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Thursday, 03 December 2009

  • Objectivity Discrete


    Did you see this planet float away?
    And with it all my cares away?

    I'm a zeppelin– free to choose my breeze:
    a known low– so scorching– scathing–
    scrape my knees,

    or a new high– stuck smile– worthwhile–
    anti-gravity sway.

    A logic so simple it sweeps with static cling,
    but reality shackles tether tightly,
    and bind me to disenchanted deeds.

    Earth circles its circuit on my halo-turned-cesspool,
    returning me to the limits of 5 senses–
    swimming in this broth about to boil.


Tuesday, 01 December 2009

  • Exhaustion


    Run like clockwork–
    medullary pendulum.
    Nothing but a metronome in the pneumatic of my skull

    Shrug as synapses shift into a noose:
    hanged so questionably,
    pointlessly poised like a question mark
    before the door to cognition,
    which hangs itself on hinges of vertical wonder.

    It's a wonder if I make it out alive.


  • Internal Struggle

    Cough--
    catch--
    slip into catharsis--
    a cold so cataclysmic,
    it conquers your bones.

    A schism of your sutures
    cleaves the dreams you weave in threes,
    so such a Catholic sneeze
    will cauterize your knees.

    A catalyst provocative
    culls the herd absurd:
    a slate so clean,
    no chalk can caulk the crack,
    or delineate a path to navigate you back.

    A constant cold war
    between your incongruencies:
    conflicts of attrition between each partition,
    and you don't know who to hear.

    The castle of your confidence
    cascaded into bricks,
    but no ticks are left for your convalescence.
    You must cure the unsure alone
    with no helping hands of that father.

    Bellows--
    breathe--
    question should you bother.

Saturday, 07 November 2009

  • Alive in the Winter


    The smell of winter seeps in–
    creaks in between the leaves
    long dead on the ground.
    It tickles your nose–
    it trickles down your throat.

    The cold traces
    your skin and grasps
    your bones, gripping
    you in the throes
    of a bodily shiver.

    It reminds you of the perennial routine–
    of the birds, they flee the scene until spring–
    and how the trees resemble skeletons
    of their summer selves.

    But somehow,
    amongst all this silence
    that comes only with
    the death of everything,

    you feel so alive.


Friday, 30 October 2009

  • Already There


    Spend your currency of days
    shifting through shiftless steps–
    shuffling over skips and rifts in sidewalks,
    but you can't deny gravity when
    you cross each chasm–
    the gaps between pressed time.

    Cement is timeless sand
    filtered from your hourglass;
    mortared into place to provide
    a path of chronological spread.
    Every pace lays down
    another space of life.

    And tread you must until your sidewalk ends in dust.



Thursday, 29 October 2009

  • Shores of Time


    If you could float upon the wind-
    drift yourself to dry land-
    you would surely see the shore.
    You would walk through time-
    accumulating moments in every grain of sand-
    covering you in a coat of age
    until the day when you leave footprints no more,

    and you become the scenery.


Sunday, 25 October 2009

  • Runner's High


    Push– momentum–
    and now legs carry you
    with a crescendo–
    a tempo that twists like a gyroscope–
    an impetus – the ache
    to procure enkephalins:

    the thrill that fills you with a smile–
    thus the chase begins.
    If ever such a race there was,
    you'd win.
    To break that ticker tape
    requires the guile
    acquired only after running for miles.

    But to what do you run?
    What will be draped around
    your winner's neck at the podium?
    The gold medal gleams
    for the champion of cowards,
    and now it is your burden–
    a millstone– your gravity times ten.

    It will drag your runner's high
    to the depths of dreams,
    where your pockets are busting seams
    from the stones weighing you down
    to drown in a river

    where currents is the currency,
    and undertow becomes your new
    momentum–
    for the race must always be run.

    Enkephalins– expired and done.



Tuesday, 20 October 2009

  • White Halls


    White halls of brick walls
    with falls not high enough.
    Stairs feel like scissors with
    every sutured step–
    careful caution like a wet floor.

    Watch my life on a foreign film:
    subtitles scroll across buildings–
    displaying discussions and
    skyscraper sentiments
    as actors play puppets
    of dolls on strings–
    portray such alien emotions–
    crystal facet on a diamond ring.
    And somewhere–
    I think I've been here before.

    Punctuate each portion of the night
    with truncated lamp posts–
    marred beacons of my sanity.
    I plan to be a robot– step in time.

    No life force but gravity–
    press me to my bed–
    I'll wake up to another asylum dream.



  • Anxiety


    Tornado of leaves
    in a hollow of trees-
    catch it through periphery.
    Kicked up by biting cold wind-
    gusts that alter what is.

    Ravage the windows-
    press the people as they walk
    slanted and sideways,
    holding hats so they don't blow away.

    Clutch your jacket-
    snug inside your brackets-
    a parenthetical thought
    forms as a bubble inside your head
    as your nerves grow into dread.

    Will the roof remain?
    Or will you wake up under your bed's remains?

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

  • Burning Bridges

    Hunger pangs recall
    A similar empty feeling
    Like that hand print in the perfect snow angel-
    A scar from getting back up-
    A mar that takes away
    From the beauty of the individual-
    But alone- a mark so beautiful-
    A new foundation for an old display.
    But it leaves you wanting-
    Remove the rock from your shoe.

    Desperate attempts to hide the evidence
    Lead to discoveries that enlighten.
    Like the gum underneath the table-
    A hidden mosaical mistake
    That goes unnoticed by cursory eyes.
    Appearances can be deceiving

    As exhaustion weighs upon cognition
    Like an x-ray vest,
    it presses invisibly on the heart,
    Like an insidious hand.
    Head ties heart with an impalpable
    puppet string-
    A pulp of fictitious dreams.
    And weariness turns to weakness
    When the subtle dagger of sleep severs all seams.

    Silent nocturnes drag your consciousness
    Through the scum of the subway-
    Subconscious realm.
    Force the revival of relivings of relic cuts-
    Dwell in the blood before the scab.
    The quagmire preserves the corpses of your otherwise ethereal past,
    And what sinks in your waking skull floats to the top in the bog of sleep-
    Sick buoys like bloated bodies in the wake.

    Time is a sadistic friend
    That no one can refuse.
    But as shadows wax and wane,
    The gnomon measures relief.
    Present only in the pastime of healing.
    A welcome hand in the grip of gravity-
    As reliable a friend as time-
    A ploy to prevent the print in the snow.
    But that which rises must also fall,
    Like the blindfold lended by time.
    With an absence of appearances, none can deceive.
    He let each one down after all.

    Finality tolls like a bell,
    And if you try to deny your signature,
    You forget you signed at conception.
    Then time unwinds the fibers of repair-
    Made from borrowed blindfold moments-

    He makes you march from healed dark and into your unseeing light.

SundaySex

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