the jagged teeth of a leviathan smiling
across the nighttime line running low, above
the clouded blue-black ink of deepest sea
There there, society will not forgive you
it will haul you over coals
put you in its iron maiden
who suffocates your imagination
of the wind howls
Of a man, forlorned.
I am your father lost and lonely
The world and all its feathers phoney
I picture you smiling, making happy face
When I was seventeen I had a dream
Of what my life would be like
And it was nothing like this, no not at all
West of pier point on the cusp of Ben Hazi
the guerrillas set up camp
the sound of gunfire in the east
and on the west silence
interrupted with the horror of explosion
I bought Bukowski
I bought White Stripes
seven deaths on Lincolnshire roads
where I live
the rain still falling
I, a radiohead
I hear peoples screams
live peoples nightmares
water board cruelty
splints under nails
think, with all the indentations
in the death bed of poetry
Boxer, can you see through bloodied vision?
this conflict born from all of Adam’s sons
subterfuge meets necessity in life’s arena
Awesome sketches by AuAu, one of them including Tom and Lauren of my collaborative novel project, Identify.
They look great, so be sure to give her a follow if you want to stay updated on upcoming work.
an opus eye
a moon in the hood of
a rose, my hibernation
once every few
We doze through Utah sulfur, wax Fitzgerald
through Lovelock: Now there is a woman!
But we’re closer to Gethsemane than
the Riviera: stuck on the tracks in
Wyoming, axel breaks in Iowa.
I met the world-weary expatriate American at a garden party in Egypt in ’89, several months after he had left the Somali oilfields. He remembered that outside his barracks near Mogadishu there had been warehouses full of rice donated by foreign charities to combat the perpetual famine.
I lay on the ground, my body cold
As I can feel my soul lose its hold
I try to get up, but fall
I let my soul loosen its grip
Every other night, I look at your picture,
And reach for my phone to dial your number.
But if I really called, would it be a bother?
Is it only me, or do you also still suffer?
These days, I enjoy solitude. Miles away from my family, I now humbly dwell in the bleak, quite well-maintained, but sometimes-smelly establishment provided by my university. The creatures that live here besides me, though interesting at first, have now begun to bore me. To some extent, life is monotonous here. It’s ‘Eat, sleep, drink alcohol/Smoke something/ play either Fornite or PUBG or CSGO or COD/go crazy on social media, repeat.’ And since I try to keep constant vigilance against the penultimate phrase of this MUCH followed and respected vision of these creatures, I usually end up alone. It’s not that I don’t cherish these moments of free-thinking and self-inspection. But I miss the days where I am surrounded by people with passion, madness, and inspiration. I miss the light of glee gleaming from those having an affinity with the arts; of music and literature.
Then I went to this historic cafe, a fine edifice jutting into the sidewalks, with prominent pillars of azure blue and pink, and amber coloured glass panes and leaf motifs on primal walls, a few hundred yards away from city enceinte. Two hundred years might have passed since its birth, and once it was the château of the gentry and later converted to a garrison and then a cafe. Old honchos gave way to new ones. The cafe was thronged by silk-stockings and the au courant and mixed populace lending it cosmopolitan aureole… It was still morning and the sun was young and the guests went to and fro, some getting down from limousines and others leaving the quarter. Here in this swank bistro on that December morning, I met the old gentleman, quiet and doddery in demeanour.
He might have been in his late sixties, with hair partly white and partly cinereous. He sat in the bistro for an hour or more languishing and now and then, fiddling the little cigarette lighter he kept in his palm. He carried a Dobermann of rare Isabella fawn hue with him. He grinned at the watchman and attempted to enter decisively because it was where pooches were permitted entry. At that point, the gatekeeper objected and so did the administrator and there was a tussle between the portcullis and the counter. The supervisor argued that a significant number of visitors were kids underneath the age ten and the Dobermann might scare them. And the supervisor’s words prevailed. This was the moment he chose to sit opposite me.
I don’t know whose granting wishes these days
Some sorry self-elect,
Maybe no one, maybe God.
No hero loves adventure,
No hero enjoys the path.
As the Golden Ray departs,
Now this journey begins:
The Next Chapter is here,
And from here shall tell.