Tattooed Enigma

She sits in front of me

A row away to the right,

Draped in those ebony locks

A vision of cherubic perfection.

She sits over hunching,

Looking from time to time,

Away from ardent page

Where she talks to herself

Through loops of tribal sketches.

Talking of overt authority

And the people’s consent,

And their leaders true

And their killer’s moves,

What spins in your mind?

I ask thee classmate,

Girl with the dragon tattoo.

For it caught my eye

First and foremost,

That snaking shape

That reared grandly

Across her left shoulder,

Swirling from under dress

In one long sinuous curve.

O’ twisting Green Dragon

Why your fierce eyes,

Is that not thine guise?

Do you spurn thy mount,

And yearn for thine skies?

*______________________________*

Meaning What

I’ve heard this before,

Again just now, about

Milling around meaning.

Myopic nomads in desserts

Yearning for better whys.

Myriad hordes through time

Enter this vaunted debate,

Agonising over reason and how

Naught in tales or lives

Inspires great thought or heart,

Never aspires to lofty heights

Going on round the meaning cart.

Admiring hawkers and vendors,

Never seeing the solitary roads

Deep in the market’s twisted lanes.

It’s not pity nor cousin empathy

That stops by my modest house,

Is it disdain then when I see

Swaying drunkards tottering about?

Other vintages just catch my eye

Nothing more and never less.

Learning from growing rocks,

Yielding to the sighs of the unsaid.

Minds opening eyes brightly keen

Imbibing essence from empty cups,

Near the surface, `neath the frothy waves

Easing through seas in my submarine.

*_____________________________________*

Lingering In the Small Hours.

Three have rung since midnight,

My pen paws and waits

As I collect my still friends,

Those quietly yearning thoughts

That meditate and wait,

Till we begin the call to hunt.

Friends and my mates

Away in the distance,

Perhaps by some need,

Have communed, and are

Still on churning walls

That call to webs,

Which stretch net-like

To catch collected feeling.

Over, and down hills

We chase the essence

Of my ticking heart,

My Lady, she so fair

I map every point,

Of her soul on body

That wears it's beauty.

Complexity that beguiles

Yet with no wiles,

Save her I's and My's.

Glen Goyne calls to us

As Baileys raises glass,

But we can't answer.

Constitution of body

Allows not sweet partake,

Of that sublime spirit

Trickling from Emerald Isle,

And my anguished wail

Travels the Highlands.

The silvered packets

Of eight and ten,

Attest my morning elegy.

The cigarette burns

Consumed by intake,

I hold it 'twixt fingers

That casually flick ash,

And then a question.

What smokes me?

Must I rhyme,

Continue my pantomime?

Should this be dropped

And that left behind?

Could I change my ways

To swim in strange streams?

Would I care to listen

That someone writes my dreams?

And I wonder

As I'm wont to do,

Does all end well?

In fire or ice, or

The urinal of want,

In some obscure corner

Of a garbage dump;

Will we find on the floor

Like in bad cups of chai,

The sodden dregs

Of our dreary world?

But now as before

I must content being,

With the songs of redemption

That Jamaican lustily sang.

He who was shot with lead

Still believed and said,

Love and peace my brethren.

*----------------------------------------*

Stirring Emptied Cups

There are birds here

There and now in then,

I can see them

Could watch beaks and eyes,

But then and now still

I can't hear their souls

Or yet perceive flight.

There still be flowers

Here and there,

Sometimes in when,

I could look at them

Can caress their petals,

But now and then

I couldn't smell their being,

Still can't sense their colour.

I sit inside and out there

Having held my empty cup,

I had seen it's clay

And known it's every crease,

I drank from it

Then and till now,

I sip it's subtle content

Here and again will,

In slowing trickles

Spill onto paper,

To begin my wait

For visited reflection.

*-----------------------------*

My Refusal.

Pondering the lay of the world

Witnessing the way of events,

Floating in this listless sea

Do you not feel sick?

Don't you taste that slimy slug

Slithering ooze bold and thick,

As it cloys the world and self

With trails of fiery words, soured emotion

Closing your mouth with it's clammy plug?

