otherwhere

I remember your words,

you told me about the darkest of nights,

the longest of winters and how we will arise brilliantly,

winding softly sharpened lines, ten times more beautiful.

inside out presence, my knees are warmed by the reminiscence of hell,

the smell of embers, I hold it in me like a rare possession,

it curves the lines of my lips because I know more than them.

it’s past midnight now, the passing of death, lush dawning,

funny how the whole city lives in our mouths,

faintly a matter of space for one who has seen the other side,

dissolving vanquished by the unlikeliness of our worlds.

...in time you learn the state of breakage comes with velvety perfumes,

in time you learn the vastest part of life takes place in rooms of absence.

new roses

olanzapine tastes sweet
melting on absent tongues.

...sour air. beneath the skin
there is immense room for doubt.

the haziness of a half-formed

comfort zone, of a half-formed 

glance of not aware.

wholesome dispatch, a promise of 

white space, illiterate warmth. 

a lifetime to learn

not to care for what is 
on the other side of sleep.

beauty only exists within contours of defeat

we might have lived centuries of sleep ago
as forlorn hallowers of a damned descent,
defenders of beautifully bleak cities of wreckage,
an army of sullenness.
the inside of our fabric is written in melancholy,
a dictate from Saturn,
to swim relentlessly through spastic dark waters,
drifting into liquid-eyed, blood-eyed, hollow-eyed creatures,
just to find out we are not any larger than
the trembling space between our thin, tired lids.
to shield a delicate canvas for narcissistic decay,
probably the reason we were manufactured in silent undoing,
our eternity hanging by emaciated fingers,
an unfinished projection,
earthen, disturbing dream of opium skies.
the only wisdom is to love the iridescence of ruin,
for there is nothing worthier or lavisher
than the charge of impossibility.

love song

do you remember it? …the arcades
breaking down with the
flood of petrified voices,
the splitting ground breathing
vengeance in immaculate spirals,
the vestal black sky…
and us, for the first time,
we didn’t have a single question to ask.
as I clearly recall it, we were walking
lightheartedly like enamoured ghosts,
hand-in-hand through the millions of shards,
laughing at the burning buildings
with our heads thrown back.
sweet velvet dream.

streamside

shut your eyes,
let me close them with mine,
lightly as we
exchange skin we
exchange confusion.
silence is our drug
and we serve it remarcably well,
the perfect pieces
in the irony of contours -
you slipping fragments of reason and I
not finding it unusal at all
that someday these entwining sillhouettes
will pass each other in streets and subways
like perfect strangers.
...and now you've already begun
swimming towards the cutting void
in intact darkness,
unaware that we, my dear,
we could never really meet
anywhere.
and I smile at the thought
that you could so easily be my feast of vanity,
lovely undernourished body,
that you could carry me wherever you'd linger,
like a stifling and bitter anchor,
while I could engage in the task of killing time,
cutting pieces of you
from my remote distance
with the gentlest of hands.

to live unceasingly in those instants before drowning

people often say too much presence is overwhelming,
but most of them are consumed by the lack of it.

such a horrible irony,
to be ripped to pieces
by the silent, the indifferent, the nonpresent.

such a strange paradox,
that nothing moves more violently inside one
than what one has lost.

screened

hesitant reminders of present,
threads of light permeate the sleep-ensnared room,
embracing diffident street noise
in slow melting of all leftovers of night.

I'm lying in bed at the brink of black & white,
life-disjoined and space-severed,
contemplating the minute quivers of our lurking bodies,
freezing the flashes.

the blurry one

chasing a safe passage in a downpour of anxiety,

I couldn't evade meeting the uneasiness in you.

to all appearances the outside world had overpassed us -

the walls were whiter than ever,

the room unhandleably motionless 

and yet a disturbing buzz was creeping under our skin,

fumbling the bitterness of the not entirely said.

the instant of lost control was achingly bound to happen.

following the distress of your glance,

I knew that shift in self-composure 

had washed away all possible exit doors

and right there, in the midst of the subsequent pause,

the echo of the wavering speech

was feeding the inbetween space on wholesale emotion.

it was withal a strange release,

as if in a lifetime of stasis

on the tangible ground a heart was thrown.

we will meet again, every dusk and dawn

nothing is more present in us
than the past.
knotted to its blurriness,
we suffocate piece by piece
in thicker and sorer textures, 
weaving and tearing up
constant deaths of
self and -
every once in a while,
as if acceded to
an ever-granted possession,
it cleaves another scratch
on our insecure inner walls,
pulling us away from our canvas
to remind us jealously
that we are merely its faint
discontinuous dream.

cryptocardiac

she steps into the chamber senses seeping, eyes half-open,

miles of unforbearing flashes mounting up her veins.

like verging needles, tight languish pulses demand

an inward unlocking for a feast of words.

alone in her atrium of embers,

she starves for the ripple of black on white.

she speaks ventricular language.

dialogue dust

I told you, let's take a seat here and forget,
tonight we'll have an entire cinema of sweet disregard.

(seems like centuries ago we first arrived here,
ourselves a flashing sequence of this exhausting air,
inhaling its burden as itself was inhaling ours,
what they call existence pounding on our matter,
dragging us with its senseless turmoil
like heavy clutters of impurity)

like a compulsory eyesore,
this suffocating silly joke,
like years ago we'd fallen asleep on bad television.

I told you, it's dreadful how tiring breathing can be,
how heavily we stick life on us like excessive clothing.

...you said you found it strange
how I could close my eyes to them without a bother
or how rashly I dared to quitclaim myself,
another player of the unavoidable,
for a bleak seat in the insolent audience.

(to care less and less as in a rearward blanking of lines,
to dispatch them all in the other room -
these ridiculous makings of blood and pulses -
as things too paltry to even bother mentioning,
like cheap cigarettes or bad poetry,
to leave them for the others)

I'd say what's even stranger is
how you and I can merge in the same barren space,
mine being an evening of forgetfulness,
while yours - a wreckage of rooms filled
with that of me I keep letting go.

and perhaps equally odd, this frantic presence of yours
and how you're always drifting towards some deserted bottom
while all I'm left is this abiding departure
to draw a blank on you being there and still there,
running for trains you contend to be real,
thrusting yourself towards this voidness of mine
so fiercely it sometimes hurts.

absenseizure

indeterminately
there’s been another winter and another fall
of a sometime-subsequent self and another
pursuit of nothing-nothingness mind.

behind the clusters of dust - our dainty grant of exile,
so deferred and still so ill-defined,
not yet fractiously handled,
not yet weighty and grinning.

before there was fog I remember rushing -
hand-in-hand with us, a flood of thoughts
and strangely ours, a dissidence of unequalled warmth.
it used to be words that anticipated us,
they fed with time frames and deftly with their lines 
questions of space emerged to what was us.

hereinafter non-existence is a matter of delay
and I feel milestones of sleep might have been consuming me,
blank to the their ends, weaving several trails of walking
alongside with dusk and dawns of forgetfulness
in circuits of beauty that dwindles in the dark
and is not beauty.

...

do you ever feel
delayed,
months and years behindhand of yourself,
heedlessly dispatching sequence and sequence of mind?

contradiction

obverse and reverse
yielding defiant clearance
to accidental confluence.

so swiftly a sequence of space
can jolt us into
the mathematics of fragmentary creatures.

as futile as a quest for the withheld,
to think that I could candidly touch
the ironic abyss
between our fleeting diametric pulse rates,
where we begin our untenable exemption -

consenters to a short life
of inane deconstruction,
idle, forgetful actors,
volatile assailants.

the charge of our skin warmth,
my most privileged of foes,
what incoherent coherence.