Drowning Commoners

Are you one to trifle with hoi polloi? That would be akin to witnessing some infant, immersed in deep blue waters, a cramp in his scrawny calves, every bubble released from his pitiable lungs encapsulating an unreachable hope, cruelly popping as they rise to the surface. I am certain that the frothing at his mouth delights you in some uncanny manner. Images of gazelles and sheep leaping past Planck's demonic gates, unto the claws of tigers, surely tickle your elitist mind? Superiority and sadism imprisons you, for the waters slowly trickle past your feet. Rising tides swallow those who hide, behind a mask of narrowing lust.

Opacity

And without warning, burdensome bricks of alienation rain from the skies and coagulate into an insurmountable wall, revoking forever my license to your beauty. With the most valiant of my efforts I surmise the distant boundaries, a twilight zone of emotions I never knew existed. Vouch for my anxiety, will you not, to gallop unto the edges and peer around for a glimpse of the shadow that I have learnt to worship. However, the crushing truth remains thus; sensory deprivation ruins love, much like the eloping indigo destroys the rainbow. Then I recall an ancient adage; that when prosperity and affliction, when adoration and hatred, when goodness and evil collide, each mocks at the possibility of turning into the other. This ridiculous wooden stage we occupy, long since defined by our stagemaster through difference and contrast. Division is lamentable, recurrently tormenting the previous whole. Staking my all to sprint towards you again, we only turn into fodder for corpulent brokers laughing in the skies.

Some Shriveled Hand

Some shriveled hand parades a finger
On faded vows it chose to linger
A wistful shiver, a moment’s glimmer
A clandestine soul with a forlorn shimmer

Sticks and stones will break your bones
Forgotten words we deign to condone
Desire and faith are hapless clones
Forever pining, forever alone

Ruthless Painter

See for yourself at all the colours and shades of colours you possess. Amber, burgundy, lilac, cyan...you alone possess the audacious liberty to adorn the space you wilfully created for us all. And with one sudden invasive gesture you summon and hence consign me to the fate of a canvas, whiter than snow, dripping tears of evanescent fear and sadness. You setup your easel and don a disgraceful beret, you impostor of the highest kind. Then, without a fraction of warning, without a morsel of compassion, splash upon splash of all that horrendous paint come raining down upon my translucent nakedness. Would any paintbrush in the universe suffice to illustrate this mindless vituperation? Certainly you desire to capture a snapshot of your utter psychological conquest, in the presence of those jesters who parade their future scars with shameless pride. My only defense, to unleash a silent mockery reflected eightfold upon myself. The bitter cold, the sting, the stench, the suffering! Pinned by rusty nails I am unable to regain my whiteness, to redeem the most initial sentiment, to retrace the sunken footsteps of my reluctant journey. Till the insidious poisons of your paint seep through the paper, however, my innermost victory is assured, waged over some plateau beyond the highest planes of your consciousness.

Gone Are The Days

Gone must be the days, when hooded little men stuffed to the roof of their mouths flock together in celebration of some insignificant conspiracy, holding up stained glass mirrors to unveil their deepest places to one another. Gone must be the days when every laceration across many a fragile heart seeks a macabre brotherhood with the salty, tangy flavour of blood; as if some broadway dancer lustfully gyrates to the rhythm of a twirling cesspool, mimicking every disdainful triumph of sadness and heartache. Gone must be the days when the amniotic sac is bestowed with peculiar agency, pulsating along with repugnant beats of divine praise, enfolding its vile contents with impossible dosages of love. One can only begin to imagine how ridiculous the true agent; the bearer of the sac must appear to be! Last but not least, gone must be the days when modality is confused with power, and vice-versa, such that deciphering every other cryptic utterance becomes a joy and not a pain. Alas, not so for the eternal philosopher who thrives on ambiguity! When even language becomes cruelty, what then can mitigate the unbearable pain of an existence surrounded by semiotic gestures?