A
Big Foot!
On
seven days - seven long days tucked
to
seven long nights I do seven
awkward
things, to break
comfort
- to sprinkle my worthy
opponents
on people I love - to love one
has
to hate - to hate one has to
see
something awkward,
things
that cannot be cherished
unless
we're high - people clean our
shit
by getting drunk; we should
break
free because when
the
night is empty - days are boring
and
our heart weeps; all we do is clean,
it
can be the fallen leaves beside
our
home; pieces of advice
strapped
to the shattered heart -
on
Sundays I sit and blink - rise and
think
- weep and wink - flush memories
in
the sink; everyone consoles
doors
are knocked - I wank
the
shit in my heart - and I consume
the
moon just to not get drunk
because
I've to wake up to
women
hugging men - bosses bitching
about
the market - and uncles
waiting
for a downfall - it is when
their
ghosts find a happy tummy buffet.
.
.
.
Mondays
are toxic unless they're asked
to
be like a woman - a busy nice
lady
with shining stilettos,
I
wake up to her and I hear a cry,
trapped
inside a laugh - a man trying
hard
to be a woman just to wail - inners
hanging
- memory of a tired banging
-
weekends can be remembered
easily;
some have cheesy meetings -
others
just end their night liking
the
rhyming of a night with fight,
many
fights - one can only remember
one
because that's how it works - a film
ends
with a death or a kiss - just one
incident
- I walk on the streets
seeing
everyone with a fallen chin,
a
few have a smile stuck like a sad time
that
has nowhere to go - I leave
my
windows open - sprinkle soda
on
the plants & work hard on my private
parts
- a weird thing keeps me on -
a
turn on also comes out well
and
I feel the day might have a life
-
even if it doesn't I'd have a discomfort
to
share with a comfortable paper
earning
me - I could sit naked
before
him no matter how corrupt
he
becomes - he would know a man
who's
ready to be a mistress of a mister.
.
.
.
I
spank the pillow and draw a nebula with
my
fingers - the next three days
I
work on not feeling even a
single
jet lag -- a new God is worshipped
everyday;
sometimes I frighten
myself
with a laugh out of nothing;
I
pick blueberries, caress a new buttock
and
swallow the innocence which
takes
birth everyday in a new
form
- a divine works on a pervert -
a
pervert stalks the divine playing a lore
inside
everyone - I then sell enough
of
me to be called a paramour;
on
days I sell my words; on nights
I
unbutton myself - "take whatever
you
want to" - caring is a business a few
people
do like a naive capitalist -
others
run their machine, buy a piece
of
me just to ensure a peaceful sleep on
my
corpse that falls off me -- it is the
weekend
I wait for - any Saturday
isn't
a normal day; the process
of
cleaning memory starts
from
a dancing bar to a laughing
club
- I execute it strangely - usually
I
wear a tuxedo to bring sanity - strange
things
happen when we're too sane,
I
wear shorts and raise a toast
for
everyone who live the life of the
weirdest
beings - just to not be lifeless,
there's
no court in heaven, a fire
does
burn in hell - I choose
to
get burnt like a piece of paper,
that
is how we feel less shitty - everyday.
Good
And Bad Days!
I
keep my bad days in the front pocket,
constantly
touching, feeling them,
the
bruises appear in here,
and
over the creases, sometimes
they
stink, scaring every possible man
around
me, in other times infinite
possibilities
draw me to sleep,
I
sleep like death, I wake up to a ripped
edge,
blood drips, a blood moon,
I
touch every bit of it, I moan
through
my pain, the pocket soaks like
a
woman, a struggle narrates its
story,
a story it is of struggle,
the
bad days menstruate, it's the
only
time I'm not told by me that I am a
man,
I bathe my pain off, I dry my
body
with the sky, sun sets on
my
waist, my front has a night,
owls
hoot, wolves come out, it is
when
I touch every bit of me, bad days
thrive
beyond a pocket, it creeps,
it
pulls, it draws the divine on
the
hands of the devil, a witchcraft
it
is to taste them; before it is morning.
.
.
I
keep my good days in my back pocket,
sometimes
they're forgotten, while
in
other times I walk right over
them,
I am told I don't love them, I stab
them
again and again to drink their
blood,
I wash the stains, erase
every
possible clue, manipulate the
evidences,
I even don't care if someone
steals
them from me, I expose
every
bit of my back looking for the
things
I need to have, how pathetic it all
sounds,
right? I don't do these to be
honest,
I just know that if I keep
them
before my eyes, I'd grow a lust,
a
very ominous lust, a weird longing for
a
good time, may be I'd kill someone
to
take his place, or burn a home
for
my mansion, I let the back pocket
bleed
through the crack, I wobble
through
the crowded metros where the
good
days get wet of the heat,
I
keep them in the sun, they dry up
over
my skin, every drop of sweat slips
down
my legs and all I now know
is
that a good day is a storm,
if
I hold it properly it'd take me on
its
ride, if I do not someone might steal
it
from me, then my back would hurt.
The
Undescribable Wishes
I
want to touch the linings of courage;
the
scars it banished, and places
it
dug its shoes in; sitting on
my
bed, I listen to a couple quarrelling;
I
need the debris of a stupid
thought
about a shoe I can't wear,
and
the bad jokes I crack to burn fear;
I
am asked to hold on to courage -
to
not break, I want to witness
the
disobedience of a mind when
it
is about to lose itself - when time is
running
thin I want to touch every
bit
of the courage to wonder
where
did I go wrong? I want to be
wrong,
I want to know courage like the
woman
whose finger knows when
to
count me in - when I'd break
the
next time, I don't want to thrive
without
having a clue of where to step.
.
.
I
desire to weave the chunks of hatred,
some
would assemble on my palm,
aligning
wisely with the margins
of
my future -- others would stay
separate,
on the scars of yesterday,
lost
souls of a winter and the thoughts
of
a million lives -- love recognizes
the
one I am, the ones I do not
know
are known to hatred, the unseen,
untold
stories are not written to be
read,
but if this world spills open
with
all its armory then we scribble
everything
that hasn't been said, words
we
aren't fond of arranging -
discomfort
isn't always a robber,
it
works in weird ways - when we are
on
the road to hate we get to meet new
signs
- on the top of every sign I can
see
a window and a ghost, it looks
like
me but I guess I've to wear
the
straightjacket of hatred to buy
them
- I want to see how the auction
is
the phase, compassion can't provide.
.
.
I
am longing to draw pain - without any
man
crying -- or doing nothing that
leads
me to its ending quickly,
the
story of pain happens to be the
love
story we don't want to be hanging
in
the favorite corners of our home,
-
it's natural that we can't allow
us
to succumb everything that calls
for
attention; pain tries to trigger a look
we
don't give to everyone, it weaves
the
intense 'yes' to a resting 'no'
and
warms the calmness, a prophet
locks
horn with the weaver who knows
how
to reincarnate - I'd love to show
my
puppy the door which knows
the
people I haven't met yet - I either
drink
some wine or swallow some pills
to
be unaware of the door; I want to
see
what appears when the door
to
the dormitory of pain opens up to
the
wise one I know, I guess he'd return
without
stepping in - I'd befriend the
idiot
who knows that it is just a
door,
it leads to a room - I won't lose
the
door, it can be opened again, I want
to
not know the wise one who never
painted
anything that needed attention
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