writing this, with a heavy heart - as my decadence tries its best to transpose this heaviness into punctuations and decimals. five days and a couple of hours without my mother's touch, and, neither of us were aware of the days, which were seemingly dealing their hands in individual eternities.
writing this, with a broken heart - as a part of me, withers away; like an old movie that was subjected to no acclaim at all; oh, how it is the same movie but the epilogue changes each time, me and my mother watch it.
my mother, she's raised me a poet, as I am jotting this down with a heart that's barely hanging out of my sleeves — I am reminded of the days : when I had my face, sprawled across the desk, trying to fathom the next rhyme, the next scheme of heartache before the daybreak, the next syllable, while the kids from my school were busy with their hands and feet, on a ball.
holed-up amidst the ruins of shifting tectonic plates; what are mountains and what is nature, if I can't have my mother's embrace ? a valley of death, as the clock tends to twenty — I could play the guitar and toast to being one year closer to the schoolyard burial soil; but, that misery is nothing, it is nothing : compared to the sorrow that found its way in, on my way out.
born on a cold day of November, haunted by the festivities of the season. a winter, haunted by these letters, letters to my home, my family, my mother; and she would, in all probability, never have a crack at reading this : this is me, the prodigal son, and, a nobody to some; even when the glow is gone, I would be my mother's so-
this is me, weathered like the leaves are, during an unforgiving winter : this is the end of me.
tell me, what's worse ? forgetting my birthday, or, moving past the people who remind me of that cursed day ? nothing is going to fill the craters, the crevices, no Bible is going to compensate for the verses, that the heated Carnot engine inside my six-inch-screen had ingested into its heat-sink.
pardon the thermodynamics, pardon my tendencies, seeking science in tragedies — the wave of unwarranted spite, it washes you over like a misplaced summer breeze in the middle of November. so, here's the warm breeze at the cusp of a wintry realisation : you would rather take it to the stories since, the lack of validation, made you feel bitter.
nothing punches a hole into my heart, bigger than leaving home and my parents, exactly before the hour of my adulthood — exactly before, the death-clock tends to twenty. my mother had asked me to have faith, and, honestly, if there was somebody up there : I would have asked him to help me; to blow the heaven's trumpet, help me, in the death of my innocence.
what turns a boy into a man ? is it his exposure to a rusty, out-of-tone guitar ? a tattoo on his wrist that is bizarre, a suicide-note, written in utmost disregard, or, an old conceptual car ? what turns a boy into a man ?
I wish we could talk more, more than we already do. I wish for a lot of things, and, oftentimes : the imagery isn't sufficient in order to bring my art to a life of its own, hence, writing non-fiction is just as important as going on about someone's cranberry clitoris; like that one time when I wanted to bring a gun to the first day of my school — and, I know that you, you wouldn't run even when the safety's off.
I've had several losses, from strangers to lovers, but, nothing ever came quite close to creating this void, like the loss of my previous phone did. my memories rest, peacefully or not — we shall never know, but, they rest, behind the veil of a black screen, they rest, forever.
find me on the fifteenth floor, an entire summer that just passed me by, watching the almost-skyscrapers crumble, foil themselves in the crimson of ruins. lost more than gained, lovers, friends, acquaintances, friends, even : the only longing is to lose my life now.
my days are merely numbered, the arithmetic progression with an unfortunate end-term; you happened to be the last of my oldest things, the stretcher to my broken limbs, you were the last of my oldest things, the darkness of relief to an eye that doesn't blink.
we sat by the pews and watched, as the congregation lied; I had my fists impaled on the shards from a broken window, as your innocence died. winters are nimble, each day passes by with every movement of my rocking chair — anecdotes provide that Goddesses are masterful liars, and, you used to sit very well with the description.
my head turns around to take a last look, at the last of my oldest possessions : it was the fall of August, to be precise, in the wake of that fall, we both had to attend each other's wake, and, you had to make sure that the shards are never coming out of my foraminous hands, you had to make sure, that I never-
the meticulousness of my details aren't enough to subtract the crimes that you commited, from the equation — find me on the fifteenth floor, I long for an August, maybe not, let us let it be.
