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Sylvian Tears

By Tehreem Ali

Copyright 2018 Tehreem Ali

Smashwords Edition


Smashwords Edition, License Notes


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SYLVIAN TEARS


















For Sylvia Plath,

Thank you for never leaving my mind and soul, for staying in touch from the great beyond. Thank you forever more for showing me the way. I only write because you’re the voice within me that will not be still.








































Sylvian Tears


I have cut them out - all my pictures

Of your children growing in bedlam.

They do not heed, they chop

My phrases and spread them in

Your chest drawer.

Should I clean it?


Each day I am learning how to

Write in a colour matching

Your aura. But your grave

Dug so deep, it yearns

For blood.

They’ll label me a necromancer.


To make this a pentameter or not -

Does it even matter?

The pillars holding my mind surely

Aren’t five. I remember the times

They cut the threads holding up

Your mind; one by one, no pillars.


Those claiming to be my mothers

And fathers, axes in their hands

Strike at the pillars holding my mind up.

Now that my spinal cord is falling,

They complain.

They will have my tears of you.


A big black shoe - our house.

It floods every now and then,

With these tears.

When the resurrected you will knock

At my greasy door,

Them tears will be your first drink.















Clumsy Bones


My forefathers live in my hand lines,

Even though

Some are broken. But their

Smiles aren’t.

Once I left my questions

At their front porch.

They fed them to their cats;

Ghost cats still trailing behind me.


I fell in love with the moon

Eyes closed.

I consider him flawless therefore.

Each time a human hears

The moon’s scars howling,

They tie me at the noose

And send me to the moon.

I forgot my first-aid kit again.


Falling from the moon’s doorstep into

My motherless mother’s womb, it

Diluted my dreams.

Now Kurt’s gun is

The only seed that my motherless womb

Can nurture and grow in it.

Don’t wonder why I don’t lift your baggage.

Guns protrude from these bones.























How to Eat Mirrors


Do you know the way? Can you

Direct us to the edge

Of a cliff above the dead sea?

My fingernails lie under the roots.


The roots there never go; only a catapult of shadows have made their houses there. None of them know my name, yet they knock my door, begging for food.


My mothers pulled on my arms in a tug-of-war;

I cannot write anymore, chopped wrists.

If I put a steel bandage on, will you still love me?

Love the chaos we have become, love the

Nacreous tongues they lie to me with.

So many liars around, I lost count.


I opened up my throat.

You opened up your sternum.

The shadows came singing their

Way in. In you and me they reside.


From their entrance points, those shadows

Have now spread.

As we spot out poetry from our fingertips,

They fall on our pages.

This genre they labeled gothic.

So we eat mirrors hoping

In dire pits, these mirrors

Are trying to chop them shadows within us.




















The Figure Behind the Glass Door



There is a glass door

Behind which my words are trapped.

The sea is all around.

It can do nothing -

Neither can you.

Like whores lying on the cold sheets,

Legs apart,

My words stick to the glass door.

That’s how I see them.

I cannot speak of them,

But I can see them through the glass.

The world you were born in

Is the same one I was born in.

It has no consciousness;

I try to search for your birthplace

Among the ruins of my mind.

I see the ghost of you behind

The glass door.

It would help me to know,

Should I break it.

My words, trapped, once free,

Will become one with you.

But the identity you carry is

Yours alone.

The ink of my veins I write with

Is now mixing with your words’ ink.

Cracks are covering

The glass door, each passing breath.

Here I await you.



















Sylviology


Touch me, caress me, rejuvenate me; cries

Your Lady Lazarus.

Cut me, incinerate me, bury me; cries

Your Ariel.

Satiate me, sway me, raise me; cries

Your Mad Girl in her lovesong.

Take me, release me, taste me; cries

Your black marauder.

The world is learning to decipher them.


They are putting your children

In a coffin. I will try to swim

With them, except I don’t know

How to swim to the surface.


In their classes, they have put your

Poetry on silver clips tied

To the threads. With their

Tools of modules, sharp edged, they’ve

Cut open your poetry.

A pig hanging on a barbed wire,

Waiting to be skinned off.


When the pig is cooked, they

Give your books as gifts

On dreary Christmas and wedding anniversaries.

Carbon love, nothing more.

Still in the deciphering stage -

How can they appreciate your poetry

For what it is?

A nun is cutting into my occipital lobe,

But I can still see,

Your halo reflects in my eyelashes.


You had a lot to give, but the world

Cut you apart with your body

Writhing under silent waters.

We dare not venture under a lead sea,

Lest the sharks eat our flesh;

Sending us back, back, back

To the desolate shores of creation.

Are you still taking your day stroll

At that shore? I will join you.





Mother of Blades


She has a magnet in her veins,

Magnet that pulls the silver.

A freak, a black sack of bones;

They view her as.

Cannot we dive into her rivers,

She hears the silver baby blades cry

Onto her flesh every night.

Their breaths more closer than her vanning God.

Haven’t you heard, she wears

Indifference as a purple overcoat.

Oh how shinny the silver matches

With the purple. Such a delicious

Paraphernalia of the art,

The art of drowning.

Haven’t you seen her wear that overcoat

To the boat where she jumps from.

O you blind ravens and English women

With your soil children,

The woman you came from

Gave birth to these blades you whip

Her with tonight. An angel,

Leaking light. Will you still take her

When she’s the residence, the mother

Of them blades? The silver tinge between her

Thighs is not skin, was never skin. You lick it despite.

She will definitely eat the soul

Of her dead father, her grandmother - pitchers of blood

Lie barren and cold beside her bedside table.

Tokens of Death instilled in every morsel of her

Flesh, now cold; she ate the silvery shadows,

Shadows shaping the neat silver blades

Inside her caged womb. So she cuts

Each morsel out now, hoping the tokens

Might amputate away.

The floor is so red, the red floor of her room,

Too slippery for anyone to walk on

And take her body to the earth’s arms.

Haven’t you heard, she finally nurtured

All them blades inside her, her blood

Is the curlicue patterns making the floor wet.

