Let’s Just Talk About The Weather

all built up passion
washed away
hours and hours invested
watering rocks
to get through to The Creator halfway
to dissolve boundaries
and have free flowing opinion traffic
washed away
when the only thing that mattered to The Godhead
was who remains one up in the conversation

Let’s Just Talk About The Weather

The light has shone

to the man no one wants to know — spoke against the grain,
he could either weep or appear odd to perfection of flowers
but the stars didn’t abandon the night sky without her authority,
every inch the man became known mother wondered
it’s gotta be His blood at blame —
he’s not the man — she spent all her money,
the house of black straw of black heart for her rotting body
his silence gone too — befitting all the more,
pin him to the floor
you can’t handle guilt, go ahead shove it my way
have your little victory
for I am the dreary light of judgment draining you of all brilliance,
and I’m the shaman bruised by endless supply of criticism,
what an embarrassment, but I accept it like the snake of the forest — with grace

The light has shone

Wondering Where To Go

what snake coiled around an erect phallus
brings deliverance to a spinster
who dreams of wild black pigs
living on land and water
what symbol of transition is Hermes then
of no good to one unwilling to spill blood
move we must in one direction of choosing
or get left behind
the age of the now will not retract
spring is dead no promise of bloom
rocks must wither
and seas unyielding
mold psyche, open antique stores, sit there crying
not everyone’s gotta break their back
generations decay in due time, let them
it’s out of your hands, don’t drink yourself to death
or dwell in pig-ignorant tunnels
you prayed to the god who built heaven
but the grass will turn black
and robes will insult the craftsman’s loom
while you sit on your ass
and pray and chant and rant and exalt in ritual ecstasies
or walk up the pilgrimage mountains of doom

Wondering Where To Go

Walking Out

Today I walked past a man who gurgled a throat full of phlegm and spitballed
it near the pavement, his only courtesy was not to do it, however deep
into the blackening dusk of city ignorance, he turned his head, I heard it.

I also heard myself not ejaculating a spontaneous, what the hell man!,
instead my gaze fell upon the black sedan not too far away, with its trunk duck taped
to white and yellow roses,

the colors I felt were somewhat coincidental of the fruition
of the well known arranged marriage India, where a woman’s authority is silenced
and must not transcend the walls of the kitchen,

who sits in hushed megalomania
like a deep fat fryer, awaiting her husbands impotency and white beard and hair
to recede his intelligence, and then! They all want to be right,

Meanwhile I walked past a man who had sacred hindu chants plugged to both his ears,
and while I nearly stepped over the grimy machismo of overflowing gutters, I recognized
his hunch back, his life had knelt before god, I never capitalize it

it isn’t about uttering fuck dick shit balls or casting starry rebellion on boob tube,
and it right as rain isn’t about rosy ass holes that turn to objects of smuttery
and good manners to be cast in biblical presentations

and as I approached the only pole with rotten animals’ burning fossils,
life lit up in a puddle a mean scarlet, inviting into stagnant waters the full force behind man’s
libidinous screeching laughter, like the sound of ripples being slivered, like a boy
discovering the onset of youth seeks momma’s consent to bring both feet smashing down
obsessed by her blessings, he jumps into the puddle. Ah! An Indian mother’s dream to bear a son
eclipsed under Freud’s penis envy, while momma’s daughter is withheld
from such favors,

and thrown to a fate confined around holy fires to be the good whore who carries the seed of phalluses, of her man’s amour-propre, who expunged from her own flesh and bones, who forsakes her point
of espial in light of rewards she feels she’s promised on the one condition that the rounded, boiled, sweet end of her husband’s stick be the super soaker surprise of free flowing gyzym, and no glove, no respect for women in the workplace bullshit could come in the way of procreating love

