Saturday, December 31, 2016

the distance

the mouth of death is wide
filled with hopelessness and decay
teeth sharp like levithan wings
a razor tongue ready to sing

stuck between heaven and hell
the limbo lounge is pretty swell
make new friends and enemies too
they're all stuck here just like you

chase the nightmares out of here
no time for love, no time for fear
speed forth, gush like life's fountain
give no fucks for joy or pain

silent, still the maw of death
filled with despair and stinking breath
the distance between the rows of teeth
there you live, don't forget to breathe


Obsolescence of Dreams

Dreaming neanderthals
Stars stuck on the ceiling
A planetarium in space
Spinning marionettes

Obfuscating silhouettes
Sunset, sunrise, surprise!
Dumbed, numbed, crumbed
Pry open the eyes
(the dreams fly away)

wake up, stumbling
ready to kill
coffee in the veins
so much for the thrill
(it's all downhill, from here)

the gullitone is ready
inviting, glinting, sexy sharp
shove in the head of 2016
(drop the blade)
let loose the hounds of hell
2017, we're coming

Keeping in tradition of bad poetry. Things that don't make sense. Fuck 2016, prime 2017 for more abuse, disuse, refuse from the get go.

What I mean is happy new year. Take it easy out there.

Friday, December 23, 2016

switchblade smile

there is a demon in me, he said
you need to cut it out for me
i can feel the demon rising rising
why won't you smile at me?

your lips sharp, hide a sharper tongue
the words that travel from your lungs
slice into me with speed and force
i bleed like a pig without remorse

your switchblade smile has done me in
they say it's a sin, i say let's begin
if this is death from a thousand cuts
then what the fuck are we waiting for

Tuesday, December 20, 2016


beneath the hill
beside the river
in shade of willow trees
a path goes where i used to be
inside my hut
under the bed
a hole, once i had dug
i filled it up
with knicks and knacks
when i left for my king
but i come back
every now and then
to take a look at my things
i dig the earth
to see the thing
that i had buried once
the chest is ugly
bruised, scarred, filthy
opening it is no fun
but open it, i do
i look inside too
at the past i try to forget
but it sticks to me
like a leech
a hungry hungry pest
nostalgia is a bitch
i take the old rags
inhale them deep
just so i can remember
as i go back into the sewer of world
just to return here next december
my mask is true for one more year
i wear is proudly like a beast
i know i have nothing to fear
not till next year at least

Monday, December 19, 2016

Front loading nightmare

This strange creature in my room 

Cleans my clothes 

Maybe it has little goblins in it 

That survive on water and detergent 

There must be a whole city inside 

Of tiny demons that wait every week 

For their supply of filthy tributes

That they clean and spit out

I refuse to believe in electricity, sir

There is a goblin city inside this machine 

They wait and pine till I shake off laziness

And give them some dirty clothes to clean  

Every year the servicing magician comes over 

To replace goblins that have expired

He fills up the machine with a new population

That the wizards at IFB have hired

Sometimes I hear the machine tick at night 

As goblins dream of revolutions

But then I remember my dirty clothes

And shove them in the machine with cleaning solutions 

Maybe some day the goblins will emerge

From the bowels of machines all over the world 

If they don't find enough clothes to clean

Maybe they'll take over this earth. 


Sending poems from phone makes their text size weirdly large. Bear with me, dear readers. 

Saturday, December 17, 2016

no friends

I had this friend who
would fall in love
with every girl he saw
he'd take a bus from his home to college
and every day he'd tell us
that he fell in love with a different girl
we went to rishikesh once
and he fell in love there too
with a British girl who was walking
wearing a red salwar suit
her blonde hair untied
like she was born out of fire
and my friend stood there transfixed
i've never seen someone so stupefied
so hypnotized, so mesmerized
by the sight of another person
in that moment I felt happy for him
and jealous of him too
thinking if I'd be able to ever fall in love like that
he handed me his film camera then
and asked me click his picture with that alabaster angel
clicked his pic i did (such an indian thing)
we said goodbye to that girl
and walking back to the bus station
my friend, he of the fickle heart,
fell in love with another girl

my only friends have been weirdos, i have no time for normal, stable people.

Friday, December 16, 2016


the layers of sand are shifting
each grain, each second, each breath
piling on top of each other like corpses
in the trenches of my memories

every day is a snowflake
so different, yet same
i sink deeper and deeper
every time you whisper my name

my hourglass is broken
malware in my mainframe
my thought are vaporous mists
wafting from my heated brain

i dip my fingers in the sands
grains stick to my fingers
i can't shake them off
for i don't understand

my memories and visions are entwined
in the ball pit of my mind
what monsters pop up i don't know
should i stay or should i go

Thursday, December 15, 2016


The clocks sing their song
In sync, out of tune, yet, not wrong
The ticks are telling me secrets of the dark
The song of forever, ignited by a spark

I don't understand the tongue of clocks
When they only talk in ticks and tocks
Sometimes all the clocks in house tick in sync
And then I feel a sudden need for a drink

Synchronization means a clock has faltered
It means one of them will die very soon
I'll be stuck without time for who knows how much time
And I'll know of the days by looking at the moon

The clocks keep singing their two tone song
It sounds so right even when it's wrong
If I close my eyes it almost makes sense
That I'm looking for present in past tense

Tick tock tick tock

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

aside -- some thoughts

Hello, non existent lovely readers,

I thought I'd say hi to you that's more in prose than poetry. Maybe I am talking only to myself, but maybe, there is one reader I have. And trust me, on most days, one reader is enough. More than enough, I say.

And, my one reader, for you, I write this.

I started this blog back in 2007! July 8, when I wrote the first poem here. And next year, it's going to be ten years of this blog. I don't know if I've done anything in my life for ten continuous years! It's big, for sure. I mean, for me it is. I know people have been blogging for longer than this, hell, my other blog A Story A Day is probably older than this blog. But poetry has always been a first preference for me over prose. I like writing prose, but I prefer writing poetry. I feel more at home in my set format of writing poems. Prose can go wild, poems tend to stay in their station and go places.

Strange places mostly, but places nonetheless.

I hope you're having fun reading these poems as I am having fun writing them. This year, I've written 137 poems, which is more than I've written any other year. This is seriously cool.

And why did this happen? Because of you, my dear reader. Because of you.

So, onwards to 2017 and ahead.

Stay inspired



a thread and some dread
a needle pointy as sin
pull the skin, taut
close my eyes and push it in

there is no need for words anymore
i am too much in love to speak
sounds lose meaning when you don't listen
we can just look at each other like freaks

i will love you without conditions or terms
no expiry date on this shit, i swear
but this, i beg of you, sew my mouth shut
just needle and thread here, here, and here

make a criss cross pattern on my lips
make it pretty like pinned butterflies
there is one truth, and i've told you it
i don't want to speak any lies

i will not touch the stitches till my mouth heals
fusing the wound of my mouth in perfect skin
but even you will cringe and move away from me
when i spread my scar in a love drunk grin

Winter is the best time for writing strange poems.

Sunday, December 11, 2016


hello, old friend
we're here again, aren't we?
just you, and me
the same old, you see

we've done this so many times
it feels like second skin
we're addicts of the worst kind
and we'll never win

so open the bottle
find that vein
spark up the flame
whisper her name

our goddess of misery
has come forth again
with her blessings

her fingers in our holes
she tongues out our souls
till we're flying high as pigs
in our psychedelic dreams

so you must ignore our screams
for they're screams of joy
my brain is leaking from my ears
oh boy!

my friend, the walls are closing in
we're trapped in a tiny rubik's cube
if i can solve it, we'll be free
but first reach around and gimme that lube

we're mixing with each other's colors
oh joy, it looks like so much fun
my friend in the mirror, my brother, my mother
we were but two, now we're all one

Roll with me. Please, roll with me.