No one can walk on it.

I saw her melting into the bloody floor,

Bones sucked in to the red on the porcelain tiles.

She has faded, liquefied;

The last bit, her hand extended out as if to hold

Another. The rest of her body has been soaked

Into the crimson fluid on the floor.


Journey


There is a light, but the

Shadows are eating away at it.

A silent box, no engine,

Only the clogs of Memory

Slipping in and out, in

And out of it. They’ve put your enemies’

Jukeboxes in this bedlam within

Your skull. A sky so lanky,

I’m afraid it’s touching down on

The earth that coddles you in

Its soil right now. Your moon

Knows nothing of this. I feel I must

Tell it so. The x’s and o’s on your spine;

They are impeding your breath.

But words our skin must carry,

Or else the page will never drink

Our poetry.

The x’s and o’s have passed into your

Chambered heart, from your spine.

Through the journey they’ve absorbed

All that is goodly chaotic.

From your heart they reach your

Motherless fingertips.

I see them crystal clear now, at the

Dire years of one and twenty,

Rippling onto this page from my fingertips,

As your voice in my mind

Is guiding them.

A stanza drops here, some lines

Galvanize there. I am losing my spine

Day by day; yours is present.

They never teach you how

The journey from your spine to

Your heart upfront and onto your fingertips

Will kill you in the process.

It eats away everything within

That is goodly chaotic.

But oh how true the chaos.

Truer than our mother’s eyes.










Shared Hunger


They’ve come again, your marmalade

Days, spreading themselves

Unevenly and evenly at times

On the bread, my cortex.

When I open my mouth to eat,

What is it but your hunger that

Screams out from my throat?

Do we ever really die?

Your blood bonds carried you

To the river where they drowned you

Out. I’m on the same path now.


I wonder if they’ll write about me -

My soggy generations later to come.

Will they see my anger reflected

In the blue of my veins

As they bury me? Perhaps not.

Yet anger never dies, either.


I see you’ve been planting seeds

Of your fig tree in my lungs;

Pointy branches of the tall thing

Poking my lover’s chin as I rise up

To kiss his forehead. My lungs

Will crash soon. Can you ever hang

Any fruit on your fig tree, I wonder.


The nodes in my body are volunteering to hang up there, like impatient children around presents. Should I let them go, should I let them not…





















Unanswered


What do you do when you’re born

With the Plague inside you?

It can’t be cut like the umbilical cord.

Instead, the pointy, square-shaped nails

Of Death cut your muscles and mine;

Inside out.

Your corpse contained them

Embedded inside it. Will mine too?

Can I hide them, somehow?


When you didn’t find Him within, you

Searched for Him without.

When you crashed into His shadow

In meadows of your mind’s

Blue haze, you couldn’t recognize.

When the Death inside you prevented you

From feeling His touch and voice -

You didn’t have the one supporting clog

Needed to make your soul machine churn life.


Your typewrite is too broken, I think you

Have missed the call. Too broken

To contain a power like His in it.

It’s the same typewriter that occupied

A heavily silent space on Sexton’s table.
























Aberrant Attractive


We are crooked poets.

We are desirably crooked.


They cannot contain us -

These chivalrous horses

In tuxedos.


The drinks we pour them as they come

Home to us, broken,

Will be the water in our

Open graves one day.


Because oddness is our second skin,

It houses pores

That grow scorpions out of them.

Our bedrooms in our hearts

Are empty because of it.


They got your beauty reeling

On a path of self-destruction.

My lifetrain is hovering on the bridge

A few miles away from that road.

One little scorpion, detaching from my pores,

Poked a hole in one of the tyres.


The train is falling sleepily

Into the old brags of your heart.






















Earthquakes in My Brain


Ravishing, sweet taste of mulberry springs

Is dripping from the edges

Of your grave.

She was a false lover, an unfaithful mother,’

The angels cleaning up the dead

There I hear yelling.

I tried to hold reins of our mutual demons.

Same as you, I couldn’t

Control.

Now a black sky is spreading over

This hungry cemetery.

Sitting on the corner is your legacy;

Yours and mine; our shared unknown child.

The raven tells me your soul is wandering

In a salty field, up there -

Up in the deep bowls of Purgatory.

Each step you stumble there

Is an earthquake in my brain here.

They look at my eyes like they

Forgot to have that day’s breakfast;

My irises an egg’s yellow to them.

One hungry grave-digger came

To me when I was 11 and stuck

His fork in my iris; the yellow of the egg

Sprouted a fountain of mud.

Have you not seen the gush of mud

Sprouting up from within the cracks

After an earthquake?





















Digesting Light Bulbs


I have given them my tokens of you -

My interpretations of your mathematical

Mistakes.


The professors at Kingston will perhaps

Place them in trigonometry someday

To overcome the terrestrial chaos

Before Judgement Day.


Perhaps saving only saves the ignorant.

When she wrote her words on the morning plate

At breakfast,

Rejection disguised as a family poked

At them, as if they were dead frogs.


There was never a sun in her sky;

Her trembling bones cold to the touch

So no-one saw a cat on her lap.

Yet two warm lives were forced

Into her womb anyway.

Not even cats would purr her womb.


The best of this generation are beggars

She turned into poetic titans.

But titans with horrifyingly empty stomachs,

So they eat her genius yet can’t digest.

Her stomach’s soup pours on in books’ pages

Today. But everybody has a different taste now.

And the now is a friend of Hell.




















Lava Face


When we were children,

Our parents came to us.

Their faces made of clouds.

They placed lightning bolts

In our hands and told us

Love will be a shadow tomorrow.


When we were adolescents,

Our friends came to us.

Their faces made of stone.

They stitched our smiles

And told us someday,

Love will be the scissors.


When we were adults,

Our colleagues came to us.

Their faces made of glitter,

They dyed our hair

And told us someday,

Love will dine with us.


When we were old,

Our mistakes visited us in a red dress.

Their faces made of ecdysis.

