cracks

He laughed
Sudden,unforseen,unfanthomed
a happy uneventful laugh

and noone saw it,expect the crack in the wall
a slight,unassuming,ugly little crack
Almost dignified in it's incompleteness

almost wistful.
And then no one saw the tears
mild,salty and fresh.something caved in?

the nakedness of the skin
and the coldness of the polished floor
Lying there he smiled and cried

smiling at the ugly crack
almost dignified
almost wistful.

and crying at the word 'almost'.
A cruel word.A cruel world

Where?

A boy called Ash grew up to be a man named nothing in particular, everything in general. People called him
by all names under the sun, some profane, some profound.

Where is Ash now?

What is Ash, now?

light my fire

The strange darkness beckons me.And I am once again losing the slippery grip I have on my mind.It treads me softly into spaces which promise beauty and silence and what stares at me is the stillness of graveyards and beauty of decay.The smooth,curvaceous movement of my fingers across the nothingness of universe,just underscores the delusion of my own worlds.Worlds which I create to hide myself.But the very reassuring darkness which is my saviour from the blinding light,turns a monster.A monster out to devour me,but is toothless.So it claws and scars.Impotent attempts at mutilation,transforming into rich tapestry of complex beauty and a billboard of personal tribulations.I feel like a demi-God.Distant and sad,looking at the perversion of something which was exquisite at the inception.
The skin on my cheekbones,as i touch it,seem taut.It's very papery.Very thin I mean.Maybe the cheekbones are prominent and it's quite like the hard boney reality I seem to always stumble upon,beneath the soft exterior.There are no grand delusions though.The cold aloofness of stars in the sky and the warmth of the people around,seem twin-like.It's a beautiful word this.Twin-like.Mirror-images.Just inverted and complexed.And the sudden streaks of crimson dreams are nothing but the vanity of a lost child.Lost not in the crowd from here he cannot find his way back,but lost in the aloneness from where there is no way out.A chruch bell might ring someday and the thousand candles might light someday.Till then it's going to be very difficult.

diary entry

I wrote something in my diary last night.It was read by the doctor,which was a breach of the privacy contract.But it was actually my fault,I left the diary in the open.I certainly didn't like her reading my diary and my demonstrations of rage are kinda acute.I was taken to the punishments today.My head feels tight and electric.I want to lick that feeling.Want to taste it.Electric taste on the tongue.Many colors in the brain.Am i getting any saner.I hope to God I am.Now i'll shut up and let my diary speak.

I always find myself giving too much of myself away,too much of the negative in my character... And also of that which I may perceive to be more "charming" in my illusion but really isn't all that... And when this"charm" is hence disproven I'm left feeling like a moron, but even worse, I feel revealed. As if my best,most natural efforts at entertaining have failed.
People know too much about me, and of my quirks...Sometimes I feel as if there's nothing left to reveal,no further substance. As if I am what I am and it's my all, but it's so shallow, empty. I feel as if I'm a baby's wading pool, small and ridiculous beside your ocean.

blow

Wizzing past the lonely highway
of the murderous intent of my porcelain skin
where the scars of angst
sit pretty,laughing a deadly laugh.
Scattered they croon,an acient tune
underneath the tightness of skin
and reminds me of the ocean in Tasmania
where the green eyed sea monsters
devour the catholic greed and warriors
of the tribal mutiny lay scattered
warriors of courage;a lovely reminder
of the days gone past
And now the spaciousness of my hollowness
reverbrate and shout
purple eyed and bruised,I listen to the music
of your dream and your doubts
and wish for closeness,a proximity of moist
and the eye,mist on a windowsill,darkness and the skies
A flick of the switch and the lights turn on
the empty room looks all the more monstrous
the sound of 'checks' shrill and high
the waves of nothingness engulf
the blackness of fate bleeds tar
and dizzy brain and senseless I write this poem.

In the end.

So free,and so unwound
an intoxicated butterfly,waiting
in measured heaves
the passing of breaths.flash,flash,flash

My world seems a series of unthought reactions. How often do we think upon what we do as we're doing it?For me, I scarcely think beforehand either. Only after. Don't get me wrong, I frequently ponder on the future and feel concern, apprehension, wonder and even on some rare occasions, awe and excitement at those things which it might entail... However I don't often think out my actions before embarking upon them. The rest belongs to my dream world of idealism and the wayI'd LIKE for things to be in what I personally consider the IDEAL = finalised state. But I barely if ever take the time to consider the practical implications and hard work necessary, and those times during which I do, (fleetingly), I often feel altogether overwhelmed by the concept and incapable of the responsibilities living idealistically demands.And then there are the neverending loopholed traps one can so easily fall into: self-righteousness,egocentricity borne of pseudo selflessness, a holier than thou complex of condescending implications...

