Fresh Poetry: Crossing Siberia

This bi-product of consciousness
We never chose to be conscious

This plague of the human race
We had to lose immunity

-DETOUR-

This artificial silence
Fighting no-noise with white noise
Fighting noise with artificial deafness

This finality
The culmination of each joy
The inescapable bedrock
Reality abstracted to its end

This dot
And territory
Shallow fence
Stiff hips
Short breath

-SEMI-DETOUR-

This formless dot
Sometimes point sometimes string
Elementary
Pointless

-DETOUR-

We migrate on ice
Beyond the tips of Siberia there is a lure of sun
We know intuitively it’s going to be warm
A Shangrila of creatures, and we’re one
We love the sun with our instinct
We grow peas and peaches
We cook flesh and eat flesh
And become human, Ha-Ha.

Are we conscious?

We love the sun without instinct
This is no longer the country of the midnight sun
The demons must have eaten it
And they grow our crops
And they cook our flesh

We almost,
Almost become human


-U-TURN-

Between Siberia and Cyberia there must have been some time
I swallow Vitamin pills for I have no crops
I swallow protein shakes for I almost had enough of dead flesh
I swallow words for I don’t have convictions

I apply something like logic for I know no universals
I apply hydrating creams for I live beyond twenty five

I am conscious therefore I am still human
I am conscious therefore I am bored.

-POSTSCRIPT-

I almost killed it
What a faint gladiator on cheap steroids I am
This transitory death
Boredom re-incarnates.

Birthday Poem 08

I practiced solitude
befriended boredom
perfected the art of being aloof, even among people
and the science of being on my own
I came to no conclusion
It’s too early..

I observed affection
tried to understand love
and gained the great skill of indifference
to being in or out of it
it seemed like an enemy at times
or at best an impossibility
But then again I came to no conclusion
and until then,
I'll live with universal love
the love of oneself
solitude or alienation
They all seem interchangeable..

I co-existed with constant doubt
incessant skepticism
We match beautifully
and have a convenient affair..
Like a very efficient osmosis, or an elegant dance
Our love and hate affair transcends geography, time, air and soil..

And beyond that, there are the usual tools of the trade
a pungent Masala of near-madness, fully-fledged nostalgia, and bleached future
Consequently
I came to a conclusion
I will dump all those friends, enemies and lovers
and it will be a beautiful year…

Fresh Poetry: Shepherd

It was the early hours of morning
A lonely shepherd and a herd of docile beasts

He could hear the yawns of the grass
and the travel of semi-ice molecules in air
He could inhale transitory ice,
Grab it from its trajectory,
Through his lips and onto his canines
It’s fine
It’s pure, docile entertainment

On that specific morning
Well really in any other morning
Silence was an excuse
A kind of way of doing
Of herding
A well preserved and transmitted craft

Forget the herd
There was this fleeting molecule of air
Transparent, but still he knew it was mischievous
It traveled in its own nonsensical dance
And he followed it
Partially, attentively, with resignation
A recent sense of non-being
Without being annihilated

Anyway there will always be molecules of air
And they will swirl, along with detached grass in the winds
That carry them altogether
In one significant batch…

Fresh Poetry: Alien Registration

It couldn't bother me to wait in neon-lit rooms
with aliens waiting for alien registration
a mini-Babylon of non-compulsory silence

I could just traverse this opacity, for it's all already been seen

They could disappear
and the fade white lights could amalgam with fade white grounds
and everything fades with the murmurs of the little policemen
murmuring exotic passport names

I am barely desensitized, but it is the habit
We lose the habit of being home,
the courage of abandon
and the possibility of irrational joy

Still I can see all these aliens leave one after the other
and in the gaps between the empty blue chairs
see valleys I can wander in
For in the valleys of your hands lies my true country
and in the strata of your skin
lies my real home

Fresh Poetry I: Show (Birthday Poem 07)

At the tip of the leaves
droplets of dew dripping onto a pond
static, welcoming and indifferent..

In the evening comes a troupe from another town
with clowns throwing goblets of fire into the air
and 31 mosquitoes riding them for an intergalactic trip
all the way from Shangrila to Phantasmogoria
Man in the middle of frozen space at intersections
watches fire, starlight and projections onto screens of cosmic dust

An audience of 31 men still stuck to their chairs
The bell is ringing and they have it all ready
Pop Corn and Coke and Cream
Child acrobats juggling bottles of home made wine
Light brainless fun, but Ha-Ha nevermind it’s a pass-time
One day they will be in Cirque du Soleil
You know what I mean, you got me the tickets, but I’m barely talking to you
We’re all muted by anticipation
of the upcoming highlight of the show, the ultimate Vedette
a funny little green alien
captured by coincidence
and nicknamed Time…

Recycled Poetry: The Principle of Things (July 03)

Sometimes I remember to forget
and think not to think
I think that when I do not think
the holy whole thinks for me
The world becomes bigger and life rosier
and I, become satisfied
and on the borders of Shanti....

When I block my limiting thoughts
innate and cosmic intelligence radiates in me
and lights the integrity of it all
When I hide in passivity
Things happen and I change things
In silence blossom the lights
In stillness move the wheels
That I shall never forget
That is the way of evolution
and the principle of things

Annex from April 07: I think I have forgotten that. I do not think that the 'holy whole' thinks. I do not think there's anything 'holy'. I do not beleive in cosmic intelligence anymore. I beleive in cosmic illusions. Thus, I am not on the borders of Shanti anymore. Let me find a more pragmatic Port-O-Shanti.

Recycled Poetry: Amnesia (Sep 06)

The weight of the fleeting dreams pushed me
To the fleeting realm of a virtual amnesia
I deal with the past as if it does not exist
I watch the time elapsed all neutral
And I know, my jubilee
That it won’t get back to me

Green or panoramic, silent or dynamic
I’m not sure how this densely populated terrain of matter
Turned into the hazing dryland that surrounds me and materializes everything
That passed, and became a tram note
Or a phone number
Or a buried scar
Or a boarding pass
Or a thin magazine
But almost never
A member of the undisputable certainty of true matter

I think life is interesting
Like the headlines on the first page of newspaper
Puzzling,
Like the crosswords on the page before the last
I think it’s also entertaining sometimes
Like the news on the last page
In all cases it is very much read
And thrown away on a table
Much like a newspaper
Before you move on to matters that matter more
One difference though
You are the news
And it is you..