They shed their facial skin;

Lava materializing from beneath

And kissing us, informed they were our lovers.


Now we are dead.

Our faces just visited us:

The multiple identities we carried.

Lava spewing out from facial openings.

They gave us a hug;

The volcano has finally erupted.















Colossus: Dinner for Two


I received her invitation

86 years ago.

Her curlicue hand-writing in

An ink of bones’ marrow

Of the dead.

It was a one-dish. I took

A tray of memories for dinner.

She dug in right away.

Tokens from the land of the living.

The world of the dead doesn’t let

The young Sylvian ghost feed much.

Her demons sat around her,

Like little obedient pets.

The vilest of memories she threw

Towards their watery mouth.

Seeing her demons feed on her pounds

Of dead flesh, mine awoke with an urge.

86 years have passed,

And still I feed them.

When there will be no more flesh left

On this skeleton,

I will send my colossal invitation to

My successor.

For what is art

If not death and rebirth.

In the place it roams,

Young Sylvia ghost met its wants:

Blackness and silence.

If you feel blue, she says,

Touch my red haze.

The resulting purple will be

An ink in the marrow of books

They shall write about us,

Laden with in libraries all over.

Someone told me they are

Book hunting in

Cambridges and Oxfords these days.












Nightmare Lamb-chops


Watch, watch, watch -

Wiggled the academic in her.

Do, do, do -

Crackled the titan poet in her.

Think, think, think -

Tinkered the wife in her.

Feel, feel, feel -

Hissed the mother in her.


When the clash occurred,

Only the monoxidized crystals

Clung to her pores.


In went the monoxide molecules;

Out came her nightmares.

Sunk into the kitchen floor they did,

The floor she lay on.

Now there are patterns all over

That floor. If you make

Lamb-chops there, make sure

They do not burn.




























Taken for Granted


He sits cross-legged across from her.

The two of them,

Young gods dressed in decayed gold

Are waiting for either of the two

To depart on the carriage of Death.

Her children, they don’t understand

The sounds of silence lingering

In the air between them.


I took Dickinson’s poetry,

Plastered it on my back

And went to sleep.

Now I find myself awake

In a pit beneath earth’s surface.


She is gone. So are my books.

He sits cross-legged across from me.

And I know,

The carriage will be here

Soon.





























The Best of Art is Death


There is a snake in your

Jewelry box tonight.

I said please don’t go;

You heard me a little too late.

Now the glasses lie empty

On the kitchen counter.

I think I shall emboss

Them in my skin now.

Did you ever know where to lay

Your heavy bones?

The bones of your father -

Sunk deep in the earth.

The bones of your mother -

Floating on cloud nine.

The bones of your husband -

Dissolving in worms’ mouths.

The bones of your children -

Painted in faded ink.

The bones of your academia -

They will never stay.

What is this trickery the ladies at the churches

Whisper about?


She asked me to place her crimson mistakes in a mud vase and drown it to the river. But the river is too cold, and my legs are molten lava.


Nothing goes our way; the way

Of the wayward.

I return to the kitchen

And find her frozen in air,

The place I had left her at.

Yet the shards of glasses have

Settled in her halo.

A frozen transparent figure protruding with

Pieces of glass;

And I can’t draw more vivid art

On this page anymore.











Bricked Up


She was born with a walled up heart.

Did you never knock?

Walled up hearts beat, too.

They are fragile mannequins

In a wax house.

But hers was a house of shadows.

So many shadows, you couldn’t

See the color of her furniture.

Her walled up heart could write

Thin love notes with the cement

In between its bricks.

But they tore down those walls

And burnt the remainders

In a furnace.

Her editor sat behind a walled up door

Years later, empty handed.

Did you never knock?


Where is the door to her coffin, an old lady said at my funeral. The chandelier fell in our graves, broke into pieces…the pieces which seeped into our backs.


How can they close our coffin now?

Will it ever be closed?

The glass pieces of the chandelier

Jut out and hit the door.

No one can knock on it.























Coloured Cigarettes and China Dishes


Souvenirs - she has many of those.

Would you like come see them?

I will lay them out in a certain

Order.

More orderly than the stars you

See crying at night.

The skies know everything about it.

One souvenir I shall place

On the centre table for you to

Gaze into;

Its limbs spread out like the

Man who dug his fingers in her.

Another souvenir I shall place

With its head sprawled

Like her first lover who got away.

Another souvenir I shall place

In a symmetry of leaves from her fig tree.

But the best of them -

The golden child,

Is the souvenir of cigarettes and china dishes.

They are coloured like dragon eggs.

One colour is the colour

Of her self-loathing.

Another colour, that of her anxiety.

How they treasure misery.

I spot the souvenirs in shop windows

These days.


In the uprising storm, everything shall break. Save her coloured china dishes. In the prevalent fog, everyone will be gray, save the coloured smoke from her cigarettes.



















Midnight Madness


Yes, the room was spinning.

Like a blind pagan circling

A false altar,

It kept spinning.

All it proved justice to

Were the shadows stuck on my walls.

The spinning power gave them

A force to latch onto my

Lecherous pores you see.

Little by little, my pores inhale

Them blue shadows.

There’s barely any room left for air.

Come down, what is she coming down with?

They can’t tell…they almost never can.

Convulsing in a killer’s lap - my days

I can’t trace the path they vanish into.

Like snow settled for too long,

The underside of my nails

Houses the debris of demons -

Everyone’s demons.

Indeed, I scratched them off their minds;

Now with that debris I can’t scratch mine off.

There’s no room under my nails.

They can never tell.

























Ash Dandelion


The sleep chimes made me hum along

To their silent prey notes.

When the night star landed on

The misty sky outside,

I did not know where I was.

To another dimension, perhaps –

The dead live there;

Vermin make spiral curlicues

On the walls surrounding my roots.

Atop my fingertips, my veins

Run backwards to gravity’s pull

In that dimension where the dead live.


I feel thirsty, my mouth cried; a

Vase of dry ash and mirror powder.