Can't you hear that rattle and clink

That follows the slam of drawers,

As clacking keys move vault doors

That clang shut in cavernous sound,

And yet fail to muffle the constant blare

Of the wailing whir of money counters?

Can't you see the vivid smear

Of leering Pride and mounting Ego

That rapes the innocence of good Intention,

While the hustler Greed chalks his cue

And pockets his ball in the left corner,

As he eye's Necessity's deepening cleavage

As she bends over the table clad in sultry red?

Don't you smell the thickening fumes

That rise from the bog of arrogance,

Which bubbles and boils in this heat

With the wafting perfume of lilies,

From crushed petals strewn about,

That swell through the stench of smoke?

Shouldn't you sense, by now,

The corruption of an imperfect ideal

Or the pandering of weaker wills,

Polluting the instance with circumstance

Inviolating the mitigation of damnation?

This is the home stretch, no doubt.

Nearing the future with soft tread,

Ought the blade cleave the mists

While the ploughshare yet exists?

*---------------------------------------------*

Right then, Nobility.

Some time has passed

Since the witching hour began.

And having watched a drama

Of men and empire,

Where Union Jack rode forth,

Pensively I sit

Thinking is his language,

And drinking his scotch.

High in my house, sixteen floors

Keep me from the ground,

I lean out of my window

And look.

To the right,

The dunes of Arabia abound,

The desert that passively saw

The inception of man.

Man who'd tread her sands

And spread to all the earth,

Taking from her fingers

All that she would give, and more.

A loan never recognised

Yet disdained with interest,

Her payment instead

Is spit in her face.

To the left,

Piles of mortar and steel stretch.

Those towers that house

The teeming masses,

That throb and thrive to get

Entry into exclusive comfort,

That now slumber to begin again

that pointless scrabbling,

Perhaps forgetting something

In their dash for success.

For the din of baying hounds

Drowns our ears, and sense

Fails to pierce patented helmets.

In our patented leather jackets

Wearing patented felt boots,

As we hunt that wily fox

Who looks back, all the while

With a wide grin.

But when I turn

Mine eyes below,

Life looks back at me.

Amidst a sea of cars

Parked neatly like bricks,

A lone figure works.

A wet cloth swabs

Testaments to edifice,

For that is what they are,

Removing the grime

From the desert's sands,

Off shiny chrome shells.

Tiring now, he finishes one,

Pushes his cart to the next,

This one's run-down

Old and battered,

But still that man

Took no pause.

With none to oversee,

He cleans that beat up car

That is somebody else's,

And moves to the next.

Should I have looked up,

Away, I would see the floors

Above me, and naught else.

For the night-time halo

Of our civilized world,

Shields our view

Of the sympathetic stars.

*----------------------------*

Stilted Smile

The joyborn free giggles

Of those pig-tailed little girls,

Skips on heat that mingles

To rides humidity's threads.

A flipping coin to those adults,

The plodding resigned sods

Who waver between laughs

And tears.

House, park, carnival or life;

the background is an oblivious spectator

To sundry puppet shows of motley souls,

Celebrating humanity, that mimics convention.

Adrift , bereft of barbed anchors, I watch,

From the solitary island of mind.

My being stares out at the breakwaters,

Unsure of the sea-foam, it's salty sting.

I wish, I would that I had seven-foot legs.

From silence, dragged from the thought,

I hear click-clacking of wood on tile.

And through the pell-mell world world,

Wades a lone stilt-walker

Ploughing on with seven-foot legs,

Walking on a here that's somewhere else.

His blue coat-tails swish ducking heads,

Under red top hat, I wonder where his is.

Stilt-walker, on your wooden feet.

O' Stilt-walker, what do you see?

People ooh their dawning ahhs,

Laughing at the gangly figure

With the odd gait and toed knees.

They collect all their mewling herd

To clutch to cling to the ends,

While shutter-bugs flit and flame

Until the final frame is clicked.

Then without even passing thought

The moths fly, buzzing away,

To the nest shiny draw.

Stilt-walker, on your wooden feet,

Stilt-walker, with your painted face,

O' Stilt-walker, what crosses your mind?

