Sometimes serious

I never pictured me to be a clandestine lover who has to wait until the dark to hold a hand While people around sing love songs of all ages. We still lie there in window strained moonlight shadows of coconut trees rooting Our shadows in this city, where we rode across old men preserving every ounce of culture they could find. Liquid music flowing off our faces - didn't we dance in the corner of the club away from other drunken friends where caucasian prostitutes lurked and found some middle aged men. The city denies desire to us Condemns the want of touch. It fears the dangerous ideas that are born within people who are the Bastard children of society. But we must weave our beauty not in ritualistic silk strands or in the camphor burning out of every sacred doorstep. We must clasp all beauty until the break of the dawn when ladies with their brooms - sweep truths of the night out of their houses to the roads. Some who wants to see us still wil

This is your chance. The truth, normally buried in his gut Today, is dangling on his tongue It will unfold like yarn when you give it just a tug You can roll all that truth up into a ball. Throw it back at him and check his reflexes later. Today he doesn't do the job of sweeping leftover words at his tongue They have gathered like dust 'Nobody deserves truths', he thinks. 'There are none outside microscopic time.' It is a truth accident today Like milk spilling over. While you can, get him. All the objects he has, must mean things. Ask him about his cigarette addiction today Ask him about that corner in his mind where he goes to detest sympathy Ask him about the paper bits he would never ever throw away Ask him about the girl he likes Ask him about his shame and get a laugh. Ask him in the most judgmental or superficially sympathetic tone about why there is so much distrust in his heart. Once you have gathered all the truth you so de

Only in fairy tales are there kids who love their parents back without knowing about the indifferent apathetic universe. Only in lore are there kids who are grateful - who are satisfied knowing- that there are people who take charge of their life and who care about them and feed them and make troubles their own Before going into the space of empty thought and loss of purpose. Only in a story is there a kid who understands the value of what he has not yet lost. You can start a story about a man who was happy about his job and his family and about the little joys of life You can start a story about a woman whose family is everything for her and who was sacrificial and truthful and joyous and giving. In reality, such a lady is in denial. In reality, she is pretentious. In reality, such a man is not curious In reality, such a man is dull. Question-less, flat. Happiness in a tale is the lie that must keep the possibility of real happiness alive. Truths that

Consumption is passive. We all have to buy to live, work to buy. But what we buy is passive. Mostly only based on availability. Mostly only choosing one out of many. Mostly only harmless sustaining and expensive taste. Let other men slaughter your animals You're no hunter, let other men kill. Let others, still, clean up your dirt That job is too rich for your class. Let others spend hours searching for diamonds wrapped in the blood of their brothers. Let others do your paper work. Don't get blood on your hands, no. Don't spur war. Don't you. Don't you get mud on your hands either. You can't wash away everything clean, all the time. Just be an intention. Just be a motivation for war. No panic. Just be the 'society' everyone can point at when they try to explain civil dissonance and rigidity and violence and absurdity. Stay put. Blame conditioning. Blame lack of will, herd mentality. Blame the education system that taught you

This is not a world for daydreamers. If your thoughts wander often, we apologize but this world is not for you. But this is not a world for being gentle and talking through your troubles until there is semblance of joy. This is not a world for beauty No more than what will really sell. If you thought otherwise, we apologize. But it is not a world for softly resting your head against assurance. So please, just. Find out what catches peoples' attention. What is it that people like. Find out how to put things so that They will buy the most From the money they spend by making other people buy other things. This is not a world for song and dance, We apologize. But if you want to lose yourself there are other ways As long as you purchase. This is not a world for feeling. It is a world for sensation. Didn't you figure that out already when you read about evolution? It is not a world for justification So if you think otherwise We apologize But this is

I I don't know what it is about you That makes my body talk like it does Every time it thinks of you. And the magnetic movements it makes And every shape it forms  Is all because you made it Whatever it is now. You made it beautiful not in the sense of a morning Or an oil drawn landscape But in the way of a volcano or a truth That is beautiful because it is stark  And because it is. You make my body acknowledge its being a whole with every part Rather than an attribution, or a simulation For the brain itself to map its skills on to. In the way that all of the earth is It is alive. Red blood flows in it much less than Its realization of itself. II The terrifying truth in my arms and face and legs And the cynical jester in the head Talk to each other so often these days There is no lie on the body.  No truth exists in the mind. If it has borne wounds, and been burnt If it has recovered or rotted, If it has sparkled or calmed, It is open to

Does it help that some of us are lost together?  When what we look for doesn't exist in the same place,  And no other validation would do, to reassure? When we know the beating of the heart that we desire to hear And the warmth that we desire to seek. And the caress that would excuse the darkness in our act Which would forgive the bleakest desperation of our soul Doesn't exist in the world anymore And we must live a lie, and build up a castle.  A showplace for our personalities full of glittering smiles. And turn inwards to that image for reassurance Till we get thrown back into the night in the desert Where our naked desperation breathes the cold air And shrinks, and feeds on no love to live by Finding others as lost as you As depraved as the soul has become after seeing all these years of never having been home And never having had a tinge of an idea validated. Maybe if a significant amount of time passes There will be a surge in the heart again. Unt

A piece about the river bubbling? Or the rolling hills. Winter leaves rustling Or springtime joy. Piano speaking of a yarn spinning Or the night sky in string harmonics Or the conversation of a trumpet and a voice. Maybe. But the sound of time rumbling? A piece about the essence of life? A soundscape that captures all of love? Rather than a small story? The song of the harmony of the spheres? Instead of tops spinning Why associate higher symbolism to something As temporal and recurrent as music? Why project our ideas of what is worthwhile and aim for every word we write? Every note we sing, to be a masterpiece? Instead of just being what it is for itself. A temporal little being.

There is no motion in a moment In an infinitesimal time slice, there is stillness Absolute certainty and knowledge of space. It's not possible to have an infinitesimal slice of time  that can imply other slices of time That can be integrated under a curve to form time itself. And for once, the part doesn't represent the whole. Some notes don't represent the soul And when we sit by a rock in an impending embrace And our eyes come together for a kiss which doesn't even exist in the meeting of the lips but of the mind. Not the presence of a glance but the kind And that is where you can have lived Every dream could be remembered as a past And the line between what is thought and what has happened Slowly ceases to exist And the rigor of reality cannot control the intention of the mind. I sense that you have come close already when you have wanted to You have held me and shown me comfort which would otherwise Also not exist in

Stains of graphite and ink stain my view of the world again and again Should i question until i die or should i rather just take in these advertisements, and eat and drive along and access my body like it were, a cog of the world order which, as always, is incapable of explaining itself. It is incapable of laying down its motivations as am i. It is as haphazard and fast as the smallest  brownian particle, as it can be.  And as much as we could hypothesize  and act as if our planetary system was an atom And collapse into anarchy, never eating or sleeping Or as much as we could stimulate every meaning that we could seek Milking sense from the world Respecting laws and tenets and ethics and freedom In a world where things will get engulfed by heat and fire And wisps of dream and smoke of hopes will Escape from this matter that we have been pinned to, for ever. And as cars drive by, cities light themselves up And trees respire like they always