Tag Archives: stone

An Omitted Verse In The Hallowed Scripture

Standing in the shade of altruism, answering the call
Came a modern messiah to save us all
Something far beyond a work of fiction, positronic brain
A world that’s void of all the anguish and suffering, pain
Better tame your convictions before you go and open the cage…

~*~

They implore and beg, don’t sabotage

The remains of another obsolete adage

Waiting solemn for the raptured corpses

To be assembled, attempted, reattached

But the nightmare deceived in penance

Praying covet as pharisees emblazoned

Gods in faux gold, built another temple

Forfeiting all the impure jezebels stoned

And their towers and citadels crumbled

Under a quelled weight of Samson’s sins

Killing a million innocent for the penalty

Of what one iniquitous man wrongly did

The holy writ mutated and twisted again

As a biblical rain unrelentingly poured in

Leprosy-sore mouths of those calling for

A prophetical saviour which never arrived

The testaments old and new burned in ashes

Back to dust, where man belongs and returns

And as the serpent’s fruit was once again bitten

Divine paradise opened up to show promised horror all along.

~*~

We’re creating God, master of our designs
We’re creating God, unsure of what we’ll find
We’re creating God, in search of the divine
We’re creating God, committing suicide…

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Apathy & Density

I am an architect of difference, you are just a hole
Oh how I love to hear you beckon and stripped to the bone
But when I come around I come inside and just leave
Because if I had a heart I wouldn’t wear it on my fucking sleeve…

~*~

am i not allowed to feel

such vicious serendipity

should i stick to chasms

of my own propinquity?

.

why does it amuse you so

when i show distal symptoms

of my emotional capability

you consider it but an insanity

.

is it because this sickness

of the apathetic muse is carved

in your dense brainwaves

and my oracular soul i starved?

.

if your perception is blurred

i’ll spell out clearly the words

love, for me, is not uncharted

and within it i’m not departed

.

if you still refuse to acknowledge

such distinguished fact of the lies

alas, my stone heart cracks to you

am i just not human in your eyes?

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cold feet

anxiety is a chill

embedded at the

notches of your

carved backbones

anxiety frosts over

making you shiver

and it pierces you

in places unknown

anxiety leaves you

breathless and red

and that blizzard

affects you alone

anxiety can’t melt

away, for the icicles

have hardened to

pure diamond stones.

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hurting two hearts with one poem

two birds hit

with one hard stone

but they refused

to admit that

the truth broke

their bones.

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Skipping Stones

I throw a stone upon the air

And let it whistle past blues

If you looked but didn’t care

And you got hit and bruised

There’s nothing more to be

Done, other than let it fade

And pray caution next time

So the boulders you’ll evade.

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Monuments of Stone

“The waves of time wash us all clean.”

~*~

Time. Washing its crystalline waves against the quartz sand, lapping at my hesitant curled toes, receding back into the vast inky darkness of the hyperspace sea. Behold the limitless great ocean of time, and the many beasts and creatures that live within its chasmic abyss, hungry for youth, hungry for experiences, always starving and eager to search for a prey, for memories to wither and waste away.

Years, fluttering like a pure white candle in the blustering wind; fragility trembling, luminosity quivering, conflagration dwindling, wanting in faith of its own stability. Its radiating warmth and incandescent brightness giving you a guiding light in soft hues of lambent hope, before a final gust of tempestuous breeze cruelly snuffs it out, leaving only a burnt wick and melted waxen tears of a lost castaway, congealing within the blinding darkness.

Months, thawing like polar ice caps on a desolate mountain, melting sluggishly and painstakingly, falling like liquidated diamonds as they slide down the slippery slope of porphyry, too enticed by the mysterious allure of gravitational forces to stop; drop by drop, shard by shard, tear by tear, little by little, then faster still, until it gets more gargantuan, mass constellating and collapsing downwards into one hollow rumble of a melancholy howl, mourning and bereft.

Weeks, like seven cups of various tea, flavours diverse and varying depending on your mood. Clashing soft seasons in your mouth; minty, citrussy, milky, zesty, sour, bland, diluted, an overall bittersweet affair, oiling rusty old bones and rejuvenating that sanguine blush in one’s cheeks. Yet when the teapot is empty and all the china cups are drained to the very last umber drop, your stomach feels faintly ill, bitter the only aftertaste in your tongue, and you can neither drink nor take no more.

Days, hurtling back and forth expeditiously, whistling past your ears like a frisbee. Thrown with quick reflexes, launched in a directionless manner, tossed around carelessly with none so much an earnest thought but an insouciant laugh, thinking its all in jubilant fun, as it spins and spins, making you feel dizzy, giving your mind vertigo, as you watch and wait patiently for its ineluctable return, just so you can throw it away again.

Hours, jumping and bounding past like frenetic mercurial creatures, never in a singular place, always everywhere, dancing the stars away as though nothing else matters. One moment they might be flitting by your tiring bruised ankles in a taunting tarantella, in a callous attempt to make you trip, yet they might be spiralling into the open Stavanger horizon, in a woeful waltz of dissolving resignation, the next.

Minutes, in a clever coveted Janus-faced deceit, tricking and ticking, masticating and muttering, revolving and relocating, elongating and elevating, faltering and fading, they’re but ruled ramshackle beings trying to stretch those measly seconds into a nuanced artifice of further longevity, eddying such curious naïvetés as you or I to believe that we have all the time in the world.

And the seconds, by god, those measly scintilla of a moment, a speck of a fairy tale caught in a jiffy, those shortest pauses that feel like a lifetime’s worth of disconnected reminisces, as breaths hitch, pulses halt, hairs raise, and the planet ceases it continuous revolution, taut gravity loosening for the briefest moments, allowing souls to soar. A blink of an eye always costs a bereavement of grand eloquences.

Milliseconds. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years. Decades. Centuries. Aeons. Eternity. Everyone’s wasting time counting time, trying to stop the flow of the inevitable by catching it in an aquarium, and when the pressure is too much, the thin sheet of fragile glass succumbs to the pressing force, and begins to crack and shatter, water pouring out in raging torrents, desperate to escape. We douse ourselves in pneumonic coldness, trying to grasp what’s already slipping from our fingers, trying to save what’s already long gone. But in the end, we get another glass jar and try again and again, much like the innocent hopeful fools we perceive ourselves to be.

A hundred years is what it will take for my living monument to erode away and crumble into clouds of dust and ashes, precipitating pieces of my soul to the weeping planet, yet it will invariably take less than the smallest measure of time to do so, if I stand out into the open salty air and allow myself to be devoured whole by the mistress of the universe.

The waves of time recede in a tranquil stillness, then emerge once again, crashing in a quiet tantrum. The water rises. The tide grows higher. It is up to me whether to bravely swim against the current, or simply drown away in the undertow.

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