I haven't had a person to truly love, since the year of '19, and, I haven't had a pat on the back, or, a repost, for writing my letters down, and putting them up for the auction of most reports. this sewer of creatures who pride themselves on being poets; of course, they are poets, as long as, it is safe to say that Donald Trump was an universally loved president for the States.
now, these rodents, they are broadly divided into two categories — one : John Green enthusiasts, the ones to get off at flowers, or, hot-chocolate jars, for that matter. two : the kind of lowlifes who would gamble their mother's savings, just to see Haruki Murakami sodomise Kafka, who was apparently, sitting on the shore.
so, the next time I hear about John Green's hot jerk-off challenge in Alaska, or, about Murakami and his slushy kitten-shaped sex-toys, it's going to be either me, or, you, in the end with a slit throat.
there's a thing about colognes and, me : the one that I had been using for the past couple of years, was discontinued a week ago; now, I reek of albumin, sorry, I meant to say — memories, memories ? memories : apologies, once again, I couldn't figure out, how, or what to write after the constant reminders of- I would rather not.
so, here's the new cologne, impaled on my collarbone — stinking of a rainforest during the prime downpour of July, is somewhat better than the stench of albumin, pardon, I meant, memories, memories ? a note to self : it is high time, I should give up on writing.
my last poem, it was predominantly honest, honest in a way : it had everything that the contraceptives in my mouth, keep me from speaking — even though, from my standpoint, the ledge isn't quite close to be even called comfortable : every word that I jot down is for someone, someone, I wish to not write about anymore.
a new cologne, a new poem, reinforcing the wistful essence, once more; regardless of how my life turns itself around : you would still be, you : apologetic in your unapologetic way; and, it seems almost customary, for me to be in the ruins, the casualty of the century.
I should've known, I should've known that good friends are oftentimes reduced to dust, the dust that makes the best of your souvenirs, homely; I should've known, glory is only momentary, especially, when basking in it warranted the death of me. I should've known that you wouldn't look back, you would carry on : I should've known.
(from my time, primarily spent, by your dusty shelves : I should've known, that you would acquaint me, with the same fate, as the books that you never read).
in due time, the words burn, into the spitting images of someone, we once used to be. I had written you a letter, a couple of months ago — the clock is well ahead of the church bell, and, as the hourly readings say : I am still waiting to hear from you, to this day, hour and minute.
there's not much left to explain, I had put my best foot forward, and, the both of us didn't know that it would stumble upon a puddle of muddy water and eggshells : another lost war, getting you to talk more — is, another lost war.
the world barely shifts in tides and waves, when you've been asleep for an entire week; you say that there is nothing more to see, but, have a glance at me : losing my place, oh, so quietly, as if, I was a nobody. losing my place, as if, you have scraped your heart once again — yet, you have punched holes into mine, with envy, losing my place in your eyes, oh, so quietly.
(the world whirls away, it doesn't wait and, neither do you — you're still asleep, as if there's nothing better than tomorrow's daylight, you can't wait to have the hourglass run out of time, and, I would have to pray for you, if breaking a heart is a crime).
my mother has raised a son, and, she loves him despite the harm done from the scissors, scalpels, stitches and the sun, the broad daylight heat that burns her son's heart, in spite of it all, the jack of all disasters is the master of none — a stark conflict that dawns upon the mother's head, after watching her son cloak his existential angst with two girls and a Blu-ray of soft-porn; the master of all trades is, but a loser, however, you can't take away that the son, is infact, a witty one.
fill the Whitehouse with blacks, fill George Floyd with air, fill the whorehouses with manwhores and not blokes who would have to learn the hard way, that, love isn't found by the stripper poles — fill the son with malevolence, fill his heart with the envious stupor, fill his head with a malignant tumor, fill him with pornography : the one where an evangelist watches two lesbians kissing. and, do ask him, is this the same world that the mother had cast him into ? a planet, so blue in its ways, yet, it doesn't blink while leashing someone before an auction : everything's for sale, me and you, in a world so blue — point me towards my massa, my heart's made up of rusted tin, tether me to slavery, this blue world hates the complexion of my skin.