So the pitcher water looked up at me –

There is something insipid about my reflection

On the water surface, in that oblivious space and time.

It pushes me off my path,

Despite how subtly – this slimy crack in my brain.

A drop of water trickles down my hollow esophagus

Like dry milk over a dead baby’s spine.

I know I cannot gulp this down.

Shall the drops spew out of my

Eyes like black daggers.


I see a car pull up the drive way –

You with your suitcase, a book in hand

Curl at my doorstep but my raven

Locked me in and chewed on the keys.

If only our wrists came with bolts and keys too.

Would you have the access to mine? The squalling

Of my raven – ample evidence against a grey sin –

Gives me the answer. For what shall befall the ignorant

If the wise decided to make duplicate keys?

Would you come to me then, a tired eye of the storm

To weigh me down under clouds of love,

A book in hand?


The chandelier on the ceiling before me reminds me

Of the many dreams we had together – concentric

Like the glassy flowers of the chandelier.

What a disgust it looks like; envisioning veins

Hanging from each glass flower, my sinful head

Turned towards the ground as it hangs, utterly empty.

So when they stuffed sin down my gut and tainted

The cover of innocent we are all born with,

A thing so meager couldn’t be moved against them.

Which calendar did they follow? Why did they decide

To slash open my bones and

Silently implant their seed in?


Now years swim at the edge of my nerve cells.

The one I love could be further than this – further

Than the hounds of hell below my feet.

Yet I grow listless of it; a mind cannot but wander

When the heaven above it cracks and melts.

She will succumb like a lamb stuck in a lion’s teeth;

Came the cry of my creators and my captives.

Perhaps thats a thorn I wish to sting my eye upon – a

Bleeding end for a bleeding start.

Shall they weep, my bones, under the ground below their feet

Will mix their salty taste on the ash of dandelions

Atop my grave.



































Cash on Holy Ground


One day – someday – any one of these days

Too soon, these sad captains

Marching on the deck

Of their tired souls

Will beat their badges

And fall into the surrounding sea.

These whom we choose to leave

Not behind but above –

Above the filthy sunsets

What a perfect waste of light

He makes you feel

So you capture his essence,

The color of ashes and charcoal

But before the night watchdog arrives

They break the lamp and much too soon

His essence the color of ashes and charcoal

Flies by in the street

The night watchdog whiffs it away

Into tiny smithereens of darkness

Ruling so many pretenders out there.

So lying on the ground

The ashes and charcoal sifts through

To become one and all

With the ghosts of martyrs

That once saved this city,

Their blood now dry in the base towers

Atop which we stand today.

Just when we are about to run to the freedom line

They cut our legs,

Burn our bridges

And call it another martyrdom

In the name of their monsters

Reaching out their hands for notes

That stink of greed

Holding a curtain of malice

And the blood dries again

As the ones of those

Who came before us

Then faded just as easily as we have.

No plaque shall mark our boundaries

For no name or title can contain our pride

Just to remain nameless ghosts

Floating above a nameless society.






Cost of Cutting a Cortex


Chew it up – chew it all up;

Says one shadow to the other –

The shadows cast on my cerebral cortex

From the gyri and sulci of my brain.

One shadow slides down a sulcus

While a splinter of light

Sits majestically atop each gyrus.

The combination of light and shadow

On these curves and enfoldings

Has formed a painting,

Which is reflected behind my eye lids.


Won’t they see?

Won’t they hold a candle up to my eyes

And shoo the demons away

So the image becomes clearer?

For how devouringly they feast

On my gyri and sulci.

If it weren’t but for God’s voice,

A voice I played on my broken record machine –

They could never notice the lines on my hands;

Isn’t that the way of His angels? I heard one say.

So if His voice was eaten up by the cries of my devil.


My devil who I had buried in inked pages

And notes of symphonies of the night –

All my lost things would come back to me.

But they have gone,

And His voice licks the image of my gyri

And sulci reflected so behind my eye lids.

Won’t you sing with me father, before

You take up to pirating in the sea of mother’s blood?

Even when the razors slipped across my skin,

And the water rose in my ears – you chose to gulp

Your glasses of grey misdirected agonies.


I asked mother to pull back the chord of oestrogen,

So I could climb back.

Look me in the eyes she did, and poofed

Into the mist I was born into.

A loud dream; so very loud to wake up from.

I’ll be done with the food of my chaos,

Won’t you see the image even then?

Their lies will be the poison in your children

And their money will be the flowers

On your grave.

So I choose the life of a wildflower…


A wallflower.

The sky melts at my doorstep each time

I see you – you with the grave mud sticking

Out from your ears and nostrils.

Can I have my ten pounds of sadness now? You asked.

But I choose the truth and for ten seconds spent

Burying you in these flailing loving arms,

From my gyri and sulci, the image still on them,

Ten pounds I cut out from them

And place atop your hands in return.

They fit, like the truth found a home.


Walking out the door with ten pounds of a truth instead of sadness,

You will never look back.

They will never let us remember,

So we shall never stop to forget.

He went on – whom I never saw again.

But those ten pounds of my truth,

In his hand lines they grew roots.

With each hand line sprouting, the truth

Sprouted too, blooming in black and charcoal mystery.

As each hand multiplied to a billion

Over the years – the children of truth increased…


All with the flicker of ten pounds.

Now the image – you never bothered looking at –

The same image is what’s reflected

In each of those hand lines, for

My eye lids reflect the eyes of end of Time now,

Not the image, the image with shadow and light

Resting atop the gyri and sulci.

Forget me? The water took me

Long before their waves of control did.

Build a house, the lady in red will

Never be invited down here in this house.


Her parlor tricks and ashen lies were

The knife I used to cut those ten pounds

Of truth from my cortex –

All this devotion is my stars;

Every heartbeat I chase, the air they suffocate in.

He let me go, the father I buried in my attic

And the mother chewed me up, the one whose hatred

I choked on, just to live some more.

Did you not see?