The hesitant clouds are numbered,

Their choice is made for them

And they disperse before the onslaught

Of that resplendent Mr. Noon,

As his goring rays will the mulling crowd

To seek shelters of shade and fan.

I see him unthinkingly shrug

And shuffle to lean on kind wall,

He pulls himself to his throne

Slowly stretching his reaching shanks,

He pulls out a yard of black cloth

That wipes a sweat-logged face,

And undoes those cutting straps

That gaspingly free yearning feet,

And grimaces, straining to bend,

To wearily rub aching toes.

I see the flash of artifice

Turn into a silhouette,

Of a man.

Stilt-walker, on your wooden feet,

Stilt-walker, with your painted face,

Stilt-walker, wearing your stilted smile,

O' Stilt-walker, what do you feel?

*-----------------------------------*

Overture : A Tribute to Neil Gaiman

The pen's whirling dance,

It's twenty-six step tango on page

Revels truth, in what the mind could be,

And folly, in only what the heart see's.

That sensual movement of emotion's finger

Drawing designs on intellect's chest,

Where each lingering stroke is, and

Has purpose, beyond creation.

Lost in transalation, lost in spell

The couple moves cheek to cheek,

dancing on the beaches of infinity

Leaving us their footsteps to read.

For in their wake, if one could see,

One would realise the hands of Destiny.

Thumbing through the truths in his tome,

The card dealer of the ultimate game.

They exist too in Dream's dominion

He who whispers them to meld his power.

The ruler of ephemeral allthought

Where if, and could, then we would.

They bear the brand of Desire,

That scintillating, bemusing spoor.

It, that's pawing shell ever grows,

It that resides in every living heart.

Sifting through them one can find

That wafting musk of Despair,

She who lurks in every shadow

That enters her grey-scale halls.

Some have sprung from Delight,

She who skips in every laugh.

She, who has no rules to joy,

Playing hide-seek in glass forests.

They've wandered Deliriums desert's,

Trudging through her fractured domain,

Under half dripping suns, stopping by

The inquiry booth by the White Rabbit.

They resound of Destruction's rage,

Whose solemn dirge breaks worlds.

He who lusts for the end of each, all,

He, who divines the last fall.

At the end of their slow waltz,

The whistling wind settles down.

And as flying hair veils meeting lips,

There is the sound of Her great wings.

And there is Death.

*-----------------------------------------*

Where I Am.

Lying on patchy carpets of sandy green,
The day-kissed sky enfolds existence,
In breezes of willowy white fingers,
As for that moment, I live and write.

Reverie broken by mulling disbelief,
I turn my face to the gathering milieau,
Of bellowing seagulls, that clamour to seek,
The cause for my reticient positivity.

The world's orchestra, it's unseen maestro,
Sibilantly provide the fuel and purpose.
Or so they caim, and secure a herd hold
Over sodden skies, flying under the horizon.

The seaspray drives me to different currents,
That lead me through riptides to darkest abyss.
My sea floor is fathoms deeper, it's surface
Scattered with far older thoughts.

The happiness of sheep, in itself,
Contends contentedly with chewing cud.
My happiness is a many wondered thing,
Bright sides offset by darker understanding.

Innocence intrinsic in a baby's smile,
Enters the world to faith's benediction, and
Fundamentalism's twnty-one gun salute,
That slowly seep into that ideal, in stacatto.

Progress is a feverish snail crossing quagmire,
Of blotchy indistinct tragedies, that ferment
On certain curtains that conceal, the world,
The end. So the politicians mote it be.

The dead's bodies have become horses,
That causes whip the mileage out of.
Love is now neatly shelved, orderly labelled,
By the middle-age virgin librarian that is society.

Rebels without cause strive for resonance,
Floundering in individual meaning's deep pond.
Those who come after, looking at us through glass,
Are future's illusions regarding dead pasts.

That which lies beyond a grasping mind,
Further hindered by self's choking smog,
Is relegated to the gates of nothingness,
Which are thought to open, but never do.

So smile, laugh and love, in ignorance-
We are the punchline of a cosmic joke.
And yet, I am Jonathan Livingstone,
Seagull, and so much more.

*----------------------------------------------*

Deceptively Good Roads

Back when we yet haunted caves,
huddling around meagre fires,
Peering past the mouth of security,
Didn't we wonder what was beyond?

