June 26, 2007

A fish in a pond, two in the next one,
Three by the sand and the fourth all alone,
The fifth loves the sixth and the seventh
Cares not, the eighth is in love but
She’s just a fish in the pond.

June 23, 2007

It all started with the universe,
That threw an offering upon emptiness,
All shaken and scratched, we woke up,
The world became a cruel midnight jest.

It will never suffice, this hunger caused,
Insatiable appetites abhor,
The universe threw an offering of hate,
To make us remember by the hour.

In the middle of chaos and irony,
Lock me up so twisted and turned,
That if we were to unfold our palms,
This world would simply unburn.

Life is no myth, let us discover and char,
This dance of particles will lead us there,
Life is no myth, can't you feel us meshed,
Our skin is but ember, we are already bare.

It all started with the universe,
This game was her midnight jest,
I am the dice in your nimble hands,
Toss me into the fire, disturb Her rest.

June 21, 2007

I might loathe this ground,
These battles for naught,
I might walk another ten miles,
And forego those arrows we bought.

Yes I hate the sun so bright,
Its seething smile rains false,
I prefer the clouds so clear,
So clear that if we let go, we fall.

This armour does not protect,
It is but a burden of iron,
This armour shields me from arrows,
That drop at your sight and burn.

I am no fool love, I have fallen,
I loathe this ground I walk on,
My bruises will take time to heal,
You are but my healing dawn.

Stand up and fight, this armour waits
To break under your impatient blows,
Stand up and fight, I won’t look away,
The sword is just another friendly foe.

Cut me deep and wound me right,
The absence of a vein might help,
Forget and pause these unending journeys,
Forever on a ground that loathes me.

June 20, 2007

There can never be a right way,
To start this particular poem,
The nights are dark again,
And I am but a whore of hope.

There can never be a right way,
To end this poem either,
Who am I to decide the pauses,
When you decided the course?

Am I violating the rules now?
Are we a verse more
than originally planned?
Are your cold feet turning numb?
Too many questions now,
And your absence branded.

Another verse should not hurt now,
I have so much to say,
Your punctuations make me think,
Before I leap across these spaces.

Why stop now? These rules flutter
We can go beyond rhymes,
Riddles, heartaches and verses,
For they are nothing more than
A tired man’s pretty persuasions.

June 17, 2007

Humour Me

Humour me now,
I want my sweet ending,
Humour me now darling,
This beach walking might help.

Humour me now,
I might be falling for you,
Humour me now,
I know you feel the same too.

Humour me now,
How hard can it get?
Humour me now,
Love is more urgent than it seems.

Humour me now,
Do you think Love will wait?
That twenty-four hours of distance,
Will make Her take the bait?

Are you trying to tame Her down?
Love is an impatient tenant,
Humour me now my darling,
Against an unrelenting sea, I stand.

Waves crash within you,
You made me hear them too,
How hard can it get now?
Humour me darling.
Spin your magic, I beg you,
This black coffee fails,
Summon the rains and blind the sun,
Come wash away my travails.

These love poems tire me,
The weather metaphors all old,
Yellow fields dry out and wither,
No, your Midas touch is not gold.

I like star dust; I like them fairies too,
Romance and war all noble and true,
I like that we can delude into believing
There exists something bigger than you.

Happily-ever-afters trot along,
In a world all green,
Hand in hand with straight boring endings,
With love devoid of its perpetual gleam.

You and I might be at the point of conflict,
Where even the good seems bad,
Lilies naked and unbeautiful,
The dark castle sits woefully sad.

What if we stripped the words?
What if we stripped them bare?
What if it were all absent?
Would you still care?

I know we need the words,
The fairies and their comforting stardust,
I know you like the lilies pretty,
The green filled with possibility.

These love poems tire me,
I’ll wait for better days,
These love poems will seem trivial,
Till honest words lift this haze.

June 16, 2007

For K

And in these spaces,
Where everything must cure,
You and I might find solace,
In separate loves, deceptively pure.

This string of memories will pierce,
These spaces seemingly healing,
Your worried sighs will float and eddy,
Through lonely nights, stealing

A glorious song once, you dawned,
Your morning call was my midnight waking,
You were lost and I was found,
Our hearts in between pawned and taken.

Indifference bears no consequence,
You can never make me numb,
You heighten and stupefy my senses,
My skin trembles and falls in crumbs.

Here in stealth, I shall reside,
If you ever want to snuggle and hide,
Here in stealth, I shall hope and wait,
For better times and a better tide.

And one day when these spaces contract,
Our worlds might meet,
When riots have died down, all batons frozen,
Let me rest in your permanence sweet.

June 10, 2007

I saw you sitting one fine morning,
Aside a yellow bin with a bear,
Your hands stained of madness,
Grease, stale food and stolen prayers.

This morning you walked out stone cold,
The old man’s door swinging wildly,
This morning you cried blood,
His words and moans raining acidly.

It came upon you, clear and numb,
When you grasped the next one’s hand,
They are nothing more than victims,
Of a system gone mad.

I’ll tell you now, I’ll tell you this,
Objects can never be abused,
I’ll tell you now, I’ll tell you this,
You’re a lot more than their shortcoming.

Words are but instruments,
Syllables but balms,
These thoughts about you curing,
My little insipid world so calm.

Love is no cure, it’s a fatality,
Take my hand, be hurt bittersweet more,
You’ll find a fireplace and kisses so warm,
Longing distant from a world all whored.

Does that man know your hair is really auburn?
Does the next one see your eyes so green?
Do they feel your skin beneath the grease?
Do they caress your lips when you whisper your price?

I touch this yellow bin everyday,
And watch you speak to your red bear,
Read my eyes, we’ll find each other,
Your fireplace awaits, and so does Forever.

June 8, 2007

Evening Gowns

Evening dances and pretty dresses,
Romance glittered with pink, silver tresses,
Their cheap fabrics shall not touch you,
I won’t let you drown in their glares.

Love has a place, an impermanent address,
It shifts and slips through pockets of time,
Now here, when we got the punch together,
Next I can see when we get into the car.

The moment after, when you kiss me,
Love will reside for a tiny bit,
The hour later when we sit on wet grass,
Our silver dresses staining.

The morning after when the egg is brown,
When burnt toast is all we find,
Love will leave behind pieces of its fingers,
Around our plates, where we shall linger.

She will loop around words in the air,
When I whisper through crowds,
That I miss you, that you miss me,
She will leave her laughter behind.

These silver tresses are the poor man’s dream,
These evening gowns their fairytale beginnings,
You are more than all that can be woven,
You are the reason love pauses and sings.

These evening dances are our compulsion,
Your skin on my lips as we sway to nothing,
Their gowns shan’t touch us, nay they flutter away,
All naked and consumed, we shall remain.

June 7, 2007

I wish I could write you postcards.
Paint ones that had a bird
With a funny circular head
And a yellow sun in the background.
Write I Love You on the back
Without further explanation.
Walk down on a Monday morning
And cook you breakfast.
I wish I could write you postcards.

Love wrought and paper worn,
Honest ink, this black one is.
I bought her off the tiny paper mart
Just for your postcards.
I wish I could write you postcards.