Did they ever see?

Their eye lids reflect insidious.




Fractures in the Arms of Honesty


Clean the walls of your mind

With some little pieces of care

You get from rowing about

In the haphazard streets of life

And then slowly drown yourself

Not in the lies this world crafts

But in the bitterness of Truth

As it comes crashing on your door

In the middle of the night

All hungry and bruised from the lashes of society

You have no choice but to wine and dine with it

Wrap it around a sweet embrace

Then stand there helplessly as it chokes you

Because that is the fate of martyrs

Who give in to the embrace of Truth.

May you choose to unleash it

To the commanders of society

They will only strip you off your own little badge

And leave you empty

Without the warmth of that Truth

To keep you alive on a night

Writhing with cold lies.



























My Narrative in Noise


A liquid history, pages

Soaking in the rain

Of blood drops dripping

From your silent mistakes.

An existence unbound;

Happening at the time

Of the inception of this earth.

Their excessive usage

Of dreams and sunshine

Is now bleak, faded realities.

Marching bands don’t play

At his funeral anymore.

The kids wore black

And sat beside his grave.

They looked for another familiar name

On the tombstone next to his.

Skies and seas whaled simultaneously

At the foot of the graves.

So the kids had to go –

All the while, a familiar name

On the grave marker

Was what they aspired

To talk about over dinner that night.

Not all names are remembered

Once Death chokes them.

The name was never there,

For nothing but a living ghost

Was what I stayed on for.

My name on the grave marker

Was what they aspired

To talk about over dinner that night.

Can’t you see? Mine was just

A foolish spine; a wasted limb.

Never a cage was this heart;

Laid to rest in the coffin of

My loved ones gone wrong –

And Life chewed me out

Like a sour leaf.

Never to begin again –










My Raven, Immortal


What skin is this skin made of,

A mirrored emblem of tethers and cracks,

Stitched in by the demons of Hell itself?

What water can glide across its surface?

Nothing so delicate anyway, I suppose.


For the one that feels it the most,

The flame dies down –

And their bodies dance in the embers

Until moment comes to set sail

Their soul towards a land of heavenly beasts.


What cells is this mind made of,

Backdrop of death hymnals lining

Its grooves and crevices? A pit of sin

And mockery, the shadows eat each other up

When his love is asleep and the raven awakes.


For the one who thinks too much,

Curtains close on the bedside too soon

Until a heavy cloud of dust befalls them.

And the sheets beneath, all tainted grey

Gulp the liveliness from inside their spine.


A visage appears to slit my raven’s throat

But its eyes linger – linger on the weak spots

So that every savior up there in my mind turns

To the dust that taints my sheet all grey.

It shall not die; it cannot die.




















Time and Space


Their intentions are blurry to me

Raining cruel motives behind my back

And I cannot help but force the feelings out

Mother dies and crashes in my soul

Yet I cannot weep anymore

Misguided fools who think they understand me

Stain the shell I comfortably stay isolated in

Suspicions coming back to dreaming –

What I had given up on long ago

No point in schooling sympathy for anyone anymore

When I start to leave my best friend –

The light dimming

When it goes nowhere but down the drain

Rising above all I know

Just to break my bones and be there for her

Or to cut my veins to hold him up

From falling in a dark abyss of no faith

You live and bleed just to give them a hand

And they cut it off neatly

Painting their bare walls with a new color

Doing things you once promised me

You never would –

Even in a thousand burning sunsets

So I don’t believe anymore

Drift away from me no further henceforth

When shadows of solitude will swallow me whole…























Waiting on a Blind Light


The news - glass breaking after

My blood lines flew in the air.

The air out of which

You so harshly made wine

And fed your porous doubts with;

Look how it all seeps into the soil.

Your filthy lessons,

I cut their chords, your night set in

Promises that washed over me

Like a wave too heavy

And spat me out to sea;

Guess it did not want me.

My sister broke the china

On which I laid bare his words.

When the morning bird flew by

My window, it spat out songs

Of Death and the Beyond

On the buttons of my writers.

So when I typed,

Nothing but tears of Loss

Fell and embossed themselves

On the pages – they have dried up.

Corks and bottles lined his doorway,

So I waited outside –

Not knowing that everything we had

Is no longer there.























Become the Walls


There was a light -

A faint white she couldn’t swallow.

Took it easy, took it to the bones

And it still lingered in the depths

Of her disarray.

Full moments with a broken speed

Was a lion sitting there -

There were stones lodged in his throat

So he couldn’t roar to signal the start

Of her untimely death.


The numbness, therefor, came

All of a sudden - a panther.

The hyenas masquerading as humans

Barred their teeth for each of her skin pores.

Where could she flee to?

Losing one meant losing the other too.

Giving comes easy when there’s nothing to lose.

So she couldn’t take it easy - the tools

To destroy her conscious were in a box

Up in the attic of that mind itself - no locks.


So she looked at the walls.

The whiteness was like her emptiness.

She wished then and there to become the walls.

Her insides - all the pores and flesh and blood and everything

Wanted desperately to spread themselves out

On the whites of the walls around.

Yes, all her insides would sometimes slither

Dangerously close to the ceiling fan -

But the ceiling fan, a butcher man, would cut them

And its wings would thrust her pieces back to the walls.


Stick there they would, like blood drops sticking to the wall

In a specific pattern - the pattern of nothingness.

How comforting it looks in her mind’s eye

As she visualized her insides sprayed out

On the walls around her. The cut and thrust and stick

Process would continue. Her emptiness becomes

The bloody art on the walls.

Is the white even there anymore?

Perhaps its absorbing her insides on its surface -

So she becomes the walls.


People come and go,

Staring at the walls apparently

Covered with all them skin pores and flesh and everything.

Do they see it then? Can they make out the insides

Of a person stuck on the whites of the walls?

Each time the numbness grows too deep, I see it

Inching closer to the fan. Just like a butcher,

Its wings cut them pieces, splashes them back to the

Whites of the walls; there they stay.