before I could turn away from the ugly face of people, my sad self appeared before me
in what one would say a karmic duality, but some truths have to be exposed,
the truth of poetry,
the truth of children raised by faggots,
the truth behind perfect families, the truth of parents
swallowing their children, breath by breath,
the truth when a grown man in his blackened bathroom weeps wanting Allen Ginsberg as father, he wonders how liberating speaking thoughts and feelings to an idiot-proof parent would be, as a tear trickles down his mustache,
the truth behind depression,
the truth that 90% parents can’t help being selfish,
the truth of women sent to whore houses decked in gold jewellery,
the truth that marital rape is an Indian parents asylum of faith,
the truth about faith being the rotten egg of ignorance
the truth about the man who seeks to be fucked in the ass, the truth of auto-eroticism,
the truth of the stars,
the truth every dysfunctional family denies,
the truth of cancerous rituals hung as garlands around a cowards neck,
the truth that makes everyone somebody when they’re dead,
the truth hidden from bare eyes,
the truth of a mother that she cannot stand challenged, the truth of the law,
the truth that dreams pose a serious and grave threat to reality,
the truth I can’t hide from my words, the truth why I drink myself to death,
the truth you choose not to speak but think,
the truth that this world is a mountain of shit, but does not extend beyond the confines of my house, sinking beneath its weight,
the truth that drugs, alcohol and nicotine bring to surface, the truth we choose never to speak,
the truth of the people whose voices are gutted, snuffed, buried beneath walking crowds emptying
their wads of cash, and themselves down the darkest alleys, singing, chanting, crying slogans
and carols to the holy, the holy rock, the holy phallus which is also made of stone
the truth of India written only in poetry
the truth Indians will deny if I say their vedas were meant for endless parent worship, the truth Indian children are recitals of, cocksucker in god, egotist cunt in god, harridan vision in god
the truth about what I can write if I don’t publish it
the truth that turns old Indian people into clerical slobs that would rather make the youth go mad
than abandon their own asylums of fat, the fat in their bouncy bellies, the fat in their perspiring common sense, the fat in their insufferable speech
the truth my words will mark 50 years hence when temples would’ve turned to dust and the priests
and godmen alike would be seen polishing anti-god cock

but when the truth that a sunset is sought, more after its time, people let out thunderbolts
bowing their backs at the crack of doom and tears run down their eyes
And by the ganesh of aluminum and concrete every man’s skull is bashed open to the world, the void, the abyss, the vacant spot left when brains and imagination clock back in time

not the kind people call nostalgia, but more of an unforgiving, atomic finger
happy to push reset
and as god fearing as human kind is, he ought to owe the same courtesy to the people he wishes to touch, but check out the hormones on the BAFTA red carpet, alienated genitalia, world’s brain
is like a knee cartilage, thinning, thinning, thinning

so, on my way back I find for Dr. Timothy Leary, Ph.D (1920-1996)
these words: the world has relinquished its personality in the wake of its good looks
and what remains is the kind of peculiarity of sizzling plutonium, everyone has theirs ready
ready for mission, mission kaboom, the ministers always dress ethnic,
their message stands erect,

erect in intolerance, no secluded corner is left unlit for anyone to hide,
except when I watch her walk to and fro the lane I frequent for obvious reasons
there’s nothing more I can say than the thrill she sends down my spine
the thrill of not knowing what it would be if “hello” was a thing to say
in this intolerant intolerant world

Oh! Marshall! Who else could be as selfless as you
Who else
In these fascist walls that put me through psychotherapy, electric shock therapy, occupational therapy, behavioral therapy, therapy, therapy, therapy, cracking my skull one way or the other to be more livable
Who else
In their tears I hear their obsession for blowing their own trumpet
Who else
In their demands of signing me up for lobotomy
Who else
In their arms of unopened love because my brain does not meet their levels of dormancy
Who else
In the sounds of poetry born from machine gun jaws to my silent ears
Who else
When they hammer my words shut threatening loss of affection
Who else
In the moment they rob me of my share of dopamine ranting about their own right to independence
Who else
In every hour I’m obligated to feel the guilt of their flaws
Who else
When I must smoke marijuana
Who else
who else can accept the things I’m incapable of psychologically
when every mother thinks her son is Hercules
Who else
I’m with you Marshall and to you I raise my glass, companion, you stand by me when I’m rheumy eyed and looking for a sunset