Saturday, December 10, 2016

Anarchy -- The Purge

can you hear the sirens, darling?
can you hear them come closer, love?
can you hear them knocking at the door, sweetness?
so pick your gun and put your war face on

the purge outside is the purge within
to purge the goodness we must purge the sin
all truth is a lie, everything is allowed
so, my love, shall we begin?

open the door, step into the night
prey in streets, won't die without a fight
keep your ammo dry and your blade sharp
wanna blow them up, prepare to ignite

bad mood and feeling rude
hungry, seeking violent food
weapons new, emotion crude
this night won't end well, dude

the purge has come to our door
and we welcomed it with open arms
only a fool would try to stop us
and step in the way of grievous harm


This is the last of the Anarchy series of poems.


Something completely different.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Anarchy -- Gash

the doctors and the nurses
looked at him and laughed
they said, sir, what the fuck
there is no treatment for this gash

he trudged from clinic to clinic
telling the doctors that he was sick
heal me please, he did beg
as the gash bled between his legs

he shoved in balls of cotton
his gloves, his hat, and his shirt
he even shoved in his sweater
but the gash continued to spurt

he tried to tape it shut
but the gash ate the roll of tape
with his fingers, hand, arm, and rest of him
till all signs of him were erased

some say the gash floats around even now
you can hear its whispers when night is dark
it's silent and stealthy like a dog
whose bite is worse than its bark

Friday, December 2, 2016

Anarchy -- World On Fire

It was clearly mentioned sir,
You were not to push the red button
Now the dogs of war are loose
Just look at what you've done

There were warning signs all over
In red, yellow, and blue
The lights were flashing to warn you
But you ignored them too

(How could you?)

Sir, you're really a snake
In the garden of eden
They wanted destruction
You freed them

Can you feel the heat of your sins yet
Feel it close enough to boil off your sweat
And your skin, blood, bones and your soul
You pushed that button and doomed us all

Did you miss me?

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Anarchy -- Souls for Sale

A man died in the riot yesterday
The rioters picked his body
They took it away

The tore up his sternum with their bare hands
To dig into his meat, flesh, and body parts
They wanted more than his heart

They found it, it was nestled like a tiny egg
At the base of his neck
Where his spine touched his skull

His soul was a broken, black thing
But they wanted all the credits it'd bring
On the Bay of Souls

When no one took a bite on the price they sought
The soul stealers weren't a bit distraught
They lowered the price

There are souls for sale
Out there in the night
You can buy one too
If you bid just right
Just right

Anarchy - 2. Too many of soul less people shambling around among us these days. Maybe we all can use some.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Anarchy -- I, Riot Man

(Not that anyone cares, it's all fantasy poetry and 18+. If you're younger, fuck off and don't read. If you're butt hurt, leave a comment, I'll give you my phone number and tear you a new asshole. Otherwise, enjoy the anarchy)

I've always wanted to be

Part of a riot

But on the other side

Beating helpless protestors

With my dick shaped baton

I've always wanted to mace

A girl's pretty face

Spray it right in her mouth 

As her friends try to shield her

I'd spray them with my scaling mace too

There are nights when I fantasise 

(Makes my dick go supersize)

Oh, how I'd love to 

Man a water canon

Like the dick of a riot god

At the anarchyorgy

Death bukkake

Spraying spraying spraying

Cold water that rips off clothes

And skin and flesh

Shoots joints off bones 

Pops out eyeballs like rotten fruit

Pressure washes their empty skulls

For they dared 

To fuck with me

I, riot man


Anarchy Series of Poems

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

2:02 AM

Someone is laughing
The sound like breaking glass
A drop of blood
Echoing in the silent pool of the night
As clocks talk to each other
Ticks of tocks
So on and so forth
A perfect volley
Of seconds piled on each other
Maybe they're building a tower
To the heavens
And here comes the laughter again
Makes me so jealous
It causes me physical pain
To hear someone else's happiness

Monday, November 14, 2016

The Village -- Mayor

He is a sad and broken man
With a bottle on his table
And a knife in his hand
He knows no one understands

The mayor looks out of the window
And his village is in flames
He sees the people burning up
He knows all of their names

He takes another shot of whiskey
There is nothing left to do
The village will be ash by morning
The sky will still be blue

He pours some whiskey on his table
Throws a match, igniting it
Drunk, the mayor sits in his burning house
Feeling guilty for all this shit

This ends the Village series. Thank you for reading. Regular bitchfest poems will resume from tomorrow.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

The Village -- Magician

The magician strolled into the village
His top hat black and tall
He called the kids, the women, the men
Come one, he said, come all

I'm here to show you magic, fuckers
You better prepare to be amazed
I'll leave you freaked out, bamboozled
You'll be confused and dazed

Then Tommy said, Mr. Magicman
What kinds of magic do you do?
If it's rabbits/hats, sawing babes in half
Well, sir, in that case, fuck you

Oh no, little Tommy, you're so wrong
My magic's strong and weird
I pull hot babes out of my hats
And pull hats out of my beards

So, let's have it then!
Bamboozle us!
Tommy stuck out his chest and declared
Then he was just standing alone, no one else was there

A darkness descended on his head
Like the soft touch of doom
He cried and yelled and yelled and cried
In the ever increasing gloom

Now this is magic, you little fuck
You'll stay here till you die
So save your tears and shush your voice
Or the demons will hear you cry

They never found Tommy in the village
Forever the boy was lost
Some say they here him crying still
Some say it's just his ghost

This is a poem for a special someone who reminded me that I'd missed writing about the magician.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

The Village -- Messenger

don't shoot the messenger, he cried
but they held arrows fast at him
their questions were sharp and difficult
so obviously, he lied

i've come from beyond the mountains
where the sorcerer's opened a gate
there are demons pouring in our world
their heads are filled with hate

our time is running out, good sirs
i must talk to the mayor
for the diabolical demons
might just be headed here

the guards were slightly sceptical
but they knew something was off
this messenger wanted to enter the city
but he looked like such a doff

the senior guard then took a decision
to take the messenger to the mayor
they opened the gate and took him in
but then the fucker disappeared

they looked for him in the city
every dark corner, every shade
but everyone missed the messenger
who was busy milking the village milkmaid

Monday, October 31, 2016

The Village -- Musician

He woke up in middle of the night
And struck his bow to his fiddle
He woke up all his neighbors
And the babes he wanted to diddle

The sounds emerged weird and strange
Like the sounds of a dying cat
But he was shameless like a whore
And he laid out his hat

On his door, then people banged
Begging him to stop
But he was an aural terrorist
With hair like a dirty mop

"Put coin in my hat
Beer at my door
So I can get my funk
Take your whining asses
To the Mayor
Cuz I don't give a fuck"

The musician was a fool
To fuck with people needing sleep
They ripped him into pieces
And went back to counting sheep

They found his broken fiddle
Right next to his broken bones
The musician was a lonely fucker
And so he died alone

Saturday, October 29, 2016

The Village -- Mother

Mother, oh mother
am I still sinless enough
to be called your son?
is there still some water
in the well of your love
or has it dried too
like the tears from your eyes

Mother, oh mother
i come to you on my knees
begging begging, begging
won't you look me for a moment
mother, your son is thirsty

Mother, oh mother
my bones are broken
my skin is pierced
my blood is leaking from my skin
mother, please forgive my sin

Mother, oh mother
i did everything you said
i killed and killed and killed some more
i killed when i didn't want
i killed when i wasn't sure
mother please don't turn away

Friday, October 28, 2016

The Village -- Monster

That thing rose up from a bog
It looked like a super stinky dog
Three eyed, eight legged, mouth full of teeth
You'd smell hell, if you felt it breathe

It shook the poison off its skin
Spraying the bog with unholy sin
The drops sank in where they fell
Rotting things back into hell

It smelled the fresh meat up in village
And calmly it padded forth to pillage
Hope, faith, love, and all things nice
But all of them would not suffice

To fill the hunger in its belly
The beast of souls, trod out all smelly
It crunched through the trees and the logs
Into the village, where people loved eating dogs

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

The Village -- Maiden

She hid her honor from the world
But spread her legs like a scissor
In the privacy of her barn
Where her lover came,
To meet her

She was the apple of the eye
Of every boy in the village
But she bit a different apple
Much too supple
For her age

With eyes that held secrets
And lips that were wet
Her beauty was a sunset
That no fucker
Could ever forget

But they found out
Found her secret
Caught her in the barn
With her lover was over

But for her it was all fine
As her last wish
She said, "In a single grave
Bury us in a 69."