So she dies and is resurrected with each beat of the fan.


It cannot fall off the walls - the paint

Of her insides.

Is it not like colours that melt down? No.

The white emptiness found a twin for itself:

The broad, homely white walls around.

Shifting days turn into a blur - a blur

Choking on itself like rotten milk

In a grinder; her body hijackes into white walls.

It is a sleepless home.



































As Always


Always is a lie – or is it a ghost of the past

Dressed to erase the grin off your face

To keep you from seeing the tight knots

Holding your limbs together?

Coming together, these leaves on water

Carrying the weight of tasteless memories

I placed there gently as my demons slept,

Curtains drawn, disasters spewing in the cauldron.

Built to fall, we glided through big jet planes

As kids, with cheese stains lining

The doorway to your room;

And the light from the TV falls on your dog’s shinny collar,

I follow the reflection and meet you standing alone

In a room of crystalized moments, hung in the atmosphere.

Didn’t we build this house together?

You ask me with an element of misguided intentions.

No one falls through my magnified skies

Just to vanish in your dark and deadly pool of hypocrisy.

And that hypocrisy – how it makes me draw my swords

You cannot outrun pain, he told me.

Just overcome it

And the armor learns to resist

On the light of the falling meteors.

Where candles of hope still continue to burn.

My past held my hand and said to walk it off,

But it is becoming hard each passing day

So we become the last to pass on the coins

And the river of Time lets us down again

As always –




















Balloon Hearts


You got a good job there for yourself

A no vulture for their hoard of money

Which goes into a trash of hungry mouths

And empty souls

Drifting through their soulless existence

On the ups and down

Bought with some cheap dollar bills

Looking through the glass of their mirrorball

They realize how small the world is.

Did we ever even want this much?

They question themselves

Feet dragged across the mud –

Their eyes are laden with lead

And dreams too dire to chase after

So they sleep in a makeshift bed,

Tossing and turning them over

Until their blood covers the sheets

Iron fists smacked into the walls

Our resolve came swiftly tumbling down

Each time I tried to lean on it

A heaviness still lingers there;

Illusionary blessings at their best

In order to condemn the lonely ones

Who roam our streets with cut feathers

Perched on their shoulder

You think you know what sadness is?

Just then they blow those feathers away

And lace their fingers in the web

Of another tomorrow,

Singing another bitter sweet symphony –

And no end exists

To such a mayhem.

















Closing Time


Closing time, it is closing time come too soon

The hounds cry at my door

I am here melting without an embrace

Of the sentinel of Death that promised me eternity

Wrapped in the last sip of liquor he spat out

Wooing their way through hearts of desperate women

Haven’t I heard, they are the new scientists

Of this age, this broken age of broken scenes

Ticking away and slithering down a schizophrenics’ spine

When their legs open and eyes defy their icy intentions

So no, they will not love even at 18

Don’t think please, I hear the voices say from above the cellar

Once he lost his wits to heroine

And danced estranged in that same cellar

Just when I brought down the clouds on my callous hands

It is evergreen, this illusion we have crafted

Was the lie you poured over me like honey and I subsided

But not just subsided, dwindling in a loop

Knitted around a loss of faith

With the feathers of tiredness in my windpipe

Heavy as lead or iron or promises disguised as lust

So no, I do not feel anymore.

Maybe yes, maybe no – she has taught me more than that

But I will not wake up from the coma so alone and calm

A coma of a thousand fields far away

Where both wolves of good and bad protect each other

For the sugary trees rattle like snakes

And nothing can save the wolves from that poison

A lion heart then swishes dreams on my eye lids,

The start of a new, more vigilant closing time begins

And the cycle continues silently.


















Drinking the Dark


Some words are just hollow tendrils –
Haunted ghosts of the ones
That walked away with broken feet,
In the vision to rise.
The fear of being less
Than the coils of nature
Wound around his heart,
He fears the shackles of Society
Will dig deep enough
In his flesh, so smoky and grey,
That the darkness will seep out.
What he fails to recognize
Is that I lie in patience
Holding a cup into which
That darkness may drip into –
So that I breathe every one
As my own.
What a treasure each creation is.
To abandon is not just to ignore
But to negate all together.





























Insidious Insides


My sins are imitative of

My empty consciousness.

I don't feel the high

To be creative anymore

Or much less of anything else.

My seemingly well wishers

Tell me I'm too careless for someone my age.

But I still sit there listlessly,

Waiting for the bee clouds to

Come and sift through me.

That day, I'll be like everyone;

I'll be everything,

Just not today.

My sins are callous.

What exists them holes?

All the drops of anger and lies

I try in vain to eat away.

Devouring himself in the

Cold embrace of Death,

I met a stranger just like me.

Head of explosions, did he have.

A black saint walking in

My streets, this numbness

Suffocated him too.

And now everyone is a puppet once again.
























My Raven Head


If I could breathe out pain, the world would suffocate.

Where am I going in my broken mirror of Emptiness;

Where you are leaving me is the place I begin.

Unfortunate storms light up my daydreams.

I am a heavy feather…let me float somewhere far.

Voices, blood on my shoulders, eyes teary,

I swim to the surface – you have left…

The sharks munch my heart, my bones their acid

Baby jerks of my love that they took for granted.

I hope I take the jump and into air I dissolve,

So when the crowd screams, I am voiceless.

Yes, no, maybe – what does it all even mean

When the suffering leads to a bland nothingness

Moment comes to hit arrows in my hand, the fate

That is written in my hand lines, I try to erase

But a drag my existence feels like, and I sit

By these hallucinating sidewalks watching me pass by then fall

Despite oh how heavily I fought.

The raven in my head is awake and hungry now

So I cannot fight anymore –





























The Orphan in Me


Pallor of the sin I have harbored

Taints fingertips of every friend and lover

That bequeaths a tad kindness upon my heart,

No matter how subtle it may be.


For they can’t see the raven

Holding my hands behind my back.

Or the little orphan girl wearing a mask

Of what the dying look like.


