Primitive fool

Moist boundaries in her name

And she gives it up all

Like lazy symphonies stringing together the keys of a world-

To conceal the gory breathing

To protect the shapeless murder from being documented

The world relaxes, hits the calm night

Her world-

Towards the floating blood.

The scarlet charm plays along the chimes

The wind hums the song of cigars

She rests, all along the way

All along the way, with no say.

We blend primitives

But the subject so dark does not need a history

She creates the first part of destiny

When the thieves are recreating

But the matter is chosen, so chosen in the veins

So chosen straight to the abyss of unknown, the matterless

That power descends in the tiny hands

Like one love with no room.

Lets sit back

Watch the night fall

Watch the room with no windows

Sit back

Sit with her

All the way once again.

Say you've never been to Rome

Sweet babe, where did the brown sugar go?

Did you bathe in the jar, sayin’ so?

Is that why you look so flavoured?

You sip my coffee under your lips cocoa ripened

Is that why you leave me back and behind?

Sweet honey, where did all the diamonds slip?

I see you docking my heart and screaming prick

Will this get you the Judas kiss?

Catch my gold mine under your ivory knees

I’m sure this will buy your silvery peace.

Chocolate babe, where did my kitty run?

Tell me baby where did my balls spun?

Please girl, find my cat, the bad bad cat

Jagging the couch, playing under your prat

Please babe, baby bring out the brat.

Sweet chocolate, where is my home?

Tell me, please say, you’ve never been to Rome.

For the young gripped in the fear of bad faith. Yes, honey, I've never been to Rome.

(Un)Reactive

Hundreds of things I wish I didn’t say. Hundreds of things I wish I didn’t do. Lets buy the blame together, for what is true was always suppressed, directly (indirectly), intentionally (unintentionally).

Coldly Warm.

Truth is “you are the synopsis”.

Do me a gentle favor, throw the radioactive mass of red love into a chain reaction. 

Allegation

They live under a criminal shadow

they, who walk past their own children

never teaching them the love,

never rehearsing with them

the surreal notes of river(y) pain,

never wanting to produce babies.

With sore hands who build the walls,

under a thousand moons

who cannot cry like a girl,

for a pinch of salty silence

who cannot desensitize the echoes

They live under a criminal shadow.

The fields of such stoned men

deserve a better farewell,

but there are no shaky hands

to company the funeral.

The children ask for their doom

they are granted their wishes,

whatsoever.

Studio preparedness

Theatre is a place bringing truckload of emotional disasters to play with a silly rhythm. What do they wrap in those ghost boxes and behind the curtains? Burning skin of an actor and old books perhaps. Polished glory in the studio of killing lights- they kill you absolutely, in bright and dim shades. This is a blushing irony though. Always a woman sipping her bareness through them and in precise devotion. It gives life to her.

Why do I find it elusive then?

Anything less than what comes straight from mouth unprepared is to be dumped. It’s like vows which are delivered when you are overflowing in an intoxicating spirit. Not the godly spirits but the drug which is cancerous. That’s where theatre is untrue. It’s prepared and that’s why people appreciate it. Appreciate every untrue thing. But these admirals are only passing numbers. They will rest as soon as there comes another monkey with a different studio style.

The bird of passage

I have been to places where cotton wool clouds sing. To places where milky snow bleeds sun and gleams like sweat straight from the green eyes. To places where dolphins talk and to places where songbirds play in choir.

Some islands sprouting love, some soporific oceans with their hands spread to greet the boats in their hearts, some voluminous tree lands producing blustery breeze, some dingles knitting the hobbit chronicles, some valleys designing the manifesto of dreams.

I passed the country of lunatics, the palace of blasphemy, the street of business, the traffic of unnamed philosophers, the house of lust, the home of a scientist, the room of separation, the window of a chaste dreamer. I have been drifting like a white pollen.

I met one man with obscene scripts, one hero of sunken brides, one villain with truth shedding off his eyes, one gladiator with hundreds of swords, one aviator who does not get off the flying instrument, one king with evil valet, one girl with pure lips, one woman with profound strength, one upper class lady who drinks among dishonest maids, one princess who died for the beggared, one queen who bathed in young nymphs’ tears.

I witnessed what they say ‘supernatural’. I watched beautiful witches on their broomsticks, artists in their invisible clocks, card tables rinsing in blood, tiny glasses clinking in refusal, sweet smell of mists playing with horses, blue moon laughing in a distant land.

I pause.

The mausoleum waits for me to float around, like the rustling mid-wind and write          and              recite the warmth I carry in my tattered blanket. They assemble in my body to listen to the tales. All men and women and all, who are yet to speak.  They want the music in me to lyric their souls. The verses blended in love to stage a new tale.

I abide. I sing. 

Pomegranate Spaceman

He wants to number the stars

like he doesn’t know they are only fleeting nebulae of gases

and he wants to throw stones at them

like he doesn’t know the blackness contained in them

Silly man, I run my fingers through his hair

Don’t you want to grow up?

Or maybe become a spaceman?

I do not want the silence conjuring

and he strikes just at the rocket moment

The universe is a giant pomegranate

and the stars its nibble seeds-

juicy red, moist, delicious

Don’t you want to be a child?

Or maybe a fruit masher or juice maker?