Poem 2, is a fuck you to the world, even in death.

Sunday, October 23, 2016

The Village -- Murderer

the children are running through the streets
there is an execution in the great hall tonight
they'll hang the murderer by his neck
to comfort the murdered's plight

they found her body in the sewers
rats had eaten her eyes
the found the murderer in a bar
and they beat the truth from his lies

he had met her on a soft afternoon
they had done things that men and women do
but then the beast had taken over
what then happened was nothing new

he broke her neck in his big hands
then he cried near her corpse
he thought drink would dull his senses
but only murder he spoke

so come, let's go to the big hall
mother father brother all
let's watch that sister fucker hang
his sin is big, but punishment small

we'll cut his corpse to pieces
defile it in ways unimaginable
he'll pay for his sins in afterlife
after all, we're all animals

New series of poems. Will be writing on this in between regular poems. This is the first, there are more planned.

As always, thanks for reading.


finding love isn't easy
there is loads you need to do
you need to be strong and ready
before love finds you

plan ahead, rent a storage space
to keep love there once you find it
buy a lock made of sturdy steel
a locked door is better than a closed pit

some people travel far and wide
to search places where love can hide
they look and see to catch a sight
of this strange animal hiding in fright

love is a scaredy cat with sharp claws
love doesn't know fairness or any laws
love is a battlefield with bodies burning
love is a journey with no hope of returning

so when you go to find love, my love
carry your knives, swords and your gun
love is war every step of the way
did someone say it'd be fun?

it's gonna be tough to find love and hunt it down
but one day you will and then you'll turn around
by what you see, promise me, you won't get scared
when love finds you, the pain would be rare

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Whale song

Uh, I wrote this whole poem about a poem called the whale song
But my phone ate that poem
So, well, my dear, let's go meta on this beta
Because since when did any of us care about some invincible rules
Of rhyme and meter and phonetics and such
We were never the kinds to give a fuck
Anyhow, as I was saying
The poem was a question about what whales do when they're in mood for mating
Out in the deep blue, there are no apps for dating
Do whales get horny and feel love struck
After all day of swimming even whales need to fuck
So the whales sing their song
Even if it takes too long
Till they get a ping back
From another whale in mood for a love snack
Maybe Aquaman should do something
Open a mating school for fish
Cuz, sir, I for one
Would pay to watch whales kiss

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

In Your Absence

The pigeons have become bold
They step right in the house
Demanding to be fed
Their guttural gut gut
A malfunctioning machine
So I throw them bread sometimes
Or corn
Or jelly beans
Or mints
Or crackle pop
Or tiny piece of bubble gum
Or tic tacs (orange flavour)
They sit on the couch with me
And we watch The Sopranos on tv
But they always fly to my neighbor's window
When they need to poop or pee
The pigeons have adopted me
In your absence

Monday, October 17, 2016


The fact of the matter
The sadness of eons
My zero is a halo
Now a noose around my neck
If I hang, then I hang.
But before with death I dance
I'm gonna take my chance
I will shout horror at the skies
With a raised fist
To tell the gods that dare listen
That I fuckin exist
There is a heart, not an engine
That in my chest beats
It's an angry drum machine
That will explode before it overheats
Till then this fucking thing
Will continue to sing
Sing the song even if
There is no one listening
But there is always one
And one is more than enough
One is better than two
For me the one is you.

Sunday, October 16, 2016


Star like thoughts
That swirl and swirl
In the dark skies of the mind
Always looking, at the future
When they can't see what
They left behind

When you reach for the infinite
To touch it and pass it by
Are you eating desserted dreams of others
That are floating in the sky

And when you reach your final goal
Will it all be worth it
Will you whoop with joy
Or lie down tired
Ready to die

What's the cost of this struggle?
All this toil and trouble
Just so people will remember
And fondly speak your name?
Is infinite pain worth the fame?
But then, who the fuck do I blame?

More random than random.

Saturday, October 15, 2016

Blackfoot Angels

I've seen angels
Their feet turned backwards
Smiles on their faces
They gathered in herds
On top of a mountain
It's name erased from memories
Only written in books
That people forgot how to read
Now the angels orbit my head
Like a crash victim in a cartoon
They flitter around like moths
That even eclipse the moon
Chainsaw wings, razor blade tongues
They spit out maniac verses
Laced with poison from their lungs
Blackfoot angels
They've finally come for me
They say come with us to a brave new world
I say I've got too much work, I'm not free!

Thursday, October 13, 2016

They Gave A Nobel to Bob Dylan

Look, I might not like Uncle Bob much
But I'm sure he's a pretty spiffy dude
Now that he's won a nobel prize for literature
Will it really change his attitude?

Something about this whole deal irks my teeth
I mean, he's a musician first, isn't he?
He should be awarded by music academies
Isn't that the way it should be?

What's he gonna do with the nobel?
Add it to his shelf of Grammies?
Will he write songs of protest and lost love?
While he's sitting in his jammies?

Just another feather in uncle bob's hat
A hat that looks like a peacock's ass
What the fuck was The nobel committed thinkin?
Shoving feathers in his hat won't make uncle bob a chicken.

Search for Bob Dylan to read two more poems about Bob Dylan on this blog.

Sunday, October 9, 2016


Bugs bugs bugs
I've got bugs in my pocket
I've got bugs in my bed
They've fucked up my programming
Now they're fucking with my head
I've talked to their representatives
I've sat with them in meetings
But no matter how much I placate them
I can't stop them from eating
Eating into my brain
Making my thoughts profane
I'd surely blame the bugs
If I wasn't already insane
Now I'm forgetting people
Forgetting places and names
Cuz I've got bugs in my head, ma'am
And I'm sick of their games
They're eating the good stuff
And I'm left with vile junk
Today the mirror looked at me and said
What you looking at, punk?

Saturday, October 8, 2016

My Zoo

My monkey whispers in my ear
As a black dog stares at me
Silently, from the corner of my room
If I look, it disappears -- but I know
I know, that black dog is there
The things the monkey says
Makes no or little sense
Just disjointed words strung together
In anticipation of suspense
My shark like thoughts keep swimming
In the muddy waters of my mind
Forward, but in circles
If they stop, I will drown
In some little corner of me
There is a bear cub, hibernating
Soft fur, hard nails and teeth
This machine is simply waiting
And the sloth in me
Oh what to talk of him
That crazy smile on his face
And the slow regard of violent things
It watches the zoo of me
With a promise in his eyes

Friday, October 7, 2016

Icarus Falling

the stupid fuck
that stupid fuck
he dared!

he flew too close to the sun
felt the wax melting off his wings
the wind in his face
screaming like a banshee
but Icarus
man, he was a smart motherfucker 
fell with a grin on his face
ready to taste
the ground
in a haste

as Daedalus watched
his heart in his throat
a prayer on his lips
but Icarus could keep the smile off his
after all, he was G.O.A.T

tumbling from the sky 
like a drunken marionette 
he looked up at the clouds
sent a prayer to the lord
balls of steel on that dude
just at the right altitude
he pulled the cord
and trust me it was cute
cuz Icarus had packed a fucking parachute

not sorry

Friday, September 30, 2016

The Hate - Redux

A molecule is all it takes
Unstable, ready to explode
See the gaping maw of hell
At the end of the road

The hate is a never ending story
It lies waiting like a patient snake
The hate is cruel and never sorry
It whispers words like leaves on rakes

I've philosophised the reason why I feel
Troubled every now and then, for days
But the reasons elude me, off late
So silently I sit, in my own hate

I was going somewhere with this...but even geniuses like me fuck up at times.

