jeudi 28 mai 2009


I remember that sunny afternoon.
It remains as one of the darkest of my days.

Recall that song we heard - you and I.
That note she held spelt clear cut emotions.
You hit that too,
Playing that hefty key that touched us so.

We started on aimless ramble,
A puzzle of a conversation: simple
Exchange of wit and care.
It came out as a blurt,
Far too strong for progressive inhibitions:
You needed more.
I expected a need of company,
You, my friend, were in for the hurt.

I wish I could have pulled you up
Above adolescent scenery to show new grounds
Far from the angst of ages.
And to think of you in that past patch of mine.
Awaiting, in half-empty rooms
Whatever we result.
Whatever is left of us to be.
The subtle passage from length,
To Depth of being.

Even words fell short.

But whatever they may do, or sell,
However rotten they make us,
Whatever they may tell,
We remain, my dearest friend.
We remain naught but Hamlet's antithesis.
And you will find
A little more than kin,
And so much more than kind.


dimanche 17 mai 2009


University is my doomsday.
Gently, slowly, days tick by,
Distraught any distance from us till then,
Bringing forth examination day:
The verdict of where to, shall separation be.

Emotions change as time goes by,
Crescendo for me.

At first, a relief, that soon,
Yet not too soon,
The bells will ring the final school,
And faces, agreeable (past),
Loved and kissed and cried upon shall
For the better reconstruction of

Then comes the slight tingling of accustomed
Petty details which, through number and repetition,
Have shaped where we are,
So how to be,
So who we are.
Can we expect to hold on and not change
Through no need and new needs?

And the third step,
The stabbing of thoughts,
The leaving behind of things,
The immutable quality of memories which stand as such:
- no longer nostalgia
- no longer wishful thinking of return
- just memories (a non-verbal invariable form of past tense)
The wailing knowledge that we know not what is to come.

Our faces were ours then,
Not you, nor I as such,
But ours.
Belonging was upon us.
My Everything is gone,
And all forms imagined are never to take place.

University is my doomsday:
I thought the game was over,
But this is when we play.



A square, grey and chain-made-smooth,
Planted across the street in
Agonizing boredom;
Organizing your room.

Rain comes as dancing-thieves,
Chattering away the triviality
Of everyday shoes, and everyday cars,
And everyday whos coming out of the bars.
Pissed like the wind.

Those wee wet widows run across
The clumsy surface, like gulps of hope
On a Friday evening; taking away
Everything that they see.

A child, running away from a game. Happy. Until the mother came with tidings of dos and don't and words running from her skin and self into that largely indescriptive chaotic verve onto the shelf like a small plastic smiley face.
Just waiting for the right time to break.

I would wonder in many places
And about many things,
Like people staring when no one cares.
As if it all came back to squares:
Just like you and me are
Just like me and you.



Where are you? And how?
And who's the mocking one now?
Are you naked in your tomb,
Or rotting away, just like my mother in your womb?
Do you ever think at all,
Of how I've changed ... Not the youngish-
Smallish-hounded grandson but tall,
To you anyway,
Staring down, 6 feet over where your grounded.
« Oh am I now? »

You started long before me,
The tearing up and letting down
(how very extreme you used to be)
Your lengthened artist's hands
Clasping slowly:
The milky neck of innocence
Squeezing happiness to the pulp:
My mother fled to father lands.

What lies below you now, but Hate?

The blanket that kept you warm all these years,
Now ripped and torn and wet with tears
Don't worry, not mine.
Your world now:
A dark tunnel with no light at the end,
Just a shade of gray
(The wounds that you will never mend).

Yet it all came rushing back,
Past newer thoughts, the battles I'd fought,
And time, the great forgiver of old and new,
But not as old as you.
It all came back: the only beauty you ever gave me.
Music, Mendelson, misty violin
Quivering from a clumsy stutter to a climax of pride strength
and all the better
World of emotions come undone, swirling to life
In dancing, loving shapes (Perfection's wife)
The horns of heaven blowing down the tune,
From the sky and above, even the moon,
The fountain of perfect noise, a greater language,
Bellowing intertwined sounds, a perfect chime,
And then...

