The surface

Had I any other way to put this, I wouldn’t

Of all the ways one can embrace to be

The most impactful is our necessity

Of eachother, of no one outside of ourselves

 

The more the words, the less concentrated the meaning

What good is expression? If it narrows down doors that should’ve welcomed, all minds, all sorts

Of integration, in this disintegration

Call me. I probably won’t pick up

 

The danger isn’t in disagreement, it lies in our bereavement

Would you walk with me till your feet are sore?

What if I told you the journey has nothing to do with physicality?

Mind-fuck

 

And just as I’m about to rediscover the pieces of the puzzle

I am no longer intrigued by what I can’t shuffle, with my own hands

The lesser beings of a man, surround the profound errors of his ways

Concluding with the One and Only

 

The surface signals towards internal state, time and again

The hollower the guitar, the more the senses raise, in retrospect

The size of a melon, the tapping of the knuckles on its skull to predict taste

None but ourselves can hit bull’s eye without first imagining the dartboard with our instincts

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Tangles

I’m wide awake, yet working on autopilot

These generic modes we delve into, the aftermath so specific

 

Fierce is he who wanders through the jungle, and becomes civilized

Coward, who crucifies the Holy for not handling the beast within

 

I am talking to that one person that might just listen

If he understands, it’s as I’m talking to the world entire

On behalf of all those that mean the same, only in different tones

Language and sight a barrier to those that seek what they have lost

Don’t they know, boomerangs are knives wanting to slit

The pure?

 

Protect me from this, crusader

Your cause has won, but you have lost of me, what empties the secrets in the mud

As they reveal themselves to the rain

 

She will walk as walking is done, subtly

They will see not where she came from, nor where she is going

But the meaningless meaningful stingings that have staggered along the way

 

It might just take a minute

But all your life has lead you to that one minute

Days pass like they were nothing

Then why do some things stay eternal?

 

You are a shape unsizeable

You hold volumes uncountable, in your mystery

I wish I could leave off on a simpler note

How could I? Knowing that these tangles will only unfold when I understand the purpose of complexity

Jaguar without print

Bone on a boneless structure, skeleton-less

Toys lie on a floor, where children walk barefoot no more.

Kites in the middle of rain, flew high

And each drop pierced through them making our eyes wet.


Fate decides, we shall meet in between the wondering

‘I would if I could, but I can’t so I shan’t’; excuses

Miles and miles afar, I see a shadow cornering another shadow

And my mannequins’ signature from afar, letting strings pull an inward war


I’m six feet tall, and I feel six feet empty

I have pale skin, like a jaguar without print

Although you, entwining hair, knotted voice

‘Let some light into that cavern, its already a fire ablaze’

Forming a mirage of waves that speak your name,

temporary fame,

What a shame


Chords of wisdom, dividing a dead end street with a transparent wall

With art, that meant graffiti could now portray what print didn’t

And what reflected back, was us in a crystal,

I have never seen anything as fragile, as ego within ego


Superstitions, like standing beneath an apple tree with your hands open

With a prayer, hoping for some juice

Blame luck, destiny, karma; for a rotten one

There’s a worm in between, a curse through the years

A small one, your root to ungratefulness

None falling; God conspiring against you


The thing is, believer of the skies

You could have reached it yourself with a climb, a stick or a stone, which ever, whenever

Yet, instead, you were like the jaguar without print,

Who thought it was no jaguar at all

Who didn’t roar, who didn’t speed when prey approached

And so it became prey itself

A half filled glass of liquor in a coffee shop…

The world is fine

If people wanted to see only the things they wanted to comprehend
They wouldn’t have to go to theaters
Dumpsters would’ve sufficed

My mind
Taking photographs

Staring long enough at a distant shore
Until it reminds me of
the times I discard
Tragedy for comfort
and memory, for bliss

The most forgotten things
Swirl at their own fade
And yet
They run
Towards a spiral
That sucks their age
Only to make them
Younger again

It’s like a cloud that eats another cloud
Because it found itself irresistible
Tasted like cotton candy
But
Puked itself away
Only to
Scatter in the midst
Of pieces
Of its own flesh

Or maybe
A chair that didn’t want to be sat on
Because it was tired of kissing backs

Or fragrance
That didn’t want to be wasted
On odor of the most repulsive kind

Why do people
Have to repaint
What was painted over well at first?
Guess the need to maintain an image
with another image
onto another
makes people think, you have a dynamic personality
And that’s how master pieces are judged
‘Look, I made this mess
Into another mess
So you could see yourself in it
And stare in awe at your own reflection’

Ink
Was tired
Of pouring itself over pure sheets
And wasting itself over rotten thoughts
As if they ever benefited, the need to avoid silence
It wanted
The writers’ fingers
To dip in it
And rub a blot
Over a nose
That had forgotten the smell
Of his own ideas

Could you really
Trip on shoes you wore
two sizes big?
Than why
Do you untangle
Hair
That wants to be braided?

It takes a second heart
To rip a chest wide
And be more
But we gain what we risk
At jeopardy

It’s a twisted thought
A needle
On masses
Of communications
Controlling the whole circuit!
Turn it one way
And only one channel sings
Turn it another
And another hits a home run
Turn it up
And they want it off
Turn it low
Cover your ears
Tell them
Its the signals
that don’t work
The world is fine
The world is fine.