Tag Archives: philosophical

The Smiling Man

And I just can’t look, it’s killing me and taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Turning through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis
But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes, ’cause I’m Mr. Brightside…

~*~

there’s a man with a distinctive smile

etched on his face; a sneer that was

chiseled in by a thousand contorted

facial muscles, until all the wrinkles

deepened and the fault lines became

permanent highways leading nowhere

.

but past his craggy visage; his crooked

nose, his ears that stuck out a bit, and his

eyebrows that arch high on his forehead,

only his eyes are in ever perpetual change

sometimes glinting blue, sometimes a dull

grey, sometimes electric green, sometimes

verdant brown, but never black nor white

.

and that smiling man—with the lips so thin

that one would wonder if they were drawn

on with a graphite pencil—sometimes when

time is at a standstill and the entire planet

ceases its rotation, his rugged countenance

smoothens out, his crooked nose straightens,

his ears lie flatter, his condescending brows

fall down a notch or two, and his eyes lose

their chromatic spectrum, flickering away…

and sometimes, if the universe feels truly

unlucky, they might just see him frown.

~*~

I’m coming out of my cage
And I’ve been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this?

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Filed under Poetry

The Game Played Right

Is there anyone who can make me see?
Help me breathe
Is there anyone who can make me feel alive inside?
Sink or swim is all I know tonight
Well take me to the bed, it feels so right
Wake me up…

~*~

I keep on lying. The silent pieces remain unapologetically in my lips, melting and melding together and apart, clashing like shades of blue and gold, until my smiles are mutated and my bated tongue is in shreds. Fear is an embrace I’ve learned to take upon myself, selling myself short to it, buying away the final remaining original thoughts I’ve slaved over in myriad sleepless nights until I’m a-la carte. Change is to blame for the causeless effect, and I’m asking for more from what can’t be taken away from me, cutting corners and targeting the contrition with a bolted gun, as if that would solve my problem. Would that open the deadlocked box of hope, containing those transient reminiscences of what used to be faith, keeping my wrists from giving itself up to bladed handcuffs and abrading ropes?

No, because it’s been open all this time. I’m merely pretending that it’s fully out of grasp, stuffing the sunshine in a pocket with a hole, then feigning remorseful surprise when I grasp the cloth and fail to feel its reassuring outline. I won’t get away, just as the moon can’t break away from its cruel mistress, no matter how hard it tries. Dependence requires sustenance, never mind if one’s getting hurt, never mind if one’s just wasting time and lightyears, never mind that there’s someone who sucks on the cigarette and there’s one who gets snuffed out in the ashes of its former companions, and both are slowly dying with each harmful, addicting, nicotine drag. Perhaps it’s better to move on, burn my house down with the lighter, and stab a flag on top of a desolate mountain, letting the frigid Arctic breeze pierce my lungs, reminding me that I’m dead inside, day by day, every single night.

Yes, the truth hurts worst when you’re lying on your back in a hollowly-carved bed, watching the tick of the sagging clock draw frowns on your dripping beige ceiling, the crude notches on the bedpost your only substitute for a calendar, not even the gathering dust on your windowsill keeping track of your blunt existence, but is that really such a bad plotline to read into? After all, I’m a mere instrument of conflict, and if I do not fulfill my function, I have no point, and dull instruments are of no use to anyone but the junkyard. So, what’s the point but pointlessness? What is there to release from arrogance, from selfishness, from egocentric human needs and desires, shallowness sucking away the will to speak in freedom, constantly starving for lust and lusting for starvation and dying from either loneliness or hunger in the end?

Give me that. Give me an answer that would morph my vulgar counterfeit laughter back into a purely genuine jubilance, give me a reply that would wash away the contracting fallacies in my conflicted mind and make my craving lecherous soul finally taste the decadent truth, give me a statement to swim in and sink under as I ponder deeply upon it and spend all my cashed-in stars to figure it out until I may finally repose in peace, give me an oratorical rhetoric that would drag me out of the hands of the angels in the ambulance and shock my heart into sinus rhythm, give me something, anything at all that would set this hellish perpetual carousel in a dead jolting halt and wouldn’t throw me off the cutthroat ride, give me—give me what I want. Yet, is what I want really what I need?

Never. Because in this reality, the parallel cruelty prevents any chance of a perfect alignment or even a destined intersection between any limits, and it’s all we can do to keep walking in the thin line and keep a painful positiveness, because backtracking to the negatives would devour us whole, render us irrational, and count us as impossible. Yet, despite knowing all of those and sharing such meaningless contrivances to the eyes that refuse to perceive and the ears that refuse to listen, I still want you to lie to me. Lie to me until your lips are mutated and your bated tongue is in shreds, lie, lie, lie, until the wrong turns right, until forward becomes backwards, until the truth is the ultimate lie, and I’ll gladly do the same to you. After all, we’re just doing what we need to do. We’re just doing all we can do.

~*~

These self inviting auras
Made me bring out the sun
Your body’s played its role
It’s ruined my game
And now I can’t believe I’ve done it
But somehow I still feel
But I still feel, so far gone…

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Filed under Prose

Just A Twinge Of Cosmic Angst: A Sestina

I sit taciturn and wondering, waiting for the universe

to take my shaking hand into her further infinity.

I see the connected constellations, ostentatious

as they are, splashes and arcs of light tessellating

into the galaxy’s tender motion and sleepy staccato,

Falling fast within this midnight sky so consummate.

.

Now I won’t admit into being also consummate,

Not in the physique of this elegant universe.

My body is made of mere stardust staccato

ravelling tightly into a quite beautiful infinity.

Yet I shall admit defeat unto death, tessellating

into a parasitic decay non so ostentatious.

.

We all wish to enter the gates of Heaven, ostentatious

as humans get. We are quite passionate and consummate

with our concepts arranged into a stained-glass tessellation,

Ignoring still the vast reaches withheld in the universe

and thinking that this small orbit of ours is all that’s infinity,

Earning us a mindset of broken glass and fragmented staccato.

.

Truly, our planet is a zealous one, of cobalt and viridian tessellation,

Pieced together, and yet barely holding on, our divinity ostentatious.

Our sea levels and stretched firmament seem to reach infinity

up to our all-knowing Mother, her opalescent gown consummate,

But then again, she is just another dress in this party of the universe

Her descrying jade heart pulsating and flatlining into faintest staccato.

.

And materialistic, we resolutely remain, technology tessellating,

Preaching with arguing high voices, radioing into noisy black staccato.

Pray must we, for help. Ask forgiveness to the spinning universe

for we have been too indulged getting severely pompously ostentatious.

And soon, no longer will she ever care, for she is a goddess consummate

with her rarities. A powerful chromatic angel donning white wings of infinity.

.

We drown all our self-abnegation in a shallow turbid pool of falsified infinity,

But look up to the astral skies, you fools, and see the stars’ bright tessellation!

We can nevermore achieve the paramount gracefulness of being consummate,

for we are mere scintilla specks floating in space. Barely even a borrowed staccato

that’s vainglorious, ruffling our colourful feathers. Now cease ostentation,

Breathe in the sun…do you feel that slightest twinge of cosmic angst from the universe?

.

I whisper but echoing souls, cut into philosophical tessellation, and cast into evaporation. I might as well be speaking staccato,

but the patient universe hears my every cry, and gifts me some of her onyx satin habiliment. I accept humbly, non ostentatiously

so I see clearly finally. Wherefore must we humans be so dragged into consummate? This life is not a question of perfection, but rather, what we choose to do with our own infinity.

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Filed under Fixed Poetry, Poetry