Sounds in the morning
splash of water
honk of vehicles
motor and scooter rides
corpulent father
with corpulent daughter
the milkman arrives
with a thud or bang
grimaces, I search for a pen
my bag, another day
as the newspaper rolls in
outside I clutch
at faded memories
like my denims
fading in sun.
Admitting it would be an injustice, it would be cruel and typical to assume that there is only so much inspiration that you could give me. You see, its like the glass that you drank champagne from, suddenly after the fourth sip the glass looses its luster, it turns lukewarm, and now there is a stain on your shirt from your careless drunk behavior. The same way, you find out who someone is after some time, you find out who your lover is and you realize you can’t keep drinking because you’re going to wind up too drunk to get home. So you move on to the next habit, and you leave the club and light up a cigarette. Sometimes you get too used to them, or the buzz wears off, or worse it makes you sick. Sometimes I hate to write about you so much, I would rather paint a world where you are good and decent, not so cruel and typical. My lungs can’t handle the smoke anymore, so I put out my cigarette and keep the lighter, but I have nothing left to light, so I make my way home, with yet another habit, a little more numb and hoping that tomorrow I will be able to make it to the art store after work to buy some new colors and start a new painting, or at least quit smoking.
It’s a big joke
To say fairness in practice is
And to hope for it in all cases
Is a thing all fair in itself.
Where for the masses
Fairness is nobody can show
In all fairness when people go on working
To arrive with great certainty at the doors
Of justice where fairness lies trampled or crumpled
And people seeing it retrace to despair
Of decades or ages
Over which seeking it
They marched leading movements
From street corners to parliament halls
Heaving law courts and rending skies with slogans
Demanding fair practices of distant days
Of honesty and simple life ways
To be restored in their pure and undiluted forms
To recognize fair from the foul and live in peace.
I wish people would be pure like snow
And would be melted with warmness
And would become a moment creator like water
And would go against any block like overflow
Why the extinguishment of consciousness
causes me such distress I do not know
for that nothingness into which we all go
will surely put my preoccupations to flight
nullifying everything in an endless night.
Wherefrom, you tell me,
Shall I collect evidence
On my complete ruin in your hands
Once you in all cunning
Have erased everything
From coming to be used against you
To put me back in my place
From where in utter grief and loss
I stand displaced and perplexed?
Now thus once again
On your calculated return to me
I have nothing more to ask
Except to once in concrete terms
Explain to me how and in what conditions
You sought to withdraw from my life
To keep your shadow constantly troubling me
To my utter despair and ruin
From the dark abyss of which perhaps
Never in this life
I think I shall recover for sure.
Evidence it is
I am beside you and here
Not demanding anything except
Finding you broken and lost and groping
For something you know
You will never be able to lay
Your crazy hands upon.
Last night I had a gin gimlet
Usually prone to bourbon or Irish whiskey
Departed from the norm
Took a lovely journey to clear spirits
Helped my mood
Became floaty and optimistic
instead of the usual dulling down of the senses
A drink before dinner, centers me
Gin races through my system
Euphoric
Everything’s gonna be alright
It’s a gin thing babe
She’s darkened art,
an almost human (one might say),
a conjurer of charms so terrific,
of love and hate
and magic, prolific.
With pins and needles
Sticking out of her heart
She is hypnotizing humanity
right from the start.
A spiritual figure for luck and charm,
if fitly used, she means no harm.
I marvel at her sinister décor,
a bald head and eyes that lure
Is she the one to avenge wrong doers?
Or is she the one being avenged for?
With soothing colors that killed her soul,
Pulling everything around like a warm hole.
The doll that makes little ones smile,
Is all set to cause fear in their eyes.
If what they say is actually true,
Voodoo is her thing,
The doll is just for fools.
Then maybe we should burn her,
Put her in a ball of fire,
While her colors turn to ash,
We might just see her true desires.
I am the extrovert who keeps to himself.
I think about myself before anyone else.
I look myself in the mirror for myself.
I talk to you but about me.
I selflessly extend my hand when yours is full.
I am the introvert who only believes in extroversion.
I am kind and gentle in most extraordinary ways.
In a way that I appear when you need me the most.
It is most unlikely that I might be of use.
I am soft and trusted when you whisper your secrets.
Your secrets are mine, but mine are distrusted.
I am rude and harsh in the face of self-beliefs.
I am courageous to the cowardly.
I stand up to them who can’t stand up for themselves.
My strength in my arms is a symbol of size.
My strength in my heart is nowhere found.
I protect myself from external disasters.
I am a coward to all the internal monsters.
Am I the face that they recognise?
Am I the name that they plagiarize?
Who am I or what am I?
Am I not to ever understand in this lifetime?
Am I human being that counts?
Or am I just another package of weight?
Who am I?
More at http://pepperscript.com/.
asleep, relief from pain for a while
awake thankful for what preceded
grateful for what remains, hopeful
ambivalent about whats to come
yet sober, aware of life’s fragility
in the last analysis so powerless
swept along by the day-to-day
love rules supreme