Strawberries are raw, vineyards are bare and I’m broke
The wind blows in the sorrows, time apportions my dole.
On the highway the lunatic struggles with his cloak
By the fireplace, my impulse burns with the coal.
My pursuits lie lifeless, I am their assassin
The dregs of whiskey emanate the stench of death.
I have followers - the eyes on the wall, the shadows of my kin
The cat whiskers are taut as the extinction approaches in stealth.
The pages of the diary flutter, my heart follows beat
The bareness is evident, the fecundity turns demure.
My immaculate dreams persuade me, demonstrate fleet
I descend into the realms of the unknown, seduced into immure.
Enveloped in my pride, I lied to me
The fangs of death I could never see
Now I wait, impounded, incarcerated
To be written off , out dated.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
a page from the diary...
I love her. I don’t know how or when did it happen. There are a myriad things i don't know about...my shout...my undeserved clout...my ego bout...the vapid night out..
I have another confession to make, I don’t like defining things, so don’t expect my writings to have many names. I personally don’t like names. They are so damn mundane, banalities of a well defined world, where everything is tagged, priced and sold. Well for some the date itself is auspicious; I have no particular fascination I must say with any kind of detail or definition.
I love digressions, which I guess is a natural result of the whims of my capricious mind. Love is also a definition, some would argue. Love is a denial of individualism, when else does a man or woman deny their capacity to sustain themselves without each other. I see love in a different light though, for me it captures the essence of what I aspire to be
, I fall in love with what I aspire.
I must tell you something else…I don’t take my love to bed…I essentially sleep alone. Somehow sleep is the only reality I understand…the only reality I can define…I find it synonymous to death…which is certain…inevitable. Should I say I like going to sleep, but not if I haven’t deserved it.
I like getting tired before I retire, it gives me form, fulfillment and a definition I can live with, probably the only one I can live with that I am tired.
I am no achiever and I don’t dream. The fact that you read this is simply because I found writing exhaustive. Getting tired can be challenging…and you know it.
This ain’t my story, for I gave up myself long back.
I have another confession to make, I don’t like defining things, so don’t expect my writings to have many names. I personally don’t like names. They are so damn mundane, banalities of a well defined world, where everything is tagged, priced and sold. Well for some the date itself is auspicious; I have no particular fascination I must say with any kind of detail or definition.
I love digressions, which I guess is a natural result of the whims of my capricious mind. Love is also a definition, some would argue. Love is a denial of individualism, when else does a man or woman deny their capacity to sustain themselves without each other. I see love in a different light though, for me it captures the essence of what I aspire to be
, I fall in love with what I aspire.
I must tell you something else…I don’t take my love to bed…I essentially sleep alone. Somehow sleep is the only reality I understand…the only reality I can define…I find it synonymous to death…which is certain…inevitable. Should I say I like going to sleep, but not if I haven’t deserved it.
I like getting tired before I retire, it gives me form, fulfillment and a definition I can live with, probably the only one I can live with that I am tired.
I am no achiever and I don’t dream. The fact that you read this is simply because I found writing exhaustive. Getting tired can be challenging…and you know it.
This ain’t my story, for I gave up myself long back.
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