Seeing mountains, didn't we wish bigger?
Hearing bird song, didn't we fantasize better?
Sensing an end, didn't we hop faster?
Tasting failiure bemoaning we weren't stronger?

When the night's quiet was eviscerated,
By some jungle's feral manifestation,
Feeling an almost tangible caress over our jugular,
Didn't we pray for four walls?

Wrapped in pallid straw, straining to ignore
The garrulous meetings of stomach lining,
Crawling to escape the world's accusing glare,
Didn't we beg for deliverance, even a mirage?

But as Time sashayed through history,
The road improved. With only the rare
Pothole to cross, we put down the pedal,
Ignoring damage to chassis and soul.

Civilization's girders lined the roadsides,
Along our fast lane. We laughed,
Accepting and ignoring the illusuion of others,
We sang a myriad groaning tone.

The drunken sun had staggered west,
Shadows kept gettting darker and deeper,
The further we ventured into Civilization,
The sketchy horizon barrenly stretched.

An inherant sense warily perused our direction,
Disturbed, we paused to confirm our bearing.
Pointing bent sextants at daylit skies,
Hope becomes a wet finger waiting for fair wind.

Turning to a broken billboard for relief,
We pee on tattered corroded paper that
Show helping hands being viciously spurned,
Could we concieve, that we took a wrong turn?


*--------------------------------------------*

Prelude

The wily blank page almost took me
But let go, and bested me in disdain.
Dissonantly, I retreat to the yawning trenches,
Sliding, into that grim muted throb.

Inside, the ones wear matte grey gas masks.
Festering wounds and twisted bones
Ignored, as a field of eyes swings towards me,
A bulb flashed, and in every eye I saw me.

Peering past ghostly smoke, I turn to tread
Over pulsing embers, alongst gutted corridors.
Through holes above, the broken hulk of edifice looms,
As footsteps in ashes of hubris mark my path.

In grimy half darkness I grope my way,
Past littered broken things and jagged edges,
Stumbling through the clawing pregnant vacuum
Until I reach the end, that thrice-damned wall!

Sickened by complacent defeat, lethargic spirit,
With last vestige of breath, I beat against
The iron vileness that chokes the multitude of words,
They who create and people my world.

Battered hands shatter unyielding indifference,
Until it cracks, and expression trickles forth!
My war cry melds with the growing storm of sound,
As the legions of words leap the barricade.

And riding the crest of that omnipotent wave,
Enraptured, I am become a forge!
Flinty ideas become the iron-tipped arrows
Which desecrate the vaunted halls of apathy.

Pages fly, ink spills and broken words die,
Until The page kneels under my bladed nib.
The melody of word song fills the world,
And something new, shoots from the bullet holes.


*-----------------------------------------------*

Hypocrisy of The Ironic Type

Rampant humidity races down spines,
The world is cooking, doused in sweat wine.
Life on the street ignores the life-giver, the life-taker,
an irritation like the lingering words of their maker.

Cars barrel through streets helter-skelter,
People thrum on roadsides seeking sole shelter.
Pushing carts, hawking ware, needs must be met,
In this democratic utopia with no place for the inept.

The good people of society move on with their lives,
Tax-paying beings wallowing in their important lies.
Not terrorists, not rapists, nor hippies still,
Hurting nobody they expect to pay heaven's bill.

Naturally, adhering to the statutes of society,
The best of humanity understands propriety.
And sitting on the corner, used to carrying weight,
Our fit law men police the rules of the state.

But standing forgotten by state and people,
A beggar cries hoarsely under a church steeple.
Calling across lanes of whizzing death, his shaking hand
Cups two rupees, for a samosa garnished with grit and sand.

By him, salary men on bikes laugh and joke,
Ignoring the beggar man as he croaks and chokes.
Loving parents indulge daughters' whims for new dolls,
But still none care to heed the poor old man's calls.

Untill one man, casually clad, stud in one ear,
Crosses the road for him with genuine cheer.
He buys eight and gives the lot, with change,
To a tearful old man, who is misery's sage.