It's all too easy to give up and say fuck it, isn't it? When everyday runs into a long night before awakening to new vibrance and inspiration. Inspirationis only ever short-lived, and we must remain for the most part in the dark. It is in the darkness that we learn most. And by enduring the dark we gain the capacity for endurance... The longevity needed to accomplish dreams.

Don't we?

Breathing, a measured science
the butterfly flaps it's wings,heralding dawn
a neverending mystery of colors
vibrancy dies an unnoticed death.clap,clap, clap.

Blood petals

It was a bruise
a long scar flashing across the wrist
crimson with blood
dirty with dirt and laughing with mock
The sadness on my face

wasn't due to the wound,visible
A lopsided sadness,fixed and immutable
like ridges in stone
or a lash across the wrist.
The flower petals of love wilting

under the scorch of the sun
dried and ancient,they look beautiful
slightly nostalgic,profoundly amnesic
a paint dried canvas
Almost bored with blood

I wipe the hand clean
A smude leaves a trail,reminiscent
of footprints on the shore,waiting
to be swept away
with the salty waters of the ocean

or tears,
whichever drowns me first.

I eat the lotus

Sometimes I am wondering where is the youthful energy that my age should have?It has vanished or it never was?I think it never was,not atleast the energy which would make me 'enjoy' the shit I was doing just to feel the happiness for a moment.Or maybe I was born with a different vibrational setup.A certain frequency which vibes only with the absoluteness of things and of the grandeour of the beyond.The eartly things have become too banal for me.Maybe impure is the word.I seek purity.And while I am burdened with the fact that I carry a pure core and I have tried my best to scar my periphery,thats my only hope as well.The Alchemy concept is beautifully poetic resemblance.The fire of the collective self-destruction over the years have all melted the baser metals in me.The shining gold is what I hide in my core.Maybe it's a shinning star I hide in my starless heart skies.In the tumultuous waves of my emotion upheavals,it's the star thats should guide.The lonesome star fumbles and takes me to the depths of rage,emotions over reason and jealousy at the people who can think rationaly and can dissect the subtleties of life with ease.I am hurt by ambition and drive.Because I lack it.I never had it.And now the barreness of me angers me.The chains of past bound me and the futility of breaking myself free drains me.No words,no medicines,no therapies seem to help me.I want to help myself.I can't.I will once again wear the mask of 'I am okay,don't waste yer time tellin me otherwise' or maybe the mask of indifference which always works,when I am with people.There are times when I have tried to lower the mask and show my real self.Most don't seem to notice it.Maybe they intentionally don't want to see it.It makes me feel ugly and the 'indifference' mask always brings the response that I am cool.Underneath I seethe.They say I am cool.What irony,what paradox.Maybe I chose the wrong people.But why most times I feel that I am wrong.Intrinsically.Except the core.And the tension is the core.The muck is all around,it's the small lotus which makes the prescence of muck disgusting.Rationally it seems easier to wipe away the lotus.But I love it,I want it to stay.I shall suffer.I am getting back into my 'I am cool' stance.I am wearing the mask again.So all those who want to preach 'duh!!'.

My Diary Entries

Aug 1 2005

We dissipate in rainbow dreams, our colours merge and
multiply. Like diamond stains and crystal tears we fly
and flourish, live and die.

Aug 9 2005

There are sentiments echoed relentlessly by me; by my
container. What contains these little universes? And
the pourous black holes that eat me or transport me to
new endarkened perspectives.

No you can't get to me
Freudian blackholes which i gaze
everynight,sitting under the skies
of mortar and shadowy lights

No you can't get to me.
Even if you might,amidst
the rubble of the ashen remains
waits the resounding hollowness

of love spinning velveteen dreams
silken,luxuriant like a soft lullaby
and the warm lips of a seductress hinting
a touch of wine a shade of blood,

and the iron grip which Mother Mary
had on baby Jesus.
But you still can't get me
No you won't.

An insufferable sigh passes the wickedness
of the night into nothingness
and lying awake in the aftermath
are the eyes of someone who
still clings to the notion that
they can't get him.

They won't.Won't they?

Mock

Harmless,is that what you think?
A fireflying ; quivering and breathing low
almost dead on the porcelain
criss cross of the hand.
Harmless.Maybe trivial.
There are no requiems
no hymns and no mourners
And so I mourn for the little light angel

Sweeping in a violent emotion
the crystal bowl shines a mocking smile.
Hark! it says
"Death consumes the fire of everyone.
And lifeless,lightless and faceless she died.
What tortures might have snuffed
her glistening body into weightless,
formless and senseless contour
which rises to meet the heaven."

The cruel bowl shall die into million pieces
the insolence of his truth humilates
and enrages me
A beautiful monster that mocks the deaths
is so fragile against a sudden
jerk of my hand.
Laughter
Crash!
death!
Silence.

Now I have three dead
Firefly,crystal bowl and his impertinence