and the rest is rust and stardust

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  • synapse_ 4w

    This says it all. I want you to see and not see.

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    A memory

    The bread was in the kitchen
    On the stove, near you.

    I saw that and then— I didn't
    Because my gaze moved
    As did your hands,
    Away from the bread
    And towards your hair.

    I glid down the black cascade—
    The water slide, an innocent joy
    And stumbled into an ocean
    Covered by brown algae;
    Ironically, I was breathless.

    And breathlessness makes
    My lips quiver,
    I wonder what makes yours.

    Your lips wrote on the air
    And hummed to the unseen,
    An unseen that wasn't me.

    Yet I saw, I saw a poet's muse
    Drowning in the water
    And I jumped in too—

    I wanted the bread to singe on the stove till dawn,
    But you took it off, there and then

  • synapse_ 9w

    An Irishman Foresees his Death

    By William Butler Yeats

    A lonely impulse of delight
    Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
    I balanced all, brought all to mind,
    The years to come seemed waste of breath,
    A waste of breath the years behind
    In balance with this life, this death.

  • synapse_ 9w


    BY Edgar Allan Poe

    From childhood’s hour I have not been

    As others were—I have not seen

    As others saw—I could not bring

    My passions from a common spring—

    From the same source I have not taken

    My sorrow—I could not awaken

    My heart to joy at the same tone—

    And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

  • synapse_ 9w


  • synapse_ 108w

    Bread and Butter

    The labyrinth of dear vile, of nightmares, of prey mine
    And going around thus, the circle of life
    Guileless hands of all, weaving fragile feathers
    As they their flights are hijacked by migrating kites
    Yet a touch does to nightmares, what a flying carpet to sky.

    Sight falls short in spite web endears in the thinnest eye
    While the naivety of a movement lures a lookout around
    Blood plunges under the cracking of skin as tremors run
    The mortality swims inside the gut long after
    Drops on the still entity of time, tumble along the torrent.

    Bread on the plate, how can tiny soft smudges be spotted
    Or shall I ask hushed, bread, bread for little brother
    To throbbing jerks of head and limbs, in desperation
    As entity is lost, that of fingertips and steady lips
    Into languor, such languor, of recurring dreams.

    As the morning must come, curtains save us all
    From a spider's sleep and dreamcatcher's enchant
    And by the dusk know, the light of their eyes
    Gonna shine so bright, to snatch dreams and sleep
    For it must be the end of skipping stones
    only to see how far they fall.

    Before all the feathers become bohemians of steel
    Since time to time, they've been shown— how are wings stolen from hatching eggs ,
    Only to weave a gray dreamcatcher and
    make it to their deathbeds on your daily bread.


  • synapse_ 108w

    ride. integrated development environment.
    from yours Al.
    (pun intended

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    Chewing up gums and time
    Leaving blue finger prints behind
    As our desperation entails
    In circles concentric
    Triggering thumb fights
    Around straps, holding on for life;

    So it happens in this carnival
    Planks run on wheels
    wheels on hands
    hands on fingers
    fingers on cigarettes
    on this ride back home

    thumbs rendezvous
    with palms abstruse
    short fuses, tall needs,
    high junkies, low weeds
    amidst this buzz; sometimes,
    wavelengths do converge
    to form wisp of light.

    as we tiptoe and run
    like vintage films and tapes
    life passes by everyday
    at the speed of eyes
    betraying everything
    we ever stood for

    Running on tracks
    As still life objects
    With a stroke inside out
    Outside in and just
    somewhere, somewhere
    betwixt, crossing halves
    and halves,
    just like emptiness
    before it reaches
    everywhere at once.

    Mongers exchange smiles
    like fake currency and anew
    And throbs a green
    as runs sweat and blood
    and music breast to breast,
    ear to ear, in journeys
    and compartments.

    Companions swelling
    in mirth and misery
    and such solidarity
    almost in the outskirts of I'yes
    and we's jostling
    about and for one and all
    bumps and turns
    losing glimpses of skies
    conquering their cemented fates

    as if almost all of them want
    it to be their last ride home


  • synapse_ 108w

    To their grace

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    O writer, o writer, it's my turn, it's my turn
    indeed you were born with something amiss
    something so instrumental within you
    to make the deep hollow reverberate
    within your erect thorax, the din, the lull
    of the mess outly your vertebrateral dorsel
    to narrate a story, of amour's platter and morsel
    but, hear, o writer, my host, as i suck your blood
    am i not a leech too, walking in your skin
    and i dwell inside your dirty blood
    do i not know what a creature you are
    for how long will you keep your child, an orphan
    for how long will you deny your blood
    until when you would realise that
    the itch in your veins, it is really me
    lending my ears to your holiness, Father
    beholding your graciousness
    plucking words from mouth, behind ulva
    just as they count your teeth
    o writer, o writer, it's my turn, it's my turn
    to fall short of words.

  • synapse_ 115w

    I am, as restless as a leaking tap
    and these eyes of mine, too dry
    water mumbles, blows a spit bubble
    you're too old to understand.

    I am, as wild as naked skin
    and this body of mine, garbed
    hands run, ripping lair of a many sun
    you're too apparelled to undress.

    I am, as cynic as alcohol
    and this throat of mine, parched
    you offer water I deny, undiluted
    you're too abundant to express.


  • synapse_ 120w

    G E N E S I S

    by Eden's hiatus
    o the fruits we've plucked
    tasted in creator's afflatus
    smudged underneath sin's eyelids
    weighed upon by chained misleads
    pray, to seize the fleeing fear
    fear that enroots seizures.

    if we were to swing our breaths
    from stemming cradles to ripe deathbeds
    and the wuthering within
    our hearts shall beat best
    in the unrest we've dwelled
    as nails share with the cuticle
    a breath and a death.

    while we savour and savour
    the sweet wine of stars
    which swirls, flavoured silver blood
    yet a generous drop sticks unto mortals
    from the abundance of Neptune
    the saviour's salted kiss
    is but, not persuasion
    merely, an unsound chortle.

    my friend, brings you, on knees
    all the men who have thus said
    bow and kneel on theirs
    before the nucleus of life
    this unknown and widely known
    whose power is exploited
    in everything but mere name.

    as it satiates taste buds of maw
    pervading through all the whiffs
    like drowning in the deep deluge
    of little water that may wash
    the deeds away, not in dense stains
    seeking green groves leading
    to a beetroot shaded maze.

    the red bite of the fruit on lips
    has been seeded ages ago
    forbidden the good and the evil
    ignorance, the sentinel
    of where our hands sow
    in the vast lush garden.

    but so it happens
    in the era and epoch of gods
    that blood of the next of kins
    embellishes naked and porous skins.