The man blushes with the elder's benediction,
And ponders over the vaunted social condition.
How is it that the good people didn't care to see,
Ignoring the old man in favour of puffs and tea?

When it took a man on the fringes of law,
Possessing illegal green leaves, he still saw
Past the shaking hands, the old man's temerity,
Walking away thinking of man's hypocrisy.

X-------------------------------------------------X

Stirring of Dark Purpose

Awakening light crept into the murky depths,
Wary of the monsters that in the darkness slept.
Every footfall the resounding knell of a church bell,
Ringing into the darkness, stirring things dark and fell.

Glinting eyes open in their sunken depths,
A terrible visage where brooding malevolence slept.
Cold eyes survey their domain, assessing all in sight,
A dark shape shifts in the gloom, a predator steps into the light.

Even a glance or mere glimpse of its hideous features,
Would make stout hearts recoil in mortal dread.
Certainly, this character is unique amongst all creatures,
Laughing, as it rips it's prey to the last stitch and shred.

Ruthless, intelligent, it hungers. To stay above the sordid rest,
Deceit, larceny, murder are child's play, merely a fool's jest.
No mere wolf cub but demon incarnate in sheep's guise,
Amongst flocks Lady Luck did not favour with her dice.

Judge, jury, executioner; if choice were his he would be all,
The World his whore, who he rapes, mashing pretty face into wall.
He would hold sway over the masses of weaker minds,
Equals, if any, would be laid to rest, broken from behind.

Be preacher, sinner, laymen; all clamour to his siren voice,
Mesmerised, instinct lulled by the illusion of choice.
And conquered by the intricacies of his web, they are caught,
Willingly they ignorantly skip to slaughter they unwittingly bought.

Pleasant contemplation fades and reality snaps back in,
If there is need to satiate one's greed, one must wade in sin.
Spirituality is no concern, his black soul already rust stained,
The innocent warm light of the human spirit long long waned.

No qualms, no doubts, no regrets to tell,
The fires of his mind fuelled by the oil-wells of hell.
Wallowing by hedonistic fire, content, the creature basks,
And prepared, ever-ready, the monster dons it's sculptured mask.

And steeped in direst cunning and guile,
He greets the neighbour with a good morning
And a smile...

____________________________________________________________

.... Yes. Fear me.

After an aeon, finally! Another quote!

"Million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten."

I dont know who came up with that one, but its brilliant! Take that pessimists!

Fleeting Thoughts of Summer

Sounds of friends filled the summer noon,
Boisterous laughter, floods of teasing, every one a loon!
Once 't'was said no man's an island. Certainly, true
Everyone must have their own motley crew.

Turning from the fun, I turn to the sun and sky,
But t'was not one, but two that greeted my eye!
Dark clouds stormed forth, clashing with baby blue,
Rumbling, heralding rain, on swift Hermes' wings they flew.

Yet, the darkening gray, the fading blue, both were untainted,
Melding with the rest of the pallet, subtle hues they painted.
The mind's eye, tinted with shades of imagination,
Create a painting of all-embracing fascination.

Awe gave way to joy as I felt the first drop of rain,
I join my friends, enjoying the fleeting moments without refrain,
Twirling, dancing, the mood in the air was precious, rare!
Truly, its for moments like this, that this life we dare.

In reflection, if such moments can move men's hearts,
And we can appreciate the beauty of nature's greater art,
Why can't we see the beauty in other people? For it is bountiful,
If and when, only then will our world be truly beautiful.

The Wizard's Keep Pt. 1

The night was dark. The air hung with sodden weight.
Ominous, the sky darkened. Storm clouds brewed o’er head
The wind reared anew, a slashing disheartening edge,
Running amok in the crags, scented with pine and wolf.

The looming spires quicken hearts in every chest,
Nestled amongst the clouds, where eagles eyries nest.
‘Midst these forbidding peaks, rising stark and steep,
Old Mydraxxis lurks, lurks in the Wizard’s Keep.

Ages long past, from these dark gates he boldly strode,
Unchallenged, omnipotent! Across all lands he rode.
No King, neither Captain nor Mage could pretend,
To possess the power to make Mydraxxis, onto his knees, bend.

