5 AM

It's an absolute shit time
To be awake
When you've not slept
All night
It's all about the perspective
Totally your point of view
If you wake up at 5 AM
It could be super early too
I really should be asleep right now
I'm tired yet I cannot sleep
So I'm standing in the balcony
Like some kind of perverted creep
Watching people wake up slowly
Peeking unwelcome in their life
Checking on domestic violence and strife
My neighbor should really pay attention to his wife
Cuz I can see through the window she's sharpening her knife
5 AM
The world is slightly fucked up
Maybe I should try to sleep again

thirst

drown me in your sounds
up to my ears
till I can't hear
my fears
just a tonal melody
of words in the wind
of words that take wing
the sparrows of sunshine
fluttering in a courtyard
flicking beaks in droplets
but their throats always parched
they drink till they can't fly
with their bellies full of water
but the thirst is still there
never to be quenched
and I've seen these sparrows walk
strutting proudly
with their throats dry as chalk

so late it's early

there is this trick to writing poems

you don't even have to rhyme

i know people who can pound out feelings

with words that cost just a dime

the trick is also a rule

not the kind that you should break

but if you really pay attention

this one weird trick is all it takes

you don't have to click a link 

or go through a paywall

i won't even ask for your phone no. or email

this trick is on display for all

so let's not waste each other's time

let's have it here and right now

the trick is to be naked in your poems

and let the truth bleed out

rip of the mask

your only task 

embrace the fear

just be, here.

--

woah.

slow jam / lost poems

the clock is ticking
notime to procrastinate
have got a lot to do
notime to hate
but the itch is still there
to make some mischief
chaos, disorder, mayhem
slow jam, slow churn
relax and watch the planet burn
at the same time i am worried
oh, i am so so fucking worried
for all the poems that slip by
because i didn't note them down
slip through my fingers like water
my hands are wet now
with memories of words
that i will never get back
i could be sad
i could lament
but notime for that
notime

--
sometimes, you just don't want to format shit. big milestone coming up for this blog. BIG

hour of the wolf

the only sound right now
is my fingers tapping the keys
the hard drive spinning
the steady whine of silence
when i take a break from typing
all this while my mind is
consumed, immersed, soaked,
in thoughts
feels like i am drunk
when i haven't touched
alcohol
in so many months
(probably a year now)
but goddamn i am seeing double
here i am sitting
in my virtual bubble
sending out signals
to alien entities
that might or might not
exist
but if they do (i think they do)
will they send a signal back?
for i'll be waiting
receivers wide open
staring at the night sky
like a child that doesn't know science
like a child that still believes in magic

Walls and Lovers

The city is a lover
Smiling, scowling
With desires swirling
But too much salt in the food
Again
A sunset litany
Of secrets unfurling
Like clothes
On sweaty nights
If these walls could talk
O' they'd speak not
For the things they've seen
Would only make them scream
But it's okay
It's okay!!!
Walls can't talk
They only listen and watch
Silent stalkers
Edge walkers
This city is full of walls and wires
And I'm squeezing
The neck of my heart's desires
Stupid fucking thing
Such a stupid fucking thing

---
I've borrowed words and phrases in this one from some sources. But who's gonna know.

tv spirituality

I've got the tv on
From night to morn
And I'm looking for the signs
That would tell me all is fine

I've got the channel numbers memorised
From history tv to colors infinity
None of my reminders ever clash
So I won't miss arrow or flash

I don't even download torrents anymore
It's all gonna be on tv any way
They've even got Mad Max Fury Road
And now they'll show it every day till may

There are new movies and shows
But I'm stuck to Discovery HD tonight
I don't like to watch romantic movies
But I like to watch animals fight

Sometimes the people on tv talk to me
They tell me what to buy and what to see
I've got my finger prints on the remote
Trapped in celluloid dream, to my throat
Will I ever want to be free?

Taste

Wake up
With the taste
Of night in your mouth
Pungent and weird
Maybe you bit into
A dream in your sleep
Now the dream blood is on your face
Smeared like makeup of a clown
But you look so beautiful
So fucking beautiful to me

So Late

It's late at night
The hour is dark
Wrapped in tight
I hear dogs bark

The tick of clocks
So metronomic
I'm wearing socks
Melodramatic

My neighbor snores
Empires crumble
My mouth is sour
Stomach rumbles

Sleep is lost
I'm wide awake
The wind's a ghost
The windows shake

The sounds of night
Absence of silence
Of barks and bites
Aural violence

I sit here waiting
Rhyming words
Procrastinating
Waiting for birds
---
I should be working. But when a poem is ready it won't let anything stop it.

