blues

blues


My tale will never end
I will write more
For you
Today you are gone
But I still walk to your house
And romance with your furniture
I try to smell you on your phone
And sit on your chair

It’s the nearness to your belongings
That is my poem for you
That makes me sad
Yet content
Because I can still touch you

I wonder sometimes
If you can sense me?
When I leave
I wonder sometimes
If these small things make a difference to you

Writing Histories


Do people know
They write the history
When they pick up their pen
Late evenings and smudgy rooms
And uncomfortable postures
One pain and an era to un-love

The wait for “The End”
A hall full of applause
Fame comes handy, godfathers and
Their bitches are loving it

Where do I sell
Myself, my story
My pen and buy my name
In the history…..
Late evenings and smudgy rooms
Seven year old paper
Becomes more dull
When I write with a stolen pen

I wake up at the sunset
And sunrise takes me to bed
How much I sleep is not important,
Or let’s leave that for another poem

Living on the other side of the world
Dramatic but just another impact
Of the chips getting smaller

Lost, shit and blah blah...

How will I find my
Way, for lost am I
I have tried and tried
Even gone back in time…..
It doesn’t help
Vodka and lime

I will not tell this secret
To anyone other than you
You are the only one
A seed of nostalgia
In my soul

A knife of ice
And a grave full of smoke
The endless and sleepless
Nights on the other side
The dawn and the dusk
Sometimes kills the life

Somebody sits and watches
Steps and chairs
Cubicles and stairs
Second by second
Tik tock …tik tok
The mighty hand on the clock
It will go
And run a new show, somewhere downtown
I forgot my guitar today
But it might snow
And then I will run home
Bare feet
To take out my leather shoes
This time the New Year will go right
I will set the pace
New glasses will be ordered
And the liquor will be measured
For every inch of body

I have started killing the turkeys
For the feast….
There will be plenty
Of meat
Bring friends and foes
Because it will be a large gathering

Blank paper’s itch

When I try to study
A blank paper, on a crossroad
Time eats me up as quicksand
I am volatile without a coffin

Fluttering eye and siesta in my veins
A night of pain
And a heart so distant
Too many pictures around
Portraits of strangers
And off season discounts
Flash through the whiteness
Of the blank paper
Stories, poems, songs, sketches
Memoirs and diary entries
Epistolary, novels and sonnets
So much and too many
All in my eyes or just the paper’s itch

I wait, I wait
To understand the mystery,
Of body and mind
Sex and love
Siamese twins

Ciphers disdain these questions
Some ambiguities can’t be deciphered
By a mere itch
Blank paper is just as susceptible
As a crossroad