Dram Styrden, the undefeated ‘Sword of The East’,
‘Twas by the Wizard’s hands that his saga ceased.
The Wolves of Cyrrem, one legion, a hundred battles, not one fatality,
Mydraxxis, staff in hand, taught them mortality.

The fair Sorceress Evelin, feared scion of the Faerie Tower,
Even her magicks quailed before the Wizard’s power.
Aeons and Empires, both lived and died as he deigned,
From atop the Wizard’s Keep, Mydraxxis reigned.

Day saw him engaged, consumed, in the Art’s toils.
Night, saw him partake in his vast spoils,
In his Wizard’s Keep, rising stark and steep,
Heralding a new day, laviscious glee! As gentle souls weep’d.

Time passed, the weight of ages his strength drained,
The Wizard’s Keep, the Black Tower! It’s name waned.
So compelled by time, into the obscure backwaters of history,
Mydraxxis retreated into his keep, cloaked in folds of mystery.

Merciless, the world left him in the past,
Along with the Wizard’s Keep, and all its sorry cast.
But in his chamber, Mydraxxis sat, waited staff in hand,
Wreathed in magick, praying, waiting for his last stand.

Seasons of Love

Spring

Washed clean the world sparkles.
The birds dance and sing,
As I tuck a flower behind your ear.

Summer

Energetic, the sun bears down on all,
Quick! Come sit by me in the shade!
Lest our ice-cream melts!

Fall

Colours fade, heralding winter.
The days die younger,
While there is time, come let us frolic in the sun.

Winter

Winter thieves rob the world’s warmth.
The old year fades away, leaving with grace,
Snuggle up to me as we wait for the new one.

Rip Van Winkle Move Over!!

Hello world! Good Lord! Its been a long time since I once again visit these portals! Almost a year! Wow, that is a long ass time, especially on the net! But I vsit them anew, transformed. I am not the boy that was, but am ... someone who is one the path to becoming the man he will be. Old timers would read this sort of stuff and say, "Hah! Been there done that!", but for me the wonder of it all is searingly new, and the eventual realization of self will mould my future.

But then again, I cannot say that 'I' have a future. The 'I' that I was, is now part of a 'We'. Yes Ladies and Gents, I have found The one. The one person who would complete me, who would balance me, who would help me metamorphose into 'My' self; and I have found her. She made me realise actually how sad I was... Well lets not get into that. The bottom line is that she makes me happy, happier than I`ve ever been before. She doesn't need to conciously try to distract me, just a glance is enough! She`s beautiful, intelligent, witty, funny, whacky, nutty, kind, caring, loving, idealistic, fascinating(I can use a lot more adjectives here! Way too many to describe her!)ang out; everything! Its so crazy! Whatever I can concieve of doing, I want her to be there to experience it as well, and also to simply be there.

I love her. The Daughter of The Night, my pretty little lady...

Reflections On A Dying Age

Dawn brought with it a day beautiful and bright,
It calls me to revel in the light. Ah! Life, what a beautiful sight!
But I know that this is but a curtain, as black clods garner my brow.
I cannot see beauty, lost as I am in thoughts of despair and sorrow.

I know the course of life sometimes runs into troubled waters,
It's just not nice how troubles pile up when it most matters.
But there is no use in talking, the time is far past, now we sit and whine,
And we are to blame, in our world trouble is but too easy to find.

Dusk has set on the old ways, they are dying on cue.
'Tis only natural, times pass calling for the old to make way for the new.
And as the scythe-wielding, black-robed figure lays his bony hand on our shoulder,
I wonder, in the shadows of what comes, do the fires of chaos smoulder?

We are casting off all our life-lines, delibrately, one by one,
The blackness grows deeper, will we ever again live in the sun?
Forget the much desired utopia of philosopher`s ken,
We cannot achieve it, as we are now, given the nature of men.

'Lest we stop and look inside, to try and change ourselves,
We will be neatly stacked in a file, along with other failiures, on the backshelves.
It won't be easy, for us there will be no convenient end-all cure,
The truth is: what must, will endure.

This formula is for Havoc Nights!!

" A good friend is one who will come pick you up from the lock-up the
day after.

A best friend is one who will be sitting next to you saying "Damn! That was fun! "
- A best friend.