Thursday, September 29, 2016

chip away

the chisel of time
it never stops
it chips away
flesh from bones
feelings from thoughts
thoughts from memories
memories from stories
stories from fiction 
till there is left
only a core
the most basic instinct
an essence
as the seconds tick
through it
the clock is mad
so mad to find
there is something 
it can't chip away

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

slow madness

no one goes insane in a blink
it takes years of slow seepage
as words, thoughts, and memories build up
like cancer or water behind a dam
till one day the pressure gets too much and
something gives
something gives
then people say
then people talk
in microphones
and on TV
so and so was such a good boy
never hurt anyone
never said a bad word
did you know he used to collect stamps?
and volunteered at local pet shelter too?
but then, who knows why
he took a machine gun
and mowed down
a bus full of retarded school children
and then he put a bullet in his head
like it was nothing
but he was such a good boy
he was
never said a word
never spoke
just marinated in his own thoughts
like some kind of saint

Friday, September 23, 2016


Bolt my heart in my chest
The fucking thing wants to fly 
I've kept it rooted to me for so long
But fucker's got its eyes to the sky

Cage this engine in me
It's kept me alive for so long
But now it wants to be free
Warbling its own song

Wrap this chunk of flesh in blood
It's breathed a whiff of outside
Seen the sun, just for one
Second, now it doesn't want to hide

Now I sit wondering what I've done
While this demon in me goes for a run
Through my body my veins and my skin
This heart of mine won't stay within


Emo poetry. Internet can kiss my ass. 

Thursday, September 22, 2016


here we are again
my friend
words on the pages
words in the wind
digital detritus
words on my skin
words in my bones
virtual voodoo
words in my lungs
words on my tongue
binary benedictions
words from my eyes
words in my lies
cyberpunk circus
words words words
spinning in a circle
a medley of madness
incomprehensible mess
if i could, i would confess
to this fuckery
this perverted suckery
to make no sense
but just say things
where meaning is lost
like a child in a strip club
if i could, i would
shoot down a cherub 

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


i banged my head in a wall the other day
so hard i could hear the stars sing
they sang to me in french and latin
words i didn't know the meaning of

but the tune remains in my head
my head that hurts so much these days
i swear every time i close my eyes
i can see the fucking butterflies

they swirl around my head in a halo
of multi-colored wings, black feet
multi-faceted eyes, staring at me
judging, judging, judging

some days, i wish the butterflies would fly
away from here, away from my head
to leave me alone, to rot in my misery
so i can squeeze more poems from my existential dread

but my head is stacked with memories
boxes stacked with thoughts and feelings
sunsets, mornings, nights and a wish
a whiff of perfume locked in a safe
with a smile, an embrace, a kiss
double locked and chained, sealed with wax
i took a lick of the apple, how can i relax?

Sunday, September 11, 2016

I Had So Much Faith

I used to close my eyes
While walking driving sleeping
Through my life
Because I had faith
Some stupid faith
In immortality
That some engine
Worked in background
To let me keep
My beautiful face
I had so much faith

I was alone, so alone
That I latched on to any source
Of affection, attention
No matter how strange
No matter how unknown

I'd talk to strange drunk people
And random strangers in buses
To find some common thread of thought
Or some fucked up philosophy
That would make me believe
I was not so alone
However strange or unknown

I can harp on about the past
Keep on reminiscing to make the memories last
Singing the same song
Like a record on repeat
If I keep on keeping on
Maybe I can avoid defeat

My past is my monkey
And my future is my wraith
I can only pine for the time
When I had so much faith

Man, are Sundays depressing or what.

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

when Yig came back

Yig left the village ages ago
when he was just a boy
with a sandwich in one pocket
in the other, his favorite toy

that toy had an edge
truly sharp as fuck
and Yig used that little blade
to carve out his luck

he carved it in blood
in faces of scum
Yig left his mark
in the face of every bum

there was terror on the streets
in darkness Yig prowled
every time he cut another one
he licked his blade and howled

but then Yig went back to his village
cuz his mama was sick
there was nothing to hunt there
no prey he could pick

so Yig cut himself up
chopped his toes and fingers
they say he bled out in the river
but his ghost still lingers

quaking in limbo

if there is hell for me
i'd surely like to see
the kind of punishments
i'll enjoy for free

but hell is not a destination
hell is a journey
that we all take
step by step, mistake by mistake

the wall of pain, built brick by brick
till it breaks your back
makes you sick
you're thinking of Jesus
you're thinking of sin
at the bottom of the bottle
looking outside, cuz you're in

hell is not a hot place
no sir, hell is pretty cool
oh, i meant cold
but isn't everything
when you're getting old?
oh, i meant older
when the sum of your deeds
is a file in some folder
at the bottom of some heap
all your sins combined
and you can't even weep

cuz it's so fucking funny
it's funny as fuck
life's dick is jammed in your mouth
you're quickly learning to suck
oh, i meant blow
but, sir, then again
what the fuck do i know

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

No algorithm

I can twist and turn this little thing
That beats steady in my hand
The ticks of a clock, the twisting box
Is something I no longer understand

No algorithm can solve this puzzle
To find a solution to this situation
No algorithm can satisfy the conditions
To answer this twisted questions

All conditions applied, confusing still
Rules have started to blur
Faces melt in a rainbow of color
I dip a finger in and stir

Sometimes I solve this in my head
Remembering the steps along the way
But then I reach an end that's dead
And I have nothing to say

All I can do is trust my gut
And keep searching for an answer
I twist and turn and move and burn
I can't wake up from this mesmer

This is about one thing that's about two things.


I think I need a doctor
I think I need a nurse
I think I need a thief
To put some money in my purse
but, uh, it's called a wallet
and whatever you might call it
it's used to carry money
(get the poem back on track honey)
i need a real sharp doctor
with a real sharp knife
a knife sharper and more dangerous than
the tongue in mouth of my wife
(she doesn't read this blog anyway)
(so i can say anything and get away)
and i could use a pretty nurse
with some power in her muscles
cuz she'd need to hold me down
(mmm, hold me down)
while the doctor cuts these words out of me
from my fingers and my toes
from my cheeks and my nose
from my arms and my stomach
from my legs and my face
slice, cut, chop, sever
i need some major bloodletting
to rid me of this fucking fever
(i've got this fever, mama)
i just do not want to stop
watch me as i spiral
and wipe my life up without a mop
i'mma throw it all in a bin
and set the fucking thing on fire
cook rotten pieces of me on the flames
i never want to retire
they'll have to pull me away from the keys
with chains, horses, and elephants
but i'll still keep on fingering words
without wearing any pants
fuck pants!

Monday, August 29, 2016

monkey on my back

I was drinking with some stupid motherfuckers
when a stupid motherfucker told me
'Hey, man, you look burdened, like, uh,
like you have a monkey on your back.'

I looked at him
then I looked at the monkey on my back
I told the monkey to stay calm
Try not to attack
Try not to rip the face
off the stupid motherfucker
who passed judgment on my monkey
for the monkey is mine
we're best friends
he rides my back all day
and eats lice from my hair
gives me beautiful head massages
and we watch tv together, too
i lend the monkey a single one of my earbuds
we rock out to mindfuck metal tunes
and when I read a book, the monkey turns the pages
it's fucking helpful
to have a monkey who'd peel grapes
and put them in your mouth when you're fighting trolls online

but what do stupid motherfuckers know
the fun of having a monkey on your back
no matter how heavy the monkey gets
it's still my monkey

Sunday, August 28, 2016


thief of time
thief of calm
stolen rhymes
in your palm

in your palm
the words skitter
like crazy ants
that bite bitter

the bitter bite
of moments lost
fading visions
of digital ghosts

digital ghosts
in memories
in rhymes
in stories


every poem

some poems slide down your throat
to sit in your gut, like a bad pizza
some poems get stuck in your teeth
like candy, chewing gum, or glue

then there are poems like butterfly kisses
they flutter by (floating) like eyelash wishes
also some poems are like a brick to the face
spinning, smashing, zero grace

some poems are like equations
that have no solution
some poems are like a thesis
long and winding and no fun

some poems have big words
you'll surely need a dictionary
some poems use small words
that might not add to your vocabulary

but every poem is a poem
that deserves to exist
every rhyme is a rebellion 
in this world of shit

Friday, August 26, 2016

Bob Dylan is so Old

I am listening to Things Have Changed
That's the only Bob Dylan song that I like
It's soft, sweet, crazy, sad as fuck
Seems like Mr. Dylan is permanently
Down on his luck

I used to care, he sings
In his weary voice
Why does it still do it then
Does he not have a choice

Does Bob Dylan ever feel sad, too?
Does he listen to his own songs then?
Has he given up on everything worldly?
Is constant touring even worth the money?

