dirt

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

From the Vaults -- I Slept Through It All

http://fubarpoems.blogspot.in/2010/11/i-slept-through-it-all.html

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. 

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.

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?

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. 

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