Chasing the sun dog

The heart is a brittle beast
In flight, somewhere over the horizon
Where the sun sets in the west
And rises in the east

Every heart needs its wings
And desire to beat those fucking things
To stay afloat, to keep flying
To delay the hour of dying

For every heart that dares to fly
The prayers are floating in the sky
Like birds with wings of fire
That simply forgot to die

Now the rays fly like arrows
To penetrate thoughts and hearts
The shadow of the sun dog, on my face
Ready to chase another day

---
Happy V Day, motherfuckers. 😘

back to zero

warring with jarring words

twisting and turning 

to make any sense

out of the mess that's 

been given to me

pushing and pulling 

to seek a rhythm

in this cacophony

an abyss of randomness

and i am begging

begging 

for a pattern to emerge

i've got a breath stuck in my throat

and a smile pasted in my brain pan

i'm doing all i can but with every sunset

i realize i am only a man

just a man thrown back to zero

---

i don't have the time to do all i want to do and whatever time i have is running out.

Captain Abakus

captain abakus has a leg made of wood

he's not really evil, but i can't say he's good

he's full of tall tales, his cons are quick

somehow he always has a sleeve up his tricks

captain abakus like to get drunk on rum

he needs more than a measure to loosen his tongue

a glass won't do, no sir, he drinks from a bottle

the rum goes in and the captain goes full throttle

captain abakus is a weird fucking fellow

his one eye is green and the other is yellow

his mustache is hooked like a sickle shaped moon

his voice is a blister but it carries a tune

captain abakus once told me this tale

any fool can win, but you should know how to fail

and since the day his leg lives inside a shark

he likes to get drunk and check out chicks in the park

--

I wrote down the words "captain abakus" in my journal some days ago and today his story just drifted out of the pages. 

the churn

there is always the chase

always the case no matter what you do

stories blurring the lines of reality 

what's truth, who the fuck knows

you count the days and hours

your blessings and your powers

things slowly rot at the edges and the core

but then why the fuck do i feel so sure

about every fucking thing

when reality tells me otherwise

but surprise surprise

i've got rose tinted glasses on my eyes

and it's okay

no hurry

no worry

it's a beautiful day

it's a sunny, happy day

and fuck me if i complain

--

we all go through the churn some time or the other. 

then there are days like this.

there are days when the cup is almost empty
just dregs, all smudged at the bottom
i smear my finger in them
to come up with something halfway decent

but there is nothing, it disappears off my fingers
just a ghost of a feeling, a spark, a thought
a rhyme, a word, a metaphor, a simile
all gone, words in the wind

all there is, is a creeping sensation
a headache crawling up my spine
a sinking feeling in my gut
but otherwise, absolutely fine

sometimes i stare at my hands
what strange disease has made them like this
were these fingers made to strike keys
or tap on screens till some apocalypse

---
For days filled with doubt, but hey, we bounce back. We always do.
Imagination is a curse. There are times when your head and heart are not into it, but the fucking fingers, they know what to do. I guess that's also a kind of muse or creative angle. People smarter than me would be able to explain better, I am sure.

Puke

I puked my brain out
It didn't even matter
Now I regret it
I should've wrote a letter

A letter to myself
Written all in code
Interpersonal communication
Carry my own load

But I unloaded it elsewhere
That's one mistake I made
Now my brainpan is getting filled
With newer doubts instead

I should have kept my mouth shut
I never should've spoken
I tried to sew my old wounds
Now new ones have opened

The Philosophy of Others

The wise have said their piece
Expounded, explained and elucidated
All in search for a moment of peace
To show a path to the deviated

Who can walk on the path?
Meant for someone else
Who can burn for sins of others?
In someone else's hell

The wise walk the path that wise do
Each step measured like a chess move
Then there are people like me
Chaotic monkey brains fighting boredom

I have read books and articles and listened to gurus
All this doesn't matter worth a bucket of shit
Real life doesn't give a shit about philosophies
Only your own code works when it comes down to it

----
I quit writing this poem in between and then finished it the next day. It's just about the sickness that comes from eating the philosophies of others that they've created through their own experiences. How can someone else's code, no matter how universal, work for your own life? Still thinking about it.

The Search

I've looked for you in crevices
I've looked for you in cracks
I've looked for you in darkness
Always riding on my back

I've looked for you in dust
I've looked in water and in wine
I've looked at bottom of the bottle
You were not there. But that's fine.

So I looked into my dreams
And trust me I sleep a lot
I've taken naps to find you
But were you there? Not!

Sometimes I look through windows
At times I crack open doors
I've knocked on mirrors at times
Maybe I'll see you on some ocean shore

---
More than search for someone or something, this poem is about curiosity and how it can change a person. The rhyme remains, the structure remains, but this one is not the same animal at end as it was at beginning. For better? For worse? Who knows, it just is.