So they feed me scraps of apprehension

And they blue me into a land of opiates –

All colorful and bone-ash tasty.

It’s food for the orphan in me – can’t you tell?


Mothering a wild flower is easier

When the roots are still young;

But once the orphan grows to be a

Strong shadow, it cannot be uprooted.


Hence I take the orphan to a park

And decide to puncture her shadowy figurine

Weighing down on my mind’s ledge; but under

The flicker of serendipity, she fades away.


Have I lost her, thought I to myself in the caverns.

But every now and then, the orphan in me pays me a visit

To paint me a picture of what it is like growing up

In a body not nurtured by the hand of life, but Death.

















To Eat Blackness and Silence…


Fading into a crimson halo, this world

Started to sound like

A revengeful banshee’s scream

As the darkness of the cramped space

Of an oven yawned before her face.

The slaps of silence emanating from it

Hit harder than the

Fat man’s impurity had.

Life was a man in a red coat

Sitting in her living room,

Smoking cigarettes of her painting’s colors.

He, too, was fading in and out of shape.

Clear skies were falling outside

When the man got up to leave.

The twin sisters, good and evil,

Chanted words in her ears whilst

She sat on the floor. But the blackness

Within – it was a blanket over every voice outside.

The circle – she had broken the circle – and sat

Outside it with her pain melting

Into his hand lines, so far away.

The ground, it couldn’t handle anymore

That which her soul carried.

So she turned the knob – how she wished to turn

Her fate sometimes instead of accepting it.

The eyes of past lovers gone wrong

Reflected in the glass lid before her.

And no show of fear could out-stand

The nothingness skinning her organs

Upwards where the eyes of Medusa

Would turn it to stone.

She left them at the same road; even heaven

Frowned at the folly that was her.

Wasted years stopped leaving

Their ashen trail beside her now,

For she had mastered the art

Of eating blackness and silence.

Sylvia Plath was she called.











XYZ


The sirens sleep above
Light bulbs in my 20-year-old brain.
Such a thick blanket
It is, this sleep on my tiny light bulbs.
Bones soak up heavily
Beneath this weight.
Questions of all colours
Play on my merry-go-rounds
In front of my eyes.
The faces of these people
Speaking empty words
Collide against melodies of
Grunge and metal music
Deep in the confines of my conscience.
The Wernick’s and Broca’s eat
Between determination and desperation.
And that is how
This other me knows
A million camouflaged ways
To escape this.





























Duality


Boredom has a colour.

It is a pale blue. That’s why

The sky - my sky -

Is of the same shade;

The stars and every other heavenly body

Can only do much to entertain it.

Chaos has no colour, contrary to belief.

It’s an amalgamation of souls.

Souls of everything and anything.

Combined,

The concoction that results from the

Coloured souls gives a silently gray shade.

That’s why the world - my world - is a pale picture.

Together the two fashioned life -

Her life…



































Sylvian Confessions


This is what it must be like to be dead,’

She told me. ‘You see

All your memories turn to something

That feels and looks like snow.

With the next blink of an eye, the snow

Has hit the ground blissfully, and turned to ash.’

Why did you leave so young?’ I asked her.

Too many questions were spilling

From my mouth, with no time at all.

Rejection is too small an excuse to leave,

Don’t you think?’

You walk down this one path

Your whole existence.

When the fog arrives, you look

Back and realize all the road signs

Are difficult to make out now.

So you keep walking. The fog -

The fog never lifts,

Nor do the road signs at the sides

Become any clearer to guide you.

Eventually, you fall into a pit.’

You could have always gotten back up?’

I paint it more with curiosity than

A hollow after-thought.

She paused, smiled at me and said,

True. But when I fell into that abyss,

Looking up,

I realized there was no fog to begin with.

It was just that I had my

Eyes shut tightly all along.

He and the kids had never been there too;

Just apparitions my fantasy concocted…

I made them up inside my head.’

After the dream,

The medicines they poured in my eyes

Didn’t do much either to unhook my lids

From each other. Some are just born

With their eyes shut tight,

Subject to nothing and no one’s hands -

Or pens - to pry them open.









Words as Weapons


She says she doesn’t have a subject

To write on. Her nurse thinks otherwise.

The tulips in the vase beside her bed

Died months ago.

She likes the aroma of the dead; they

Are like sentinels to her.

Out of her bedside drawer,

She takes a sword out: it is the pen

She writes with.

It is melting in on itself -

A glacier in demise.

This is why I don’t have a subject

To write about, she tells me.

My words are not weapons anymore.

She takes me hands and sends

Me to the blacksmith.

Go forth and make my sword

A strong weapon again.

With it I shall pen down words again.

After I reach down the blacksmith’s,

It has already been closed.

I find her a dead tulips placed

In the pile of her brethren tulips

In the vase beside her bed.

I brought the vase home,

And have placed it beside my

Sleeping chamber now.

I like the aroma of their death…

And hers.

She is like a sentinel

To me.


















Our Parallel Universes


We forgot.

We took up the task again.


The second time around wasn’t

As simple as we’d hoped;

There were too many blood baths in our rooms,

Too many graves lining our wardrobes

And too little moments on the side

Of our slippers placed on the floor.


There was a black sky above my head.

It contained all the words

I had never let live.

Now I wonder why,

But the reasons are a far off dream.


I forgot to slow down on my way,

Yet I still reached the point

Where the death in me collided with the life in me.


Now they walk hand in hand -

Sometimes without a quarrel, sometimes with animosity.


So when we started living for the second time,

Do you know what it was like?

It was like staring at the eyes of a beheaded sphinx.

Our bodies hijacked away from our souls,

And the carriage definitely exceeded

The speed limit on the highway to purgatory.


The second time: never the better time.


The second time is the blurred mother.

The second time, we learned how to crash

Without tasting the glory of flying.

The second time, there were sleepless nights.

It was storms and drowning at sea.

The second time, we were defenseless.


No one was listening. So we played our melodies

On the record machine high up on the moon.

