Just Another Day

Today is just another day

when she wakes me up

from my disgruntled sleep,

to a series of unanswered whys.

Today is just another day

when with the foam of the toothpaste

I try to spit her out of myself

only to be belittled by the mirror.

Today is just another day

when she seduces me

like a distant memory

into a world wholly undone.

Today is just another day

when I see her sway

to our private tunes

that are trapped within me.

Today is just another day

when through the window

of the car I travel in

I see her on a secluded cloud.

Today is just another day

when I lose myself

in an inescapable void

that looks like her.

Today is just another day

when she crowds my mind

with three and a half years

that make me puke tears on my desk.

Today is just another day

when I find absolutely no escape from her

as she dissolves in me

like a saddening drug.

Today is just another day;

her twenty-third birthday.

Just another day, when

all my rationalism fades

and I long to be with her.

The Shirt

The cloth that hangs,

on the door of my bedroom,

is an anachronism

that once was a fancy shirt;

that once was flaunted;

that once was unbuttoned

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Now has ended its glory, by

a wicked pun played by time

that has left the shirt in tatters,

infested with a nefarious fungus

that slowly reduces its existence

to a nothingness.

The cloth hangs on the door still,

untouched and neglected,

through the brightest of the afternoons,

and through the darkest of the nights,

longing for its lost glory,

longing for another pun

to be played upon it,

longing to be worn again,

and to be frisked and unbuttoned,

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.

HER

Stolid stones and mundane conversations

have enclosed a finality of time.

She has escaped. From my ego,

through two-faced streets, into

another layer of the universe.

I am split like a bisected earthworm,

into two insignificant selves,

at the wake of a private apocalypse.

I have tamed into normalcy,

like a man with combed hair,

I have no doors open, and

none closed either.

I have no doors at all to see through,

on this hopelessly dull night.

I am the primary agony of my room.

I am annoying like a spelling mistake.

I am a pun on modernity, and a

euphemism for abject pity.

She has faded. Into a distance,

far from my pitiable self, floating

on amicable waters.

I walk like an old man,

looking at stolid stones that

play Gods to weeping worshipers.

I weep too, don't I? I cry dry.

I am caught up,

between several stones and many Gods,

unable to detach myself from any.

Because I weep. Yes, I do cry.

My wired wishes,

have her kidnapped.

I have arcane dreams of her.

They are wild and vivid.

And they have her kidnapped.

But there is no ransom.

She has escaped.

There is no ransom.

She has faded.

There is no ransom.

There is no her.

And I am done. Fuck!

Am I?

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.