No time.
The cd player packed up.
Realising there's a tear in my eye...
Where are you granny?
It's my birthday soon. Did you forget?
And why did you never love me?


Final Stop 

(to my great grandfather)

What were you thinking those eighty to ninety years ago
As you took the one-way train to a farther plain?
No cheap day return.
The young girl? Fatherless, growing up in the shadow of a shadow:
An empty kitchen chair, a half-cold double-bed.
“You don’t have a father, you’ve got memories instead.”

Were you thinking of the brothers in arms?
Meticulously murdered by equally sad young men
With pasts, habits, families and futures of their own.
Each bullet shattering the darkening embers of your mind:
That was the real harm.

Maybe you wondered about me?
About everything you wouldn’t ever see or feel or know.
You took you away before life was at it’s height.
“My great grand-dad survived the war”
Well ... not quite.

What were you thinking as you lay on the railroad track?
The poor driver who’d see it all?
Walking home to his wife and child only to say,
That he killed a man today.
Or maybe reliving, one last time, everything you used to like.
Or praying that, just today, the trains wouldn’t be on strike.



With time and years and moments with others
We abandon the flashing childhood clothes for other colours,
We leave the dazzlingly bright coat,
Smeared with mud and innocent hope.
The delightful world where we used to play:
Now buried by adulthood, an ephemeral admiration,
A ripple soon silenced by the ocean of fear,
Destruction and the melodious rhapsody they want you to hear.
Please don’t cry, don’t shed a tear.

We grew up too fast, that’s a fact,
As with time we turn to black and dark blue
Mourning everything we used to do
Or think we thought we knew.
I weep in silence my childhood that went so fast,
The times are changing and nothing can last.


Untitled #1

If only I had enough strength to put logic and reason aside
Or to little so as to believe in a superior being,
Life would be a much pleasanter ride
As existence would finally bear a meaning.

My Lord, you that aren’t in heaven,
Even though I don’t await a reply,
Are you not sad? Have we not learned a lesson?
As to only find comfort in a lie.



People always seem to want to sit
On one another’s laps, in the small
Dingy cabinets where cheap automatic
Cameras produce cheap unoriginal

The soon forgotten to-be smiles,
The zany expressions will all
One day fuel our memories and regret.
And each and every photograph
Will end up burnt, torn to bits,
Or lonely, among many other pictures
In an Album with no name.

As lovers and best friends move apart
In a mutual abandoning embrace,
We remember all those sadly-happy
Years only through a face.


A fucked up Odyssey

We lost our troubles in the trees
And buried our sins in the skies
Under the thick turf of clouds:
The forgotten kingdom that was ours.

Together, we would have lived far, far away.
Nothing mattered but us,
As I created every day
The colours , patchworks of our together woven dream.
Friendship grew to family grew to love.

I would have been a doctor, helping the sick,
You a champion, selling your tricks to the crowds.
Alone in our own little world of love,
Under the thick turf of clouds.

Sweetness turned sour as you went to other men,
Years passed by, the stench of memories grew
Rotting with time and the cold morning dew.
Together... that’s when we’re the most far apart.


The Angels 

When I’m older, I’ll write poetry all day.
Poetry people will cry, sing and pray.
About the hazy California sunset
Where I buried the fat fuck-faced-freak.
My first crush.

And the ink will be my blood,
Assonance, rhyme running through my veins,
Exhaling symbolism into a misty cloud of meaning,
My touch carving feelings into paper.
And the ink will be my blood.

When I’m older, the rhythmic of poetry will rock my world
As I’ll stare into the future,
Reliving the cold, bare, black room
Where beat took what I was prepared to give:
The regular shadows, my childhood innocence,
My adolescent nightmares.

And the ink will be my blood,
Assonance, rhyme running through my veins,
Exhaling symbolism into a misty cloud of meaning,
My touch carving feelings into paper.
And the ink will be my blood.

When I’m older?
When I’m older, I’ll die.
And I can’t deny that, leaving this life I manned,
I’ll die with paper in my hand.