Walking Out

The Man I Thought I Knew

mother told me que sera, sera
was the song grandfather was known
to sing in his youth, often
she and her sister were there
in times I must now imagine
but imagining him like that
brings tears
I never got when I should have
que sera, sera, I can’t stop listening
to you
and the more that I do
the more water I see has flown
under the bridge I always thought
was not mine to walk
but the times that are such
and the tales they weave
are no man’s friend
until one weeps
for what should’ve been
que sera, sera, I have abolished
all the grudges I had
and to you alone, I owe this justice
yes, no man should have to serve
in the court of law of another man’s logics
so here I am now, towards the bridge
will all good memories
but whether they happened
is not mine to say
que sera, sera, I’d like to go on and on
further into the youth of the man
I’ve had much privilege knowing
through the flaws I could never
deny him or do without
and now these words I try to write
knowing too well he may not understand
and what could be more inadequate than that
I who am still young haven’t yet woken up
from thinking these words are somehow enough

The Man I Thought I Knew

It’s All About

It’s all about slavery, starvation, drying flower pots
lets never water them but water them down
the industrial wash
It’s all about breasts taken by surprise, trembling limbs, little girls
lets all gather around and tell them it’s ok at 12
to be the bang for the buck
It’s all about awareness, depression, swimming in self vomit
night after night searing torsos in nightmares’ sea of flames
no ears would hear you talk about it
It’s all about war, survival of the fittest, lying under the sun cut eyeballs
where these homes are built atop human skull gasoline
I put all my eggs in a single basket
It’s all about suicide, weeping slashed jaws, maternal-child genocide
bring my dysentery cup of soup enriched with blood
gushing from the world’s bosom
It’s all about turning this mountain of shit
into good craftsmanship
It’s all about being the platoon
corrupted by the dark spot on the moon
It’s all about the speech of a clown
It’s all about who cares what it is
Or who is another ten fingers two eyes
It’s all about those holistic moments of labour
when all she wanted was to get rid of it
It’s all about the lie
our hearts pump
It’s all about the machinery
of human existence

It’s All About

On Ambition

slaughter women inside institution of marriage with a broom stick
stuck up the hilt of their ass
wipe the floor with them simply because convenience is golden,
and dowries are making a comeback,
get your contract arranged consult India where parents in law admire
their son’s wife like a diamond stuck up a goat’s ass
swallow your grandparents, burn down old age homes looking up
into the sky
bring your hands together like a shovel flatter your brothers and sisters
in marrying yellow skull with soil
stand up tall with your teeth chattering like a machine gun, debating
mass tactics, chin up! These’r great feats humanity like the mountain
of shit
that can never be moved unless taken by handfuls, overwhelmed
with these unpleasant sightings anyone’s still beating heart
in all its machinery of metallic gray skeleton
would hum
no song of a weave angelic, let alone the one you grew up
jerking your cock to
no, neither of your children who howl on both knees in subway stations
their speech of despair demanding harlequin attention from peers
who are also howling twenty first century cosmetic shouts
would jump off a bridge nor run facefront
towards an oncoming train, you’re doomed
your best wishes are full bodied cancer smoke rings
born out of a tongue made of leather
beaten into shape
like a squashed moth, that white fuzzy stuff forms spurting
in the corners of your lips that one day flakes off dry dandruffy filth
off pubic beard
stand below the crown of inchlong pricks like the one they made Jesus
chant hymns yell how innocent you believe you are
of your grime
gargling in clear blue skies a black cloud, this plague we are
inching footsteps at the brink of our house, under its dome the sting
of our voice like a hammer swung brings back the whack of winter
inroads from skin to bone, gutting innards till faceless, loveless dusty eyes
whoring home for a pile of sand, sawdust and iron scraps of thrown charity
for the friend who jumps and hops smilingly like a nut utterly convinced
into fire of envy
discussing longevity of friends basking inside a stuffed shirt whose riches
rising from the pit of their stomach swell to their brain bringing self justified
spiritual revelation exacting sanity after closing doors on the faces
of old friends more coldly, cosmopolitan greetings
wrecking bosom for the cunt, of wheelbarrows, of garbage, of cock cigar ash
wandering crowded streets like perfect beauty of wornout asses of chairs
of disease of ambition where civilization throws pavement stone on their
crazy golden crown
yes ambition is the disease society slaps us with most lovingly it must never
settle down for anything that could offer a moments peace
restless, fidgeting hair around fingers like the revolution snake coils
around a tree,
or else you’re just sitting dumbly
ambition to chew more than is fed until diabetes shows its ambition
ambition to pit torsos night after night charring in fire of dreams
waking up a new drunkenness chained in the endless ride from teenage to adulthood
and back and forth and again reliving prized memories until drained of all brilliance
ambition of the dictionary to call it object or goal desired and not greed
ambition of colonised lands to be independent to practice their own sleaze
ambition to never realise all human drama springs from disobedience
ambition to assert wisdom only with those of a thinner bank account
ambition to catch life outside twenty stories high from the eyes of the poor
ambition to stand sharing axis with others who’re also diamond studded
petal by petal unfolding layers of lower class
but strictly over a drink
ambition to flaunt hookup like industrialists who in the faces of underprivileged
wave their genetals
ambition to have ambition, ambition makes the world go round and round
like a wound up toy blindsighted powered by greed and insatiable hunger
humanity caught in a neverending jetlag
and politicians spring regardless of season whipping out cocks preaching
collective communion
they promise holy piss, holy semen, holy ganges of unflushed shit, holy cow,
holy petroleum
holy democracy on the pedestal of dreams of the tens of thousands of trembling limbs
atrophied, unemployed, slumped along the floor carrying the day’s crown
so they could advance celestial hierarchy flashing buttocks
snowballed back and forth between captains of industry whose ambition
machetting its way through slums like an ingrown toenail has no end in sight
but to unveil the city’s leprous design of gunshots, swords and a pack of cigarettes
burning in the hands of every child
orphaned by better sense who in a sheen of filth and sweat, artificial dirtier than dirt
righteousness take center stage deciding for us what you or I believe is angelic
who set the benchmark barrelling us down into a pool of self loathe
unless for greater good sons and daughters are packed off
to move the economy
having their breath harvested and hearts and brains and ass for medicine
still breathless tied to piano wires the music that wheezes out
from Africa’s satire
ambition to defend morals of double standard where genetics, race, colour, sex
and how many times you’re fucked in the ass fucked in the ass fucked in the ass
fucked in the ass whether you think your compadre is an impotent sack of flesh
or someone you walk beside as equals in either opinion makes all the difference
in what kind of fish you catch

