The Prisoner

He peeks out from the slits,
Tries to catch a glimpse
Of the world,
I denied him.

I ignore his transgression,
Affording him respite
From all the torture
I caused.

We used to be friends once,
My only friend once upon a time,
We would while away hours
Like seconds.

Of dreams and fantasies,
And far-away lands,
We built constructs of thoughts,
And then destroyed them,
Just like that.

Sometimes I hear him scream,
In the silence of lonely nights,
I shut my lids tighter,
By dawn, it's quiet.

Through childhood had we been,
Close as close can be,
And he made me who I am,
But he is inside now.

I remember bludgeoning him,
His daunting build defeated,
Because he would not yield,
I remember trying.

Sometimes he tries to seduce me,
Into opening the dark door,
With promises of riches none can give,
I ignore.

The hands he breathed life into
Fettered him.

And now he screams.

On wistful days I wonder
If in bereaving myself of him,
I shackle myself -
I draw a blank.

He fades with every rising sun,
His screams grow distant,
And as he dies, bit by bit,
Takes me along.

Fate made a monster out of me,
I might just kill him and find,
No place in heaven,
No peace at all.

I never wanted to do this, of course,
It was a struggle within me,
It tore me apart,
In two.

I rue the day I had to chose,
And in doing so set myself free,
I locked inside the prison of ambition,
The philosopher inside of me.


Image Source: Eric Lacombe

Looking For Company

I carry my colorful caravan
To clans outside my maps,
Eager to seduce conversations
That grow from gooey glances.

I deck the planks with fetishes,
Pristine flowers and crystal ice-cubes,
Liquid laughter and dilated dreams,
Milky musings and hoary heartbreaks,
All now ageing under the blond wood,
All kidnapped during my survey
Of their tribal territories,
Torn by trivial tyrannies
Of censored crimes and painted primes;
I infiltrated inns and ivory towers,
My silent songs unseen by senses,
My arrivals unaccounted and unannounced
Without my caravan of many colors.

I now share tables and beds,
With peasants and patrons,
Pilferers and prosecutors,
With poets and posers,
I dine, wine and shine with them,
And then retire to my moldy caravan,
To nightmares that come to empty hearts.

Mornings mark my fearful flights,
Crossing plateaus and plains between pickets,
And ridges and ravines too,
The company of myself the only chance
I have at redeeming my loneliness,
Continuing conversations long concluded.

The blisters on my feet aren’t crying quite yet,
Their topographies tectonic and traitorous,
As if to bully me into bloated bliss
As artificial as the artifice of my art,
The gossamer gowns and saffron scents
Of the caravan I haul with handsome hands --
Hands equally blistered and pock-marked,
The weight of vacillating whispers
Lowering my limbs onto frenzied fours,
Dictating my detour into darkness,
Even as I draw my colorful caravan,
To happier homes --
My blisters haven’t wet your floors
Yet.

The Will of a Mad Poet

It seems appropriate to start this blog with this poem.


Seek inside what ye may, dear reader,
I shall divulge nothing!
None that was mine to give, anyway.

My death lends me,
An audience I never had
In waking hours;
But I am forgiving:

Read on, if you must,
Tear open a page and peep inside,
Your vulgar curiosities eager
To rape me of my secrets,
Secrets I left without maps.

Drink if you shall,
Of my jealous Love,
Of my crude Laughter,
The blind-alleys of blank pages,
The playing field for skeletons,
My memories too full and blemished,
To vouchsafe their safe garrison.

But, alas, you shall find my tomes,
Scattered and shuffled,
The words inscrutable, illegible,
Truant, runaway thoughts borne upon weak thrills,
Content to collapse in some faraway field
To call their home and graveyard,
My eager smiles planted as standards --
I owned the world!

Play with my verses, why don't you?
I orchestrated mad dances with these marionettes,
I think I left the strands somewhere beyond the seventh page,
Oh, do behave!
Their movements bewitch, dear reader,
Yes, they ensnare with their silver rhythms,
The bovine calm of their aligned ranks,
Is pregnant with mischief!
You must find them by their fringes,
And bully them into obedience!

Yes, I conscripted missionaries then,
Stolen from cloisters in faraway dreams,
Adroit masons of the mind
To prise ideas brick-by-brick,
Entire realities dismantled,
Tapestries and murals burnt with your hands,
Temples desecrated into theaters of my sins,
The dilated sun still at their backs,
Its radiance now cloaking their pained expressions,
Even as you sing my hymns.

My heart was opened on these altars,
The guts were parceled in neat lines;
Careful not to touch them for too long,
These phrases are purer than sodium flakes --
Taste them not!
They will singe your insides!
Oh dear, did I ask you to drink them?

I folded storms in their static pockets,
And whispered explosions into their still waters,
There is lightning in the crevasses of those velvet skies,
Do tell when they find you!

I do hope the labyrinth wasn't too steep a tax,
The unavoidable toll for wistful trips
Into my gossamer homes,
Frenzied strokes of propriety the cheap décor,
To seduce your divided attentions;
My life lies yonder, do persevere,
The frescoes are grotesque and expensive,
Ignore them if you need to,
But do persevere and observe the dwarven castles,
I built them with proud hands,
These blisters are poetry too,
Metaphors, I think, I am not quite sure,
But do look at my castles!
I live in gossamer homes,
But do look at my castles!

These pages are doldrums when observed,
Unmount your high horses and approach,
Go poke them a bit,
Go shake a finger or two,
A little shout, some spittle,
Plant a kiss and run,
No?
Have you tried flirting, then?
Sung perhaps a serenade or two?
Drawn portraits in their likeness?
That should bring them to your foyers!
What, you were hoping for minstrels
Who would bare their chests and their hearts
With pretty words and simple tunes?
That you might digest their souls with ease
Your afterthought the burp afterwards?
No, sir, my poems are not whores,
They must be cajoled and conversed,
They are my spoilt little princesses,
I have pampered them
With much devotion,
Dressed them with oriental dresses,
The very color they demanded,
Found them niches kings couldn't locate,
Their tantrums are to be fanned, you see,
Their temper to be untempered,
Lest they wear the same corsets,
That marred their Mother.
No,
See them in their undictated beauty,
The cloying incenses nowhere near,
To make their entry more palatable,
They speak without preamble,
And bark in porcelain tongues,
Forgotten battles and forbidden sciences --
Do you find them beautiful yet, dear reader?

Alas, dear reader, I grow bored with you,
Do what you must of my work!
There is fire in these beasts,
That will fight your attempts to domesticate,
You will lead their train through our villages,
The limping gait with dopey cadences,
Mottled backs and frayed soles,
Curiosities that will capture and release,
So many onlookers,
All as decadent as you, dear reader,
For I know you will throw them aside
Once the circus of my stories has been spent.

Do as you will and call it necessity,
I live uninterrupted through your eyes,
My histories now becoming futures,
Alchemies of my chaos and art,
Does that make sense to you, then?
I had nothing to give,
Nothing that really was mine to give,
But I do bequeath thee,
In the laughter of your children,
In the actors of your civilization,
Honest insanity.