Sunday, April 8, 2007

The Marijuana

A bridal gown you wear,
And peek through the cage
Of self...claiming to be free,
From the cuffs of passing weeks.

Did you break free, or
Sawed your hands?

"Mommy mommy...I won’t
I won’t, let go of my casket the
Undertaker brought,
Don’t lick my sleeping wounds,
I have wolfed to bleed myself".

O you O you...not-so-pretty face,
’wish you had know your abortive kind,
Feeding on the flesh of a neighbor is easy,
Sucking your own isn’t so divine.

Jump and crave, and hail and fire,
You just changed the name of desire,
Writing pretty words is not your story,
Don’t deny the probing hood of satire.

“Did I say narcissism?
Did you puke the "loving" kind?
Were we born to cannibalize the "self"?
Or I just mimed your gory time?"

The Mind Game

There is a garden of fertile soil,
With butterflies and caterpillars in
The dampness of a spring morning...
Some seeds wait in the pile,
Some buds long the touch
Of an early sunrise..

The fish that once was high
On its drunken air,
Now gasps for the drop,
Water took out of its life..

What is a cruel word?
Absent or in satiated?

Lives crawl season by season,
Leaving specks of dirt and flowers
On stations of a nonstop train.

And it continues...

With a shell of disguise worn
On a scarred face, it walks..

And we follow..

Life sleeps into a dream,
Hibernating into a bitter sweet death.

Don’t forget...we are on a nonstop ride.

Figures melt and form,
Oceans crave and die.
Sculptors drown in their emptiness,
With their master pieces spoiled.


Tell me a secret word,
Which hides the writhing heart,
And captures the timelessness
Of just one moment...

Tell me a golden planet,
Where the ivory moon gives
Way to the stars,
Where orbits break to defy gravity,
And vacuum floats.
There is none.

When mirror disguises our shadows,
And the line between sea and shore
Seems clouded...

I await another daze,
Another shower,
Another dive...

I closed the chapter of questions.
The book of answers doesn’t follow me either.

I want to end the episodic encounters,
So that winters and summers leave way
For the shrinking springs.

And one day maybe,
The throbing veins of my skull will
Show me the stagnant sea leaving a
Dead shore.

Too much of reality in question?
Too many deductions you seek?

Keep reading...
Someone just chained you to the
String of lies.