well, that was somewhat of a detour, let us get back right on : the mother and the son, and the world that was brought upon; is this the same world ? the world of life-sized rodents, hypocrites at every other roundabout, and, if black is frowned upon — why is it the only shade of color that is found on every mortal man's bank statement ? why is it the only shade of color that is found at the bottom of every mortal man's heart ? these are the questions of a mortal man, of a newborn son, of a nobody, but me, before he's put up for auction, one, two, three : and, he's sold to his massa.
the witty son would meet the demise of his individuality, and, the mother is supposed to see her son leave. this story, this anecdote, this piece is my best attempt at seperating the art from the artist, you could tell, from the narration, that, a very little is left of me; mother, your son is an industry plant : the higher the heat, the hotter the pot, the queerer the world, the more are found with their throats slit, or, shot at a parking lot — now, does the homophobe reside within the son, or, the artist ? that's a question for the masses, that's a question for my massa.
long gone, are the days, long gone, are my ways of sleeping without a single stir — if what they say : "you become exactly what you hate" is true, I've turned into anybody and everybody.
the need of the hour, is to jot this piece down as quickly as possible; for, my mind is trapped inbetween the lines of a dull pivot. grieving brings no good to my life, especially when, cathartic artistry is my only resort; and, the cathartic essence, it swells to an extent of undeniable angst — droplets of water, are all that I see, an unvarying sea of worry.
wash me in the troubled waters of your spirit, beat me into a shape that is not so sorry to say the least, and, keep my bones from showing out of my skin; wash me again, lay my hands underneath the waves of your lies, your lies that slept right next to my promises.
the world whirls away and turns to dust, yet, there's not one day that goes by, without your face refracting its way out of a dead woman's burnt remains; along with you, scorched are my vows — the hope for a better tomorrow has met its glorious end : I am Romeo, and, the future is Juliet, the past holds me just enough, to toss Romeo and Juliet on their deathbed, two deaths, and, one false awakening.
"have you not lost the pieces to your heart already, that, you're here again, scavenging for love in all the wrong places ?", she asked. there's nothing that she could possibly do, to mend what is beyond broken — too late, to say that it's too late; my tongue is so full of the salt that we both had tasted : it is so full, that I could have the Britishers, raid me for salt.
such a stark distaste, for people in my writings; she could've landed at the very same spot as others did — but, she did not, life is not a walk in the park, nor, a walk in the cake; life is not a walk at all, life is not meant to be lived : and, me, I'm not supposed to survive; I'm supposed to be underneath your bed, and, I'm not; nothing is at its right place.
dearly departed, her withdrawal has left me in a torment so severe; it could knock the entirety of the Schmidt pain index, with a mere blow. here's a little drop of blood, oozing out, from my left ear — oh, with all these voices in my nightmares, I haven't been able to clear out my schedule, in order to take care, of myself.
another martyr buried beneath the mist of the blistering winter; another martyr, I know of — in another man's life, another man's time, since this time, the minutes were not following up to the second chances; I had to trade my soul, to have her face appear by the hindsight mirror : I do not know of any man who has not marched up to greet death, before his time.
for everything that I was given at hand, they were not enough to chase the fleet-footed winter — at the least, I know : just how I would die; the lovelorn Icarus loses his life, not to the warmth, but, to the cold shoulders of a winter sun.
"go that way, and your doom is at hand", is what she had said.
when I was born my mother was one inch from death -- but she lived to watch me transform into everything she didn't want me to be , to witness the slaughtering of the daughter she thought she was giving birth to . she says i spoke a lot-- a lot , I still do ; what else are you supposed to do when you want to be seen , acknowledged ? --
you make me feel loved , so i cling to you , like a twitchy addict needing her fix . your name has four letters so does mine . death has five-- what are we ? a pendulum dancing between bloodthirsty lust and lustworthy blood ! sucking off each other's life sources like Dolores sucked off Humbert-- metaphors are just white patches used to cover sin stains on the veil of purity draped over the destruction we caused . what do you expect me to find in your desk drawers ? earrings ? Polaroids of naked women ? i find letters you wrote me when you were high as Poe sober . what do i do with these twelve kinds of love you drop in my lap passing by ? I only know the darker end of this road , i don't know what to do with your light , except get blinded .
you are a black hole and i have gladly left the driver's seat of this car , and leaned back to enjoy this sight of you disorienting , trying to squeeze me in --