I'd like to sit across Mr. Dylan someday
Pour him some whiskey and talk away
Ask him these questions to his face
And maybe request a song, not two.

One is enough, I just want to see
The look on his face
Does he smile when he sings
Things Have Changed

Have Things Changed, Mr. Dylan?

No vendetta against Mr. Bob Dylan. He is a cool frood, but incidentally I've written a poem about him earlier too. Read it here.

Thursday, August 25, 2016


Starfish, o starfish
Why do you lie there
Like a dead body
Spread out, sans care
Just missing
A chalk outline
Otherwise you look
Fine, abso-fine
Starfish or scar-fish(?)
What's dead in your eyes
You stare right behind me
(What's dead may never die)
Starfish, your limbs are
So cold and so still
Should I dare to touch you
But I've had my fill
Starfish, now you flinch
When things are getting hotter
Starfish, I should throw you
Right back in the water.

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Barb Wire Mannequin

Hung over a precipice
Between boredom
And paranoia
A mannequin
Stuck together
With barbed wires
Congealed blood
Sticks to heavy scars
The wires move
As do the stars
The mannequin sings
A dirge, atonal
The wires string
Through his skull
Ears pierced
Mouth strung shut
He could be free

That's it. Make whatever you want to make of it.

This city

Every face is more fucked up than another
I read news about brother killing brother
People dying on the roads and no one seems fazed
This fucking city needs to be razed

To the ground, to the ground
And then salt the ashes
People of this city are
Less human, more asses

They spit and piss on the streets
Walk around like dumb fucks
Even breathing in this city
Totally fucking sucks

Just break this city to the ground
And never rebuild in its place
Let the people disappear
Like criminals without a trace

Even hollow ground
would be 100x better
Build a hole in its place
It doesn't fucking matter

Morning hate for the city I'm stuck in.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Spin, said the spider

Invisible webs of memories
Strangulating, suffocating
Hanged like a marionette
From a single string

An empty pain, hovering
Receding, reseeding
The spin of nights and days
Spiders watch, the prey sways

A pendulum heart
Metronome soul
Bored to death
Still able to crawl

To lie in a spinning casket
Crafted from lies
Spiders say that they love me
Without looking in my eyes
These days, I'm fascinated by circles, spirals, whorls, and all things that have a radius of some kind. There will be more poems like this. How are you doing.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Woke Up Hungry

Too early to cook
Still I look
Inside the fridge
For something to eat
5 AM alarm
Awoke in a storm
Of running dreams
Fell through the seams
Of sleep into reality
I can put my head
On a pillow in my bed
But to hope for sleep
Would be cheating on daylight
So I sit here
Rhyming failure
With eyes open
I dream of the night

Waking up early is never good. One should wake up late afternoon or early night.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

The Loop

Somewhere under a lighthouse
Where waves bash the rocks
A man wakes up covered in sweat
His room smells like wet socks
He reaches for some water
And kicks down the glass
Get up from his bed, slips
And fall on his ass
The sound of the waves
Akin to Poseidon's laugh
Breath knocked from his lungs
The man starts to cough
He gulps down some air
Like a fish about to drown
Looks out of the only window
He can't help but frown
The sky is clouded with purple smoke
While the sea is soot grey
Whiffs of white clouds puncture
through the skies so strange
The sun rises, a muted shadow of orange
He looks, eyes wide open
The dance of colors in the sky
A pale terra cotta bronze gleam
Streaks through, as if shy
A streak of subdued matte mauve
Lends the a look so suave
And so beneath the lighthouse
The man drunk on the sky so deep
He falls back where he stands
And drifts off to a drunken sleep

This poem is only 25% mine. Rest of it, is yours.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016


A thousand ways to say a thing
A thousand ways that you can sing
A song, a poem, or a prayer
It's not right, but it's almost there

You can speak the words to no real end
You can listen intently or pretend
You can rest in silence or be sure
Of a thousand ways to be ignored

A thousand poems are not enough
To say the words that mean so much
A thousand poems are just too less
For sins that I want to confess

A thousand words, a thousand tongues
A thousand breaths inside my lungs
To scream till stars can hear me scream
Why should I wake up from this dream?

Sunday, August 7, 2016

No Swans

All the swans are dead
They're not here anymore
We're all some other animals
But what, we're not sure

All the swans have flown away
The planet got too much
This age of darkness
Hardened wings that were soft to touch

The swans have left the building
They're never coming back to earth
No more in sickness or in death
No more till death do us part

Now all that's left are empty ponds
And raging infidel seas
People bet on who'll be the next to go
Maybe the birds and the bees

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

the shame

this small feeling of shame
when I wax poetic
About all things me
Everything I feel
Shouldn't it be
The duty of a poet
Some responsibility
To make sense of the world
Through poetry
Or maybe ask a question
Or hell, point to an answer
But here I am
Marinating in my own mental juices
Focusing the spot-lights on me
Some kind of selfish dictator
Ordering the emotions
To stand in formations
So I can rhyme
Or at least try to
Maybe I'm the only selfish bitch
But maybe every fucking poet is
If there has to be some shame
We'll share that shame together
All of us, under our umbrella of sky
As life ending space rocks pass us by

Some poems, I tangle with for hours, others, I write with speed and urgency of vomit or crippling diarrhea.

night whispers to me

i could be sitting still
or lost in a tornado of thoughts
i could have had my fill
or hungry enough to gnaw my own bones

the radio in my chest
is always seeking
the same frequency
where i hear the whispers of the night

through the static, through the noise
through the time zones, a voice
whispered softly, in invisible notes
is it real or just in my thoughts

so i stalk the wavelengths
i prowl the digital skies
to catch another whisper
of a silent smile
I'm really not happy with the last paragraph. I feel there should be more to this one. This is not it.
But this will have to do for now. I am coming back to tackle this soon.

Monday, August 1, 2016


Men, women, demons selling their souls
On the streets and sidewalks of The Whorl
Cheap, for as much as cheap would go
Dying to hear a yes in the sea of no

Angels with spikes through their wings
Stuck to the ground like helpless flies
As worms eat through their feathered bones
The hawkers selling their blood drown their cries

High on dreams the people sick and tired
Tied to their dull routines, all hope expired
Zombie machines marching to the beats
Of the clocks grafted in their chest holes

This city needs a new plague
To cleanse out the garbage
The human detritus overflowing
Ouroboros feeds on itself, unknowing

Now the angels are grounded
Demons are running free
Hell is here with a grin on its face
And it's looking right at me
Could a city be a time in space?

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Demon Zero

I've got poems stuck in my throat
I cough and cough and cough
I've got tears streaming down my face
Whatever I do it's not enough

I've tried it all to get the poems out
Some of those things were fucking sick
I've stuck fingers deep down my throat
I've even tried to choke on my own dick

Nothing helps, these poems are lodged
Like unwanted guests on a couch
The only way they're going is in
I swallow and keep yelling ouch

Now I'm sitting on porcelain throne
Face contorted, I want to shout
If these poems won't come out of my mouth
Maybe I can shit them out

Just a funny feeling.