On Ambition

Mother’s Contours

the doorbell keeps pestering like a whining child

whose mother’s breast milk is tainted with rain

she lost her features like the warmth the garden

whose bosom is overrun by weeds

like the tides the sea must sacrifice

to become a river

there is no door that can be opened today

only walls that pull a blank like another prayer

marooned on temple footsteps


toothless no words to describe

how they wished they were weeded out

when they could

child your cries ought to thin down,

more limber

like the flower of this world, black stemmed

with its corolla half chewed, like fingers

of a leper resemble half burnt plastic, the Rose

is but a mirage you’re playing catch with

yes, you say you share ground with good conscience

but it must be on equal footing lets be clear

neither are you a coward nor foolish

whose good heartedness is the reason

the desert offers nothing angelic

barren breasts, she blames little darling can’t suckle

down comes the whip opening tiny hands

that can barely hold the book of hymns

catch this my child, a glimpse into the future

moments before yellow skull meets soil

you will see your mind as clear

as the cloudless sky incapable

of holding ashes

this is the world you’re born with

Mother’s Contours

Catching Moss

Midnight’s egress out the doorway alley

emptying its guts over family garden

looking for the break of dawn, lapping air

through boggy creases between tiles

of red sandstone onto the rough skin

of my tongue, I breathe in swallowing peat

nose burdened by the musky preserve

fruiting from spasmodic eruptions’ epicentre

where legs meet completing ultimate cunt

my consciousness for the cities’ bang

for the buck liberates jets of salty gusto

iodine and a touch of phenolic burnt sweat

my skin on hers marry to flavor alpha salute


Catching Moss

Fortune Teller

glimpse into the past
patience is not my strongest suit
a gambler anyhow the chips may
once soot escapes it's glow
yesterday still remains a sketch
how else would fortune tellers
dismantle our contours
bring the best sunflower of any face
soaked in a lifetime's worth of pity
the garden shed built above a stump
the widows dress submitting to its hand-dye
she asks for another cookie
Fortune Teller