the future

The future is my worst enemy,

it’s a shapeshifter with a menacing smile,

clawing its way down my path,

an obsidian vortex in the form of a spider,

sucking the life out of the forest I’ve

built.

And the thing is, I’m short sighted, so I can never

really make up its form, a foetus,

covered by amniotic fluid: yellow,

cloudy, muddy and disgusting – this

aura that protects the future (my enemy)

from showing it’s true form.

 

Day by day, depending

on the color and feeling of my

bedsheets, whether I’ve dreamt

of falling teeth, the future morphs

to its personal likings.

From a beautiful flower poisonous to

the touch to a pillar of arsenic,

always lethal and toxic.

The future never really leaves

me,

I know this because I smell

my own fear in the air.

I know the because since I’ve made

this enemy,

my footsteps barely touch the

ground, and the hairs on my arm

stand tall like skyscrapers (even in the morning).

 

No-one can protect me from the

future.

It falls through the stitching of

cotton and strides through satin.

If you ever manage to hold it on your

fingertip, it will sink

through your skin,

then, you will be injected

with pure-terror.

Don’t go looking for my

enemy,

it will find you first.

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adolescent idealism is a hoax

my mind’s racing,

they say it’s normal,

not abnormal,

adolescents are like this, don’t mind them,

crazy minded, mindless,

bezelled by the universe

chatters and impulses, smoke, lights,

cries, they say it’s all just

because we

romanticise life,

with our hormones

but is that so?

maybe you adults just

downgrade life, cut it with a knife

forget its beauty

and newness, freshness born

into every moment,

you lament,

but we, with new eyes,

untainted still see life for what

it is,

beyond your

clouded mind.

 

night times, we stay awake,

head in a racing car game,

throwing thoughts like elastic shotguns

sons of euphoria followed by

hands tumbling over keyboards,

fumbling pencils,

crumbling cameras, strumming strings,

creating some things

to let out the excitement

of living in a body, on a floating rock,

gawk at how the heck did we get here?

we do it not for the future, not because

it could amount to anything, but the

moment

 

we strip clothes off,

teeth fall off,

eat bitter earth,

scorch our fingertips,

plunge into crisp waters,

why?

why because we don’t know

who we are, (the greatest gift)

 

curiosity, ferocity

this stubbornness to keep

standing, discovering

unstopping stomping

unapologetically launching ourselves

into this world.

but i say it’s because we know

this world is nothing but

a cardboard box stage,

not a cage,

and we’re here so infinitesimally

so, to

cry over, suffer over, joy over,

get over,

unpreel, then refresh and start over

every time

the sun shines again.

 

And we,

get to be someone new,

someone bigger.

reach out further

away from where we started,

we know we can be anything we ever

wanted,

as long as that flame burns

 

not related to age spurts,

 

to just, be alive,

feel alive.

 

 

i say it’s not,

adolescence.

i say it’s our true nature,

as humans,

before we comply and forget

not take a bet on

this miracle of a human life

before we strive to stick the feeling of freedom

under a desk like gum,

before we construct the cage of

what is and what isn’t

 

and think about it,

those times where you thought

nothing would stop you-

that’s when your invincibility existed

truly.

Sudden Magnetism

Unexpected magnetisation

i realised i was iron ore

commanded like a puppet

willingly under magnet

she was inadvertently

radioactive, bathing in

pure electromagnetism

and I spun and spun,

poles switching

like blades,

positive and negative

and furiously so.

 

And somehow,

my charge

became complete opposite to

her the moment those

electric blue eyes

caused fire on me,

my whole body internally,

turned haywire and some

part of her did too

so we started the

dance of polar attraction,

forward, backward, contraction.

Souls grasping at each other

from afar.

 

She pulsated the whole

truth of the

universe on me like

a madman, yet discretely like

flashing light

came in for a carnal

embrace (it was all

but human) rather,

supernatural for in

that moment

something ancient became

aware of itself,

realised its one-ness,

born for re-uniting in

self-awareness.

Ends meet

Window half

open, letting

a bear breath of the

world in,

swollen dark

lid

oozing out obscure

waters.

 

Ends meet in

airplanes, your past

bends its back,

cracks its spine and

stretches out, mews

for your milk.

Feed me.

Feed me.

 

So ends meet,

yesterday, today, last year, next week

shake hands like

wives meeting ex-wives:

horrible yet necessary and

completely unavoidable.

 

Tugging at my scalp,

my unhappy

nagging children:

fostered with my love

and attention

now over-dependent

clinging clams of

past versions of my identity

meeting who I am now.