I don't want to breathe

I want to eat air in big chunks
Till I choke on oxygen
It gets stuck in my throat
And I'm forced to slam my own back
I want to sink my teeth
In life's throat
And drench me in its blood
Be angry be thirsty be fucked up
And maybe a little mad

I don't want to breathe
I want to explode every time
I inhale and burn hotter than hell
A supernova with fingers raised to the sky
Screaming fuck the gods till I burn down and die

I don't want to breathe
I want to turn myself inside out
Till my heart is exposed
To all the bullshit
That the world wants to throw at me

I don't want to breathe
I don't want to survive
I don't want to breathe
I just want to be alive


Thursday, July 28, 2016


They walk around in a circle
They walk around the bush
Beating the ground with their feet
Till the mud is a bloody slush

For nine days and nine nights
The men and women walked
Beating around the bush, but
Without a word being talked

On the tenth day they stopped
The shaman set the bush on fire
The flames drenched the faces
That were dying with desire

Soon their hearts were beating
To the sounds of the maniac drums
As the fire reached the skies
And made the heavens thrum

In a helix around the fire
All of them did lay
Did they dream of whorls and spirals
This I cannot say

This it ends. (3 of 3)

Tuesday, July 26, 2016


he was but a man
freed by a dreamy mess
the ringing war cry
of a man born in darkness

this one man is awake
while the others sleep
he is blind like all of them
but he can still see

he can see in his mind's eye
the color of the sounds
he can see the shades of death
and the poison in the sky

what woke him up was a dream
of his tongue stuck in a hole
a hole that dripped and squelched
as he tried to drink it all

the clear water, the catalyst
the pool of life, the whorl
that spun and spun, like a third eye
pulling him away from whispered lies

Whorl (2 of 3)

Sunday, July 24, 2016


far away in a field made of gold and green
girls with butterflies in their hair pick up dreams
swollen with desire and fallen on the ground
they bite into each dream and pass them around

thick dream juice coats their mouths and chins
they giggle with joy and their laughter starts to sing
fingers dripping with the ichor, they lick the digits dry
overwhelmed with joy some of them even start to cry

these girls with butterflies in their hair
they're addicted to dreams and they simply don't care
where the dreams come from, to whom they belong
they just want the dream juice, they long for its song

beneath the earth in cryo-chambers, an army of men sleeps
kept alive by technology, a thousand machines beep
their eyes plucked from sockets, fucked up and drugged
they dream of the day when they will be unplugged

Spiral (1 of 3)

Saturday, July 23, 2016

Hole in my Head

I can feel the breeze on my brain
Sucking in views of everything around me
Listening, soaking, taking it all in
My head is your garbage bin

I've become an information junkie
My brain is a hyperactive monkey
Licking the feeds for gossip and news
So why don't you feed me your views

I'm grabbing and collecting tit-bits like a whore
If I could ever get enough I'd just want more
The hole in my head is a pulsating beast
Could I ever get tired of this never ending feast

You ask where does all this information go
I am still stupid cuz I think I fucking know
The second hole in my skull is open like a door
My brain matter lessens the more I fucking pour

Garbage In, Garbage Out

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

La Haine

I think I am sick
Many others think so too
My thoughts are impure and fucked up
My opinions are filled with poison and hate
For you, you, you and yes, you too
They're rotting away in my head
Like corpses under the ground
There is a worm buffet in my head, man
The stench of one thousand opinions unsaid
Because, let's face it,
I am fucking afraid
Afraid of the rabid, faceless mob
Of people who know better than me
Of course they do, they've read books
And journals, and published papers
Headed an NGO or two too
They rescue kittens from the roads, man
For fuck's sake, how can they be wrong?
They'd tweet out requests for blood
And retweet tweets to find missing children
They'd stand on their soapboxes and shot
Hashtag, bro.
It's got to be important. Right?
They're here.
Big brother is the new mob
And the mob is always watching
With a phone album of screenshots
Of every transgression against every opinion
They'll file an FIR on me, man.
It makes me want to shit my pants.
I am so fucking afraid, dude
What if they land up at my house?
Or stop me in the street
With a print out of my 2011 tweet
Where I called some bitch a bitch
I don't want to deal with cops, man
All I had was an opinion
Now my foot is in my mouth
And I am chewing on my sock
Online activism makes my brain hurt
But it rushes blood to my cock
Saliva runs down my chin
As I scroll through the lull
My belly gurgles empty
But my mouth is always full

Social media feeds are full of shit. But this blog will always be my safe place.

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Sleepless Soliloquies

Why am I even in bed
It's only 1:09 AM
Not even properly night
Even though close to morning

I've cycled the channels on TV
It's the same old boring shit as always
I've stared at the ceiling for far too long
Is this behavior even normal?

Sleep has eluded me like a shadow prey
I'm a hunter with no gun in his bullet
My arrow has no bow in it
Set up a trap, but I'm sitting in it

I've let my mind wander far away
In some version of past when things were OK
And I used to fall asleep as my head touched the pillow
But that time is so far away, so gone

Now all I do is write poems about me
It's all me cuz no one else will be me
I'm stuck in my shoes and there is a lot to walk
I'd give you advice but who am I to talk

So I'll stare at the ceiling for some more time
Maybe now sandman will throw dust in my eyes
If I sleep now maybe I won't wake up
With a surprise

Saturday, July 16, 2016


a hand hangs in space
fingers spread wide
multiplying from five to ten to fifteen
grasping, like a child
learning to walk
the fist, squeezing

the hand finds a ribcage
it wants the prize inside
it wraps around the bones
squeezing with all its might

fingers crush the bones
shards pierce through the hand
a finger touches the prize
it's all electric, psychedelic

hand and ribs spliced together now
stuck for an eternity in dead space
and a heart that beats against a palm
like a dying star

i am just fucking with this blog now.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

the gear

the gear turns and turns
as the world around it burns
splashing darkness
on the canvas of sky
to kill every star
but some still survive
the ancient engine
built with bones
fueled by blood
churns out chaos
a fucking flood
pillars of smoke
kiss the skies
an acid fog
covers the ground
it's all around us
trees, like fractured bones
point guilty branches
towards anyone
who'd shoulder the blame
there is no name of this game
just a choking feeling of
the end of everything

Why is this poem getting more views than usual?
Will someone bother leaving a comment? Where are you coming from?


there is a shadow
inside a shadow
at the edge of consciousness
hovering apparition
staring malevolently
with tired eyes
whispered words
that don't rhyme
praying hands
there it stands
still looking at me
eating its way through
and we play
we play this
every night
till it's time to go again
till it's 5 fucking 30 AM


I have seen
the music change
into something
that wasn't there before
it's exactly like listening to an old song
after ages and ages and ages
and the song sounds like a new beast!
there are things you didn't notice
the first few hundred listens
but now
it's a different song
if the song remained the same
is it you who has changed?
beaten, battered, bludgeoned
into a box of who you're supposed to be
did you too evol?
into a new beast?
I was listening to Tool's aEnima and it sounds so different from the first time I listened to the album.  

Saturday, July 9, 2016

The Circle

A man sits by the pool
Half smoked cigarette smouldering
In the fingers of his left hand
That dangles close to dry tiles

He stares at the green water
As if the water holds the answers
To all the questions that
Fall like meteors on the planet of his mind

The dull heat makes his vision swim
An apparition swims to the surface
Of the water that parts like a door
To throw up a strange mutates figure

The thing plucks the cigarette
From the man's idle hand
It takes a drag, coughs, breathes out smoke
As the man slowly begins to choke

The figure helps the man to his feet
Pushes him into the silent water
That parts to accept him
And the figure sits in the chair
To wait for another apparition

Saturday, July 2, 2016

How to eat a brick

some say it's a science
some say it's an art
but if you have to eat a brick
you better fucking start

all it takes is teeth of steel
a total inability to feel
any kind of pain or remorse
it's just a brick, man. Not a horse

you need to have the hunger
you need a little fire
right inside your belly
to digest what shall transpire

you eat a brick lick by lick
chomp the pieces, crunch the grit
swallow dust, choke your throat
a meal of brick won't let you bloat

I've no idea why i wrote this. Took me about three hours to come up with this though.


you might know me
as a poet
using an extremely loose definition of the word
i, uh, just write here
i string togethe words
some of them, i hope,
make sense to someone
somewhere, out there
and sometimes
you might find rhymes
but the meter is fucked
like a rosebud plucked
and thrown into garbage
you need to have ((The Eye))
my friend
to really read
what i need
to say here
so take these words
chew on them
let them go to your head
maybe then
but a big big maybe
you'd know
what i just said


through the fog in my head
i can still hear the sounds
of drums beating in darkness
an ancient rhythm
that beckons me

to stand under some open sky
on some distant planet

to scream at gods
that are long forgotten
by those that worshipped them

to speak the ancient language
of words that make no sense
the thesaurus of gibberish
every words melts into the next
i can feel the drums beating
like a heartbeat in my chest

