words and other kinds of addictions

jarred from a pint of smoke
swirling like a gothic eyeliner
in my lungs, i feel the white rush
of an unsung addiction all over me
(being breathless in lieu of living),

i have seen beatific dreams of
an obtuse octopus, jeering jellyfishes
through my inner-channel
of reprieve – the loss of only a certain
kind of mediocrity,

i do not fit into the lines of my sleeping bag,
too big to carry my shoes on the head,
or crown me with metal links, or to tattle
through fists – the truth of only a certain
kind of morbidity,

i am a wastrel marooned in the aftermath
of my demise by goodness, unfit to perform,
cease control to rememorize, or to chase
my ghosts – the habit of a certain
kind of melancholy.

.

Image source (Up In Smoke Painting by Meredith B)

For Wordle # 202 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

It’s been a while – I haven’t felt the need to make a post in all this time. I have still been writing and discovering new avenues of my own expression, developing and improving the craft of my verse and its corresponding art. I have incidentally worked on a short collection for myself, indulging in everything from writing and editing to framing the layout and designing the cover (owing to my amateur skills in layout and designing software). It’s been an invigorating experience. My thoughts are catered now towards the idea of getting it published perhaps – I do not know yet whether I should pitch it for traditional publishing or self-publish it instead.
Nevertheless, it’s good to be posting something on this blog again, which had helped me through the harshest of times and made me fall deeper and deeper in love with poetry.

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playhouse

Stalemate #2 Painting by Tijana Titin

a day is a playhouse of wonders
and nights, the plunder of a thief –
with stars and a sliver of a moon,
and glimpses of an unseen Neptune
bundled up, in a napkin,
out of proportion –

the paradox of understanding is that
it’s not deserved to be understood,

its smooth transitions from a muse
into a stalemate, never available
for scrutiny or viable visibility
makes it an easy target for this tense
turpitude.

we look at each other, hold hands, caress the ticking seconds
of the clock, this story doesn’t beget a climax of any sort –
semaphorism – as they call it –

of minds and hearts and innards that wobble
with the unprecedented movements of a distorted image,

a reflection is decomposing on the wall, a self is dis-
-integrating into half-bitten morsels of truth.

be it so – let the lights extinguish themselves into shadows.

.

Linking it up with Wordle#159 at MLM Menagerie and Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

you dream away, status

you dream away

to a distant land,

shimmering

with a glow

unearthly,

never seen before,

 .

you go prancing around-

letting your feet drown

in the desert sand,

raising your hands

letting them clutch air

and feel its feel

in the end,

 .

sit under a silver tree

crimson fruits hanging,

curb yourself

from sinking your teeth into

the luscious

spheres of poison,

 .

let your skin

absorb the bright

sunbeams,

let it burn

and sigh in relief,

 .

feel the jets of water,

on your palms,

spewing forth from

an unknown source

and grab the golden goblet

out of thin air

and have some water,

end up spilling

some of it

on your cheeks,

 .

hearing the thundering steps

of the giant

still yards away,

yet to arrive,

you do not go hide,

but run around

in no direction,

tired out,

sitting down

on a picnic bench

waiting,

 .

let yourself be grabbed

in those massive hands,

producing

an inaudible sound;

 .

the next moment

that comes to you,

you find yourself

waking up,

finding yourself

in the park,

lying under the ordinary

red maple,

rain droplets falling

over you in a certain rhythm,

a book resting

on your chest,

turned to the last page

now getting soaked;

 .

status:

you are done reading.

 

* Written in response to Wordle 112