Apologies and Explanations

It’s funny the way they sell their promises to postcards
and decide to pack up. And leave their violins behind
Oceans spread out, Rivers widen.
And then they tear those tears from eyes and press
them between words and pages to preserve them,
Do they do the same with flowers?
and so many of them have got roots and wings at the same time,
it’s not even funny.
A bit of carelessness, and the gun goes off….
Leave your hair open. There! You’re the poster girl now!
Boats dress themselves up. Strange contours
They’ve sent a new garrison now. It’s raining.
Once. Twice.
Clawing it’s way through the clock, the cat
Sudden shivers. Blood. There’s an old man in my neighbourhood
who visits cathouses every night. There’s an old moon in the sky.
Elves dance in moonlight, or so they say.
Damp hotelrooms. Lamps. Fog. Frogs.
I don’t know why, at times, everything seems broken.
And people seem to be hiding behind their Turkish baths
as mad hawks and ghouls and lost promises and false tears and
naked nymphs and torrid patterns and ashes of words and silent symphonies
and naked nymphs swipe down from the clouds with paper-swords in hand


They blew their trumpets, they blew their noses
They grew their tulips, they grew their roses
They knew their Jesus, they knew their Moses
So what’s the time when the gate closes?

And the crowd gathers. They pull the burning child from the fire
They save the child. The child wanted to become a tree.
The child was beautiful once. Now his skin is burnt. Beauty is skin deep.
Now, he is more “it” than “he”. The child grows up with scars.
One day he sets the town on fire. All the people die. Burnt.
The child lives. Burnt.
(of course, he’s a child no more. A normal child grows up to be a man
or a woman. A burnt child grows up to be a demon. Anyway.)

Damn Fun!
So when will you call me again? I’ll bring flowers for you next time we meet.
What flower do you like most? Oh, and what shall its colour be? Yes baby,
I love you too. Let me kiss you. Once. Ah, thank you. Now go to hell.

The Judge and the Jury are skeletons.
So beware!
it seems like skeletons smile all the time,
but expert evidence says that skeletons can not smile. Beware!
There’s a cloud looming over the city. Beware!
The Gods are angry because they’re dead. Beware!
Much blood shall flow. Beware!
I’m wearing a fake mustache and I’m not my uncle. Beware!


I'm not you. You're not me. That's where it begins.
And that's where it should ideally end.

Haha, you’re funny. Your teeth are funny. Your tongue is funny.
And this is not out-of-context pornography.
Neither is this some digitally enhanced illusion.
It’s just a good old mirror
And it’s for real
And I’ll sell it to you if you shoot at me.
Is this a new disguise? I reckon so.

Well, it’s nice to hear that you still believe in blank pages.
But if I tear you down and feed you to the dogs, will you still be believing?
But then, what’s a typo: “dog” or “god” ? eh?

I can go now. I won’t.

Beats me why I’m writing this shit at two thirty in the morning.
Maybe I was trying to explain a few things when I started writing this, or
it might be so that I was just planning to stuff everything in the same wagon and then to push it off the cliff.
As you can presently see, I’ve failed. Miserably so.
Maybe I won’t write a single word ever again.

That’s enough I guess.
Another day, another time.




P.S.: In the last seven or eight lines, I’ve used the word “I” nine times. Now that’s what my dictionary calls ego




P.P.S.: Beware! .