Monday, June 27, 2016


Maybe I should write a poem
Maybe I should write two
But no matter how many I write
Still can't get through

Like a morsel stuck in the throat
Of a girl in a fancy restaurant
Just as she starts to choke
Her words slur like drunken rants

Maybe I'm blubbering mind vomit here
Maybe poetry is a byproduct of fear
Maybe Tuesday won't be this bad
But Monday makes me so fuckin sad

Now the tv is always on
I drown my thoughts in a steady drone
Of people that only cook or eat
While my life runs on repeat

Monday, June 20, 2016

Black Feather

Winged one
Keeper of chains
Destroyer of dreams
Poison tongued
You've whispered
Sweet promises
In my waxy ears
I've heard
Your stories
Flags of lies
On dead seas
Unabashed unfurled
You've looked
Into my eyes
You've seen the void
Then you smiled
I've tried
To bite through the chains
But they're tighter yet
Around my neck
Now I drag
This weight I drag
That threatens
To pull me back
Into your loving embrace
Of roses and thorns

Read the words Black Feather and that led to this poem.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Old Horse

Hello, old horse.
Still alive and trotting
Your skin has lost its lustre
And your mane is rotting

Hello, old horse
You just stand here these days
Counting down in your head
Silently visiting replays

Hello, old horse
There is a spark in your eye
Still some old lightening
Hiding in a clouded sky

Hello, old horse
It's time to say goodbye
Save the lightening
Save the thunder
For your final ride

Death rides a pale horse.

Friday, May 20, 2016


Increasingly, I've felt
As if every poem is a whine
Complain, bitch, explain
All these failures are mine

So what should I poem about then
Rainbows, puppies, candies and flowers?
I could try to find the rhymes for them
But I'd be sitting here for hours

And I don't really have hours
Poems stagnate and rot if you leave them out too long
The shelf life of rhymes is only few minutes
Then they fly away to some ancient heaven

So I do this when I feel like
So what if what I feel is a healthy sense of paranoia
Fear is only a byproduct of madness
This shit doesn't really need to matter
If it won't get any worse
It won't even get any better
The time has come to a standstill
The watch on my hand is broken
I still wear it, trapped in old routines
Of all the could-have-beens
Then I rip a new smile for my face
To face another day
Till it heals into an indifferent scowl
As the night falls

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Every poem a nail

Slamming iron with my bare fists
I've read longform, I've digested lists
I've eaten novels raw, snorted short stories
But I keep coming back to this travesty I call Poetry

There are days when I disgust myself
Then the days when I'm so in love with the mirror
Days when I'm ready to make the world suck my dick
Days when the thought of breathing makes me sick

It doesn't make sense cuz it doesn't need to
There is no poetry, only me and you
We're trapped in the matrix of life's slow burn
We could burn to ashes but we'd never learn

I'm using every poem as a nail in the coffin
Of my every day existence and my stupid complaints
That don't mean shit in the long run
So why should I stop, when complaining is so much fun.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Strangling the zeitgeist

Here we are again
Same old, yet new
With past hurts
And fearless enthusiasm
For brewing future mistakes
It's always a race
Even when you're standing still
For when you're standing still
My friend, you're losing
But maybe losing is winning
The finish line is a loop
And the winner start again
In the cycle of misery
So should I sit on my hands?
Or should I
Get a bike I like
Pack me a knife
Fill the tank with petrol
Find an open road
And go
Just fucking go
I could, but should I?
Or better, could I?
Could you?
Could any of us escape?
The glittering golden prisons that we create
On the bones of our parents' mistakes
Maybe I should just lie down and wait
For this feeling to pass
Maybe I should lie down and hate
This feeling of getting fucked in the ass
By the blunt knife of life
The in and out of years
As I count my birthdays
The cakes get smaller
And the candles more in number
I thought I was son of a gun
But my brain is getting number
I'll just lie down and wait
For something to take place
But then tell me, why can't I
No longer feel my face?

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Day in slow motion

There is something wrong
With the clock today
I'm watching hands move
As they stay stuck in place

Their movements minuscule
Almost a ridicule
Staring me in the face
Time meditating in this race

This day will probably never end
I don't believe, I can't pretend
Stuck in molasses of glorious mundane
The thought are evaporating from my brain

Good fucking God, it's so hot
Maybe the day is dead
The ghost of today
Is sitting on my head

And we're watching the clock
As hours tick away
Watching the clock
As we both sit and sway

Monday, May 16, 2016

you know what this one's gonna be about

for the life of me
i can't remember
the label on those heavenly domes
if geomatrical perfection
could be made real
that would be it
so would be it.

just one look
made my palms sweat
with an urgent need to
caress and possess
but so mystefied was i
that the world around me blurred
so hypnotized was i
by that mathematical marvel
yet something in me stirred
as i stared with my jaw on the floor
afterimages of one who had walked out the door

now if someone asked me what it was like
i'd not really have any words to describe
even if i did, it'd not be fair
to know what I saw, you just had to be there
but here me out, this is what i have to say
i've got my head full of images but not a byte to waste
i swear i'd do do evil shit now, just to get a taste

Sunday, May 1, 2016

satellites crashing

they've watched us enough
something had to give
maybe they got tired of floating
and just wanted to not live

slowly caressing the stratosphere
shy, like a mechanical bridal affair
feeling hotter as they enter
digging deeper as if they don't care

leaving skin, bones and screws in the sky
falling falling falling ready to die
but then the air becomes somewhat breathable
and hope rears its hood on intertwined cables

satellites crashing in wide nets made of steel
no one cares what they think or feel
trapped to be repaired, ignorant of their pain
till they're ready to be shot in the sky again

They watch us, and it's ironic that this poem will go through at least some satellites to reach you.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

chinese torture

in my bed
staring at the ceiling
there is a crack, like a thunderbolt
and some of the plaster is peeling
a stray drop
makes it way through
just hanging by a feeling
it races across the ceiling
becoming one with the crack
till it's right on top of me
it hangs there
like suspense of a mid-season episode
like a relationship at the brink of something
teeter-totter like a patient at the edge of coma
it drops
oh how it drops
right in the middle of my forehead
as i lie still
and watch more drops
make their way to
torture me
why can't i move?
why am i stuck in this bed?
tied with silly string
why do i think about these things?

Thursday, April 28, 2016

how to kill a man

this is not a manual
or an instructable
this is just a page
filled with the vomit of thoughts
that rise like dead bodies
left in the water for too long
all bloated and ugly
staring at you
with dead eyes filled with
a challenge
Are you going to write this fucking thing, boy?
you can't kill a man with bullets or knives or nooses or pillows
you just kill a body
you kill a man slow
with the drudgery of every day existence
piled on him brick by fucking brick
till the man can't move at all
burdened and weak
do you slit his throat then?
maybe offer a mercy exit?
you pile some more bricks on him
steal some more molecules of hope
that's the magic of every day
you really can do anything
if you're patient enough
and you enjoy watching others suffering
it's like cooking a dish
or drawing a drawing
bring the water to boil
each stroke a pin prick
it really is a long con
believe me
for i can see myself
dying under the bricks
in another ten years or so
maybe i'll come back and read this poem
maybe i won't remember to

Saturday, April 23, 2016


there is a crawlspace
right here
in my chest
no blood
just cobwebs
even the spiders
have left this place
just dirt and memories
fill this space
sometimes i hear
a ticking sound in this void
i ignore it
as you do
as i've done
for all these years
it ticks louder now
the sum of my fears
maybe i need a bomb squad
to crawl into this darkness
and figure out why
the sky is a mess
cut the wire
red or blue
save me from the truth
#4, so it goes.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

the stars suffer tonight

staring in the darkness
till my eyes start to ring
even if the sky is a mess
i like to think that the stars still sing
even harsh melodies
of screams and horrible curses
rhymes broken, corrupted beyond redemption
this is no city for beautiful verses
a chaotic, unholy litany
runs like a crack
through the fabric of reality
the world collapses
the world expands
wrapped around the sound
of a sigh
through the wormholes
timelines converge
at the speed of light
tachyons race
and on some cold night
maybe i'll silently touch your face
and through the chaos of a dying world
i'll have my one moment of peace

Monday, April 18, 2016


From the door of room ajar
A candle flickers on a jar
Filled to the brim with swimming eyes
That seer through truths and the lies

These eyes from the back of heads
Eyes from palms of hands
Even the eye of the purple beast
A third eye, open, looking east

In the jar, the memories ocular
All that's seen, all that's been
From Odin to Fury to sins molecular
Bionic memories, unfinished stories

The eye of the storm floats unseen
Flitting like pixels across a screen
And the eye of the needle floating in rage
Chemical death on a dead page

The candle's going
And I can't see
If all those eyes
Still look at me

3 is an important number.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

A break from regular programming....

