becomes a priest of sorts. Soiled confessional that names your penance. Face by face. Dick by dick. Until the blood is wine again. A thoughtless solvent. And you feel better.