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

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