I've written a fiction ebook. It's called Jungle. It's available for download on kindle.

And it's free for two days only! Today and tomorrow. The clock is ticking, it'll never be free after this. Ever.

This is the link

Check it out.

You can read more about it on the main blog

Sunday, April 10, 2016

A Thousand Poems

A book full of moth eaten pages

Scribbled words and pictures

Doodled infinities
Trapped in dead trees

Took one thousand poems
To reach here
Middle of nowhere

Bathed in the fear
Of tomorrow
Words broken
Rhymes misshapen
An inkblot

A tattoo
Scrunched into my skin
Drawn in darkness
By a blind tattoo artist
With a boxing glove on his fist
I've got my nose in the book
Breathing in the poems
This bad cocaine

It's coursing
Through my veins
And I like it
I like it so much
It gets me high
So should I give
A fuck?
Or keep pushing
My luck
Waiting for it
To push back
All the fucking way

Two things, find the Discworld reference and the reason why this poem is written like this.
More, soon. 

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

When Night Comes

so do the ghosts
whispering in soft voices
sitting there 
looking at me 
in reflections
with claws on my shoulders
that only I can feel 
and often I have felt
a stray draft of air
when it shouldn't be there
but it is
mocking me
something I can't explain
paranormal pranking
that fucks with my brain
when i'm lying in your bed
I hear the scratching in the walls
when I wake up from the dead
there are dirty footprints in the hall

Something about the night and feeling of being all fucking alone. 

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

back in the bed

i lie
down and stare
at the ceiling
in my head
operating on
my feelings
light bleeds
from the windows
tracing figures on the walls
how the fuck
how the fuck
did i end up
back in this bed again
i'm sinking
in the duvet
it welcomes me
like a predator
every night
so i lie
so i die
to be born
again and again
every morning
i love it
i fucking love it (so much)
i'm choking
laughing, joking
but i can't just fucking quit

sleep? fuck sleep!


Monday, March 14, 2016


These words are cuticles
That I rip from the side
Of my fingernails
It hurts in micro
Such a tiny pin prick of pain
That i can't even endure it
And I can't even complain
This is how we get used to
The larger pains of life
Then one day you wake up
And chop your finger with a knife
Cuz fuck ripping out cuticles
I'd rather go the whole hog
Fuck finding my way out
I'd stay lost in this fog


i see the beauty in this world
but my mouth is filled with dirt
i chew, i swallow, it fills up again
i scream from the window whenever it rains

it sure is a nice, sunny day outside
but my head is full of demons
they crawl over each other to be heard
a puree of worms swirling in my brain

look at these beautiful rays of the sun
i'm staring at walls instead of having fun
if i look away, the wall clowns will eat me
truth is truth, even if it sounds funny

it's a glorious fucking day, my friend
but i've got to stay inside and chew dirt
my memories of the outside world are fading
i like the taste of dirt, and it no longer hurts

Saturday, March 12, 2016

From the Vaults -- I Slept Through It All

This is a pretty old poem. What was I thinking when I wrote this. I guess I was just frustrated with how the love life was going. I am not a man known for making rational, well calculated decisions, and even if i did, what's the fun of life without any frustration? right. Anyway, go read.

This blog has ample archives and I think every now and then I'll post links to old poems. Just to keep things fresh here. Old for freshness, figure that out huh. 

Thursday, March 10, 2016

Styrofoam Heart

One funny afternoon
One sunny afternoon
I was just taking a walk
Going my way, thinking
When I saw that thing on the road
All crunched up and broken
A styrofoam heart just lying alone
At least I think it was a heart
(Hard to tell with its condition) 
I almost picked it up
Without asking permission
Was something missing this heart
Was it stolen?
Was some android human 
Going around this city 
Without empathy or emotion or feelings?
Should I file a missing heart report
Maybe listen to the radio 
Where a stupid RJ might
Ask if someone has seen a styrofoam heart
Lying on some street somewhere
And if someone could return that heart
To its rightful owner
But that might not happen
Not a chance
So I picked up the heart and tried to mend it
I propped its piece and smoothed the creases
But it withered away 
In my hands
Now my fingers are slick 
With styrofoam dust
And the black hole in my chest is howling at the moon

This poem could have been longer, because the narrator spent a lot of time just looking at the piece of styrofoam in his hands. 

ghost train

the ghost train is coming
filled with skulls and dark dreams
prepare to scream
prepare to fucking sing

the train hasn't stopped in
like, forever (969 years, actually)
one look and you're a part of it
tell me you are feeling clever

you can close your eyes
but you'll still here it arrive
the sound hypnotic, a trance
when the engine screams, will you survive?

the ghost train is almost here
the railroads are thrumming
what are you going to wear
when you hear the train a'comin

I think I wrote this because I am listening to Airbourne. No Guts, No Glory was one fuck of an album.

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

scratching names in the walls of my cell

there is no dirt under these fingernails
i fucking chew them all the time
i sharpen the nails to tiny points
i lick away all the grime

the grime from scratching the walls
of the cell that I am trapped in
i've mixed the paint with blood now, honey
i'm nose deep in sin

the sin that i am so in love with
would i have it any other way?
if i did would i know this
would i know everything i'd have missed

but i missed that, i still miss that
that one chance at burning alive
oh, i'd have enjoyed the flames
i'd have burned bright for nights

now nights are all i have
drenching me in dark thoughts
i'm still alone in my head
even my monsters have left me alone

so alone i live and alone i'll die
surrounded by everyone else
if i leave maybe they'll find
names scratched in walls of my cell

Why, oh why am I dreaming of alien graffiti again. This one is about how you're always alone in your mind, and no matter how close people get to you, only you know what's there in your head. Am i right or am i wrong?

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

sucking the bones dry

there are amazing days
then there are days like this
that suck the marrow from your bones
till you're fired, tired and retired
but even then it does not end
as you lie awake in bed
thinking of things that are
and things that could have been
thinking of things you've done
and things you've seen
everything beautiful
everything unseen
from the sacred to filthy
from the dirty to divine
it all bubbles inside your blood
for it's all in your mind
the beast of memories
is a hungry motherfucker
it needs to feed
and feed and feed
and then feed some more
till it's sleepy but it keeps on sucking
on the bones of your mind
till, with its teeth dug in deep
you lie wide awake as it sleeps
This is post #500 on this blog.
Maybe it's the 500th poem that I've written, maybe it's not, it probably is, i think. I've been here for a long time.
As always, thanks for reading. 

Monday, March 7, 2016

lost mornings

it was many years ago
but i remember it clearly
like it was just this morning
that i woke up at 5 AM
still groggy, half asleep
i wore my shoes
took my bike out
when the streets
were still empty
without the sun looking down
at me
me and my bike
we went out of town
cycling like a demon possessed
to see how far we could go
before tiredness wore out
legs and arms and back and brain
while out there
we raced milkmen and trucks
explored dry riverbeds
fields as far as the eye could see
abandoned houses
with broken windows that stared at us like eyes
we skipped stones on the lake
filled shoes with dirt for no reason
then washed down parched throats
with water from a handpump on the side of the road
it was all so good then
so good
gone are those times
i can only write poems about them
that don't even rhyme