to be born again
cleansed of memory, instinct, bias…
to jump the gun,
like water falling out of shape
break away from the common stride
and walk the world anew
just pure thought

the sage smeared in ash
the soldier in defeat abashed
a child upon a puddle of mud
the city streets drunk on rain
a roaring engine is kicked to life
the rush of blood that throttle brings
yonder meadows growing wild
ancient rocks under the afternoon sun
the breeze is nimble to the touch
to hold the world in a grain of sand
countless worlds washed ashore
countless more on the ocean floor

a world without the love for god
a world that needs not right from wrong
a world that speeds, yet never found in haste
a world that knows its rhythm and bass
a world that sings its wishful dreams
where song and dance feeds the soul
a world where little is valued most
a world of plenty, to your taste

alas the restrain
the weight of being
an existential exile
that makes fickle pleasantries
of such visions fit for opiate trance,
starlight wrung out of the very cloth of the sky
or them elder poets who drew
verses from the stream
where society washed woes and perhaps pride

and the inner solace we seek
churned out of the wheel
a moment that impresses upon the next
into a generous resonance,
submerged in an ocean of consciousness
a body of imagination
where priceless pearls lay furlongs deep
on the surface the scum will weep

This too shall pass

what happened of enlightenment
the sage of Copenhagen laments
the last of his blunts put out with distaste
weary, delusional, his light misspent
the best minds of his age rest in pillage

his eyes reaching out
far into the distance
his face flushed, his bust hell bent
the veins on these arms
holding back the unrest

the wind on his face,
the sun on his back
mistrust on his mind
poetry in his words
bebop trap-smack

The Applause

To understand the universe in patterns on dirt
in clairvoyance to estimate the worth
of contemplation on hate, of the knowledge of love
in plain sight their faces are rubbed

with the the rhythms of their heart beat
either to sing out loud, or to accept defeat
either to embrace shame or to feed their rage
no matter still, all world’s a stage

and life is but, what once was
the promise of an undying applause
and carrying the beats, and even much late
are the beats from heart,
those of love, or that of hate

Let me love

However wiser and a year older
as austere April arrived in a smoulder
to find us sewing our lives together
with the thread of the daily humdrum
what our wishful thinking will again
have it all over undone

Before the monsoon clouds come rolling in
and cast their shadows like a zepplin
before the rain, the gentle rain
becomes the ominous downpour
the may queen, the indian summer
surged in on an encore

and the rain came tumbling down
drowning in its cold embrace
every deluded soul on the streets,
every weary brick in the town
and so it goes, as legends say
to the scorn of sky from above
In a gentle cry, the earth replies
‘Let me love’
‘Let me love’

An Idea Sleeps

In complete isolation, blanketed in silence an idea germinates
feeding on an abundance of potential that is both vigour and stealth
and that which historically has been the cause for much unadulterated rage
that which will consume oneself before the page turns over
to the ancient streets emptied of its dreams
where once the occasional woebegone man would run out screaming
of heartache and the loss of god, wandering in hopeless nights
now abandoned of any such dramatic performances
where this new found idea now sleeps
yet too somber to be made ridiculous into a misplaced dilemma .

On the road (Rendezvous)

Hither the traveller find themself on the road
the fabulous yellow roman candle existence exploding like spiders across the stars
The traveller carries on rather not cajoled by ten different voices speaking of the otherwise
and hither they carry on their unapologetic rendezvous with the road
the stories, the songs, the symphony that dissolves the day into the night
and the night perhaps precipitates to let the day breathe
and what remains of this is the romance with the oblivion
the love beyond all the loving of the world, the embrace of the unknown
the thrill in what the road might bring just around the bend
the kiss of the wind, the gaze of the horizon, the dance of dust, clairvoyant clouds
and this timeless dialogue continues


You are a vision

You are a living, breathing entropy

of estimates, ambitions, assessments, foregone identities,

All that was about to be yet materialised otherwise, everything that could have been, but rather was not.

You are a vision realized in its unfulfillment

You are abundant in your incompleteness, convinced in your quandaries, absolute in your relativisim.

You are a vision nurtured by a longing that in its own humble self is a stable quantum of possibilities, made relevant by their ability to remain a possibility, an isolated continuum of potential in preservation.

You are a vision conceived in the abyss of your latent intellect, spiralled into the realms of existence, like whispers of sweet promises whilst you are tickled by the routine passage of chance, or perhaps you are leaden with delirium. (for that is what possibility feeds on, your indifference or your preoccupation and everything in between)