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  • thefoxisdead 2d

    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.


    sincerely,

    sir baudelaire.

    (timeout)

    ©the_fox

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    dear mother,

  • thefoxisdead 1w

    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.

    @the_fox

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    sir baudelaire and heaven's trumpet

  • thefoxisdead 2w

    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.

    ©the_fox

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    a moment of silence for my phone

  • thefoxisdead 3w

    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.

    ©the_fox

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    Nov(ember)

  • thefoxisdead 5w

    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.

    ©the_fox

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    to whomsoever it may concern

  • thefoxisdead 5w

    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).

    ©the_fox

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    memories. memories ? memories :

  • thefoxisdead 6w

    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).

    ©the_fox

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    friends that broke my heart

  • thefoxisdead 6w

    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.

    ©the_fox

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    the art, the artist, the son, the (third) strike

  • thefoxisdead 6w

    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.

    ©the_fox

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    silhouettes from the false-awakening nexus event

  • thefoxisdead 7w

    "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.

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    the knight who had his shining armor spoilt on his way to the fleet-footed winter