To.
Tag Archives: Imagine
Ashes of the Asylum
Even the benevolent breeze
spares the scattered ashes
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls.
They told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see are the dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree.
The birds cannot rest,
the dogs are dying of heat
and I can’t write my poems,
for I was a patient of that asylum,
it caressed my sanity every evening.
My poems have nowhere to go,
they don’t hide in the branches as they used to,
now they hide within me
and I hide inside them.
Hershey’s
It is the death of light,
no one mourns.
artificial corpses
of plastic and white
reanimate the dead.
vapors of warm air
caress us.
Our souls
have returned back
through their
meaningless voyages.
We lie down, naked.
and entertain the ceiling fan.
Your breasts have a thousand
ways of loving me
yet they lie still,
We are drowned in unseen realities.
I spread Hershey’s all over you,
from lips to wondrous thighs.
I start from lips.
You tremble like a mutilated animal.
I kiss your cleavage.
You tempt me like the morning sun.
I lick your nipples.
You abhor the wait as grasses do for the warm rain.
Minutes grows to hours,
as you take my hands between your legs.
For you turn to God.
the one who abolishes time.
Revering the satanic touch
of the person who once disavowed
the warm body of yours.
At Last – Ballad.
The Mirrors tremble by the winds,
the beginning of the ends draw near,
with footsteps, she slithers in the mansion
lighting all the beautiful chandeliers.
A hymn echoes out of nowhere
and my bones now shiver with dread.
For I do not see even a shadow in sight
But I do smell her lips crome-red.
I pray to all the gods,
the very ones, I once disavowed.
For a death that would be a blessing,
for the heart that was once too proud.
Lightning pierces the dry bark of the trees,
the fire leaves the poor animals aghast,
She laughs at me finally in a veil of white terror,
and I meet her in this afterlife at last.
Confluence
Come have a peek,
these doors of the heart
don’t open by themselves.
Mind the rust,
for some thoughts died quickly
oxidized by the stinking air
of negativity.
They never passed through the heart.
Mind the accumulated dust,
for some thoughts entered and suffocated,
sadly turned to ashes
without even tasting the blood.
Their resurrection is impending.
Mind the mystic music,
for it heals and unifies a few chosen thoughts,
here they mate and produce the progeny of an image,
which I paint with my palette of words.
Mind the warm divine river.
On its bank, I stand and paint the image,
with the air caressing my hair and
the wet grass below my feet.
The Confluence of above all,
is what you are reading,
is what I offer everyday
to the gods and mortals
who I meet in the path
of my destiny.
Taste the Light
With every dream
of those strange colored icicles
and those unimaginable caves.
From the survivals and fallouts
from those painfully realistic
nightmares
and the drowning of the entire
sub-structure of it, in the whole of rum,
to rage against the dying night.
We have flooded the brain,
indebting it of our memories.
it is a sky now, so full of fireworks
it seems like floating nebula of dust and light.
Don’t let it suffocate.
Don’t let a genocide kill what you imagine.
Write and let the light taste the paper.
like it should.
*Rage against the dying night taken from Dylan Thomas’s Poem of the same name*
Being Truly Alone.
My Love,
You have never been alone,
Sitting in an empty house
watching the rain shouldn’t make
you lonely, It should make you complete.
I remember the painter
who waited all evening
for people to visit his gallery.
No one did.
He closed the lights and shutter
himself.
He was truly alone.
I remember the singer
who played this afternoon in the
bar I was drinking.
No Damned Soul was listening to him
still, he played his best.
He was truly alone.
I remember the gentle foreigner
who drank beer at the table next to me.
At the very end, out of blur
he gave up and sought a corner
to call someone. He might have talked
for half an hour.
He was truly alone.
While I read the book,
sipped beer and wrote this poem.
yes, I was truly alone.
Writings to Heaven 