Sunday, September 19, 2010


A wasted morning
A concrete street
You and me sitting here
By the roadside - we're hungry and they're rich

No no no, not homeless...
But a brick and mortar roof we have
That trickles of black sin every night
When we sleep and dream

Of wasted lives, of wasted wars and wasted spirits,
The blackened-sooted-embroidered curtains of our
Painted walls flutter and close in

Do we hear them? Do we hear the the whisper of the
Yonder trees cackling out with the age old shriek -
The call for help that spills over with their dried
Leaves and gets crushed on the concrete

Skylines of the city? Can we feel the stench of the
Their blood that was spilled last night? Can you?
Ah but this is a guarded secret that lay outside and
Not inside these four walls! The guarded secrets!

So well guarded and protected away never ever to
Let penetrate our perfect worlds of wonderings -
'Havings' 'let's haves' 'why nots' - fucking social gatherings!

But why does that stench get to me only?

That ah that I must be insane! These are only bearable to barbarians
Such as me who sometimes lets temptation close in to take a peek into
That neverland of world without walls and punctuations!

A stench is a stench - a disgrace of nature! Shoo them away with a
Man made fragrance! There! Sweep those leaves away and close the
Curtains. That's better now...

Calm... peace... silence... no unfamiliar hauntings of the green-blue nature;
No cries of penance for the spirits who're trapped within

Let's Party, Let's Dance! - I can hear my friends calling: 'Got errands to run tomorrow,'
'Have to shoot somebody tonight,' 'Need to rape my conscience - I'm busy,'
'Get me a drink for god's sake!'

You and me gather ourselves, we walk into the halls to greet the floor,
The wasted people, the wasted crowd, come ye hither to make us proud,
The stench goes away, the leaves swept off -
The only place for salvation is
No place at all.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Writing my Wishlist

A crumble of bread
Crunching down our throat
With milk to swallow it down
And trickles the sweat of time
With patience to swallow it all.

The morning drum starts and so
Does the grind of clinching fists
With tapping keys and glassed eyes
I look for bread butter in the inanimate screen
And you look for salvation
For the unboxed mind
Where you are the orator of the stage

You seek the Godot and the Phantom
And grip on the fine thread from a
Street play given to us on lease
To weave the dreams of us in a
World made of voodoo puppets
Eating of processed pamphlets
Of flahslights and elite pens

Take a peak on the racing time
Out of the iron fence
And I see our tapping feet and soaring voice
Breaking the what-should-bes and dimes
Dreams we've seen together and the
Items we've listed down...
Crawl back to us like doting toys
As we run unbound

The crumbled bread soothed with milk
Will win the test of time
And break into the light of the
Wind of change to phase the winter mist
Putting each dime into dime
Turn it into bread n' wine
See you scissor the ribbon of your dreams
That's my Wishlist... and here it begins.