Ends meet,

and I’m helpless staring out

the airplane window,

seeking for some

motherly nature in

clouds.

 

Ends meet with who

I am, with future craft,

scraping past remains,

my brains (but before) meets

my brains (but now).

Dots connect it all,

it’s one big murder investigation

and I’m the missing

person.

 

This issue is getting

quite

repetitive, I might say.

lavender

i’m walking on daggers

split into two and

quarters and i’m not

scared of my bare feet

but the blood that

will stain the

stainless steel.

i’m rushing over cloths,

wet to the right degree?

of the right texture, softness?

satin or silk or simple cloth?

guessing game of their needs

until i’m sitting on the floor

and the door is closed

and i’ve realised the clock

has made two rounds:

I still haven’t decided

and the wet cloth is dry

and the blood is dry.

 

Stained blades on my floor,

stained blades are my floor.

Mother and Father

water them everyday,

preciously and forgetfully

but on their way they forget

the lavender blood

marks

and do they ever

ask that question?

Where does it come from?

 

They walk over to me,

“please make things cleaner,”

but I can’t hear, for salt water

clogs my ears and maybe

it was too bad to expect

bandaids, so now I look down

and they look down

they say

it will heal on its own:

“you want to help us?”

yes, i whisper.

“Don’t show us this bleeding,

clotting, broken blood”

and I slap my hands

over my feet, they stick

to blood-skin like

clams.

 

Only soft, lavender

baby skin for you,

Mother, Father.

Only sweet perfection,

and uncontaminated writing,

mouths that

never choke and

lips that stay firm

and noses that know

when and how to

breath,

at a constant rate,

and platinum feet

that don’t mind your daggers,

(so I don’t stain your

blades with my

lavender blood.)

(I know it’s a collection

you hold very dear

to you)

 

Don’t bleed at the wrong

time, don’t let lavender fill

you up first fulfil them

or flip inside-out.

But,

 

lavender blood

leaks anyway

through crevices

and bubbles in

my mouth,

they see

it now and finally

they give me plasters.

Plasters to seal these

talking holes,

don’t let any of it escape

I don’t want to see it”

close the holes and close

the bedroom door

and close the corridor

door

and stop bending over,

you can’t cover the

holes like that.

 

Two rounds of a clock.

 

Relief now stretches

over their faces until,

I choke

on some

lavender in

my mouth, again

reflex and

unwanted,

and they sigh.

 

Shut your eyes, baby,

and it won’t be there.

And just play some songs

for me,

but now I have to go baby,

I have to go clean the mess

on our blades

and I just…

have to go..

 

I’ll get back to you

the next day.

You know, when

this whole lavender

idea is out of your head

and we can go

indulge in some food

like we do,

we promise we’ll forget

the stains, okay?

 

Pick anyplace you want,

okay?

As long as it’s not

purple or

lavander, okay?

okay?

 

And I realise the clock has

made more than

two rounds.

 

I still walk on my hands,

hands jammed like clams

on cut feet.

 

an ode to new books

i’ve never really

written down how

much i marvel at new

books

 

 

new books begging

with their legs open,

open me,

crack my spine

click

clack

click

watch every node

snap open

for you

 

 

flip through my

pages like

lightning, i’ll

fan out words

with gusto

 

 

soft, yet hard,

confident cover,

matte and slick

my fingers,

horny, scratch

and slide over the surface

feeling the soft bumps of

curves of the title.

 

 

i’ll penetrate

pages at random,

eyes flirting with words,

but barely skimming them,

saving them for the future.

my nose, instead, saves

nothing and places itself

completely submerged

between two flat papers

inhaling magic and newly

pressed printed smells of inks

and yellow

 

 

dear new book,

i’ll hold you with one

hand, then two,

flip you over like a pancake

in a pan

slice you open like

new cottage cheese,

 

 

i set here in bed,

9am,

ready to deflower you

donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, empty,

slippery butter and

holes,

 

I climb through donut holes,

as a small mole in woe at

indentations into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

oil tackling

flour, butter and all.

Now, the final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: tender and appealing

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make it

sickeningly sweet?

and maybe if I ingest all that sweet,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious,

delightful?

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

now it’s just one whole,

nothing.

maybe my own hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will also be gone?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

hole.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

this donut and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough, sugar ball has

a purpose,

and a hero’s journey.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that maybe I can too?

I must be able to?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid sugar:

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

Eating this donut:

destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, an intruder

and I’m a marauder without a map.

If my hole were to cave in would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

It’s okay, I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

one,

two,

three,

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

 

I know no other material,

usable material to fill this tunnel.