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
silent
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?

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?
no.
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
slowly
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

ticking

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.

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

Visions

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.

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

https://www.amazon.in/gp/aw/d/B01E31KZSI?vs=1&vs=1

Check it out.

You can read more about it on the main blog www.fubar69.blogspot.com

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
Oooooh
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. 

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. 

#2