Each night since then, there is a song playing in the blue silence of the dark. It’s the sound of our lost hearts roaming in the purgatory.






Sell Your Soul, Not Your Whole Self


Wasted on a pair of young limbs,

The air inside the other me –

That wears the face of life –

Was choking when the other me –

That wears the face of death –

Sprung forth to life: a sphinx always waiting,

Calculating the right moment to pounce at

My life lines.


I heard your voice from somewhere so far –

The voice of me wearing the mask of life –

So far, it felt like you were the foam

Me d the dead sea floating backwards.


You were the land while I the water

And so in me I I drowned you.

Every now and then,

You swim back to my surface;

Long lost friends and lovers I drowned to

My shores long ago;

Littered on this land

Like lifeless sea sponges.


Sometimes I feel you there deep down, a crackle of hollow sound

In comparison to the howling raven

I feed your heart strings to.

But don’t you know that my hollowness speaks?


The crackle of my bones

Grows louder too sometimes.

So when the day comes, these cracked up bones

Will be the tool I use to

Cut the voice of the raven in you and

Put it to sleep…once and for all.

So you would break your back just to kill the raven?

If both of us can’t exist, neither shall one.













The Unwanted, The Undead, The Undying


She wore that insipid rejection like

A salient, dark blue cloak above her

Swollen shoulders that night,

Much like snow clings to the neck

Of tree barks in the dead of winter.

The light of life was spinning

At the back of her skull;

She knew she was drifting softly in the hugs

Of this ravenous blackness that sleeps in her

Since her birth.

How can a child be so dead-hearted,

They used to ask me.

Now she simply let the bags under her eyes

And clawing of the raven in her head

Do the answering.

Life fades -

Color by color -

Into the blackness of this place.

A place her creator left uninhabited beneath

Her charcoal bones, at the dawn of creation.

So that night,

She went to sleep in the arms of the worm –

A worm of delirium.

Even though the delirious pangs have subsided,

An apparition sits atop her cortex.

It wears an armor of her flesh;

Of her past lovers gone wrong,

Knives hid under pillows,

Scars she took for granted and washed away

In her river of deceit. She talks to it,

but what it says is too loud

For her to hear. So she just

Follows the look in its melted eyes.

That is what leads her

To the road of self damnation.














Some Tea and Sympathy


Words collide like a cannonball

In this head, a mesh of neural cells and cortex –

Words said and unsaid from every

Human mouth in the last 10 years.


Sounds play broken anthems on

My sticky heartstrings,

the ones that need mending –


Sounds of dusty promises and banshee screams:

The color of hatred and paranoia.


Pictures of a million shiny tips that kissed this petrified skin flash.


I’ll tell them this is the price to pay

for the voices in this head,


This hideously empty

Beating head:

A mess of neural cells and cortex.


You shut the light, lit another match

Of questions, laying fire to the pile that is me –

A child of Death knocks on my door.

This time, I think I will not turn it away, but let it in for a cup of tea.
























Wishful Thinkers


Look down on the pile of

Purple mistakes you made…

How silently they lie on the floor,

Like bleeding children.

I touch them with the blue of my conscience

And the hew becomes

A shade of warmth – a kind of warmth that defies

Ever so radiantly, the malignancy of who you are.

I once fell in love

With someone the same shade

Of warmth in their cheeks.

At the end of the day, all we manage

To be

Is faded and ripped tendrils

Of our yesterdays, trying to be gentler

And brighter than before.

I sometimes wish I were a feather

As light as them; and you wish

You were as visible a light as them –

Both of us knowing one is as empty as the other.





























Running on Empty


Out of the old,

My new bones will rise

And absorb in the acidic air

Of this morbid world. This acidic air

Stinking of their uninformed judgments,

Pinching like baseless expectations.

Why do they paint these terrible skies with blood and oil,

Seeping from the innocent and the caves,

Respectively?

I go out and the demons find new ground

To leave their footprints on.

I swim back down,

They rise again.

How I wash away, away, away…

The world sees but

Tells nothing of this

To the moon.
































Ghast


It has no eyes, no lips.

No such smoothness on the contours

Of a mouth - or what should have been.

Yet I can feel its cancerous stare.


A door slightly ajar in its chest.

Roots thicker than my dead mother’s eyelids

Spread ou of that door.

Like vicious fire, they are spreading.


Ladders laced with blue ribbons on

Their steps are lined ahead of me.

Out of the blue,

Springs its purple tongue.


It speaks - or so my ears conceive of it?

The sound is of the ground when it

Willfully eats up the thunder above it.

Absorbed deep in its innermost core.


What it says, I cannot hear.

But the lips move synchronized with mine.

Such a lip service I never received,

At no alter nor any mosque.


When you look closer, you understand less.

So I was the only spectator it had.

It was only until I looked down

At my chest: my heart was its mouth.


The vile it spit was running in my veins beforehand.

Should I discombobulate my bones

Just to fashion order out of its chaos?

Will it like that, I wonder.


So I did my fingers in its empty sockets,

Pull hard at the roots,

Cut the purple tongue,

Pry open its heart disguised as lips.


Now I have become blind and speechless,

Heartless and lanky -

For it only takes so long to realize

The person staring was me.





When A Poet Loves…


Why can’t we try again,

Go back to the start?

You can place your illusions

In her hands;

While she tries to paint them real

With her blood: her poetic blood.

I’d rather fall into the mirror of her thoughts.

Try as I might, I cannot

Unlock her heart

When she has a box full of hundred more keys.

Her intentions are cloudy.

Ruinous at best.


I watch the grey of her eyes

Swirl and skip the blue of my skin.
Is she afraid to love again? To die again?

Her fears come out blacker than

A chimney’s smoke.
I carved a boat to sail her shadow, yet she missed.


Why do you wear this mask? I asked her. For I am not a blacksmith with tough hands that know techniques to take it off without tearing your flesh apart.


So what can her hands mould my flesh into?

She has a poet’s hands; a lover’s touch.


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