To hell with the darkness!
To hell with the light!
I’ll hide not in the daytime
Nor in the shadows of night.
Neither domain shall contain me
Neither one grant reprieve.
As a child of the infinite
In this realm I’m conceived.
In the Mouth of Madness
I strove to control insanity.
I believed within,
Though outwardly mad,
I could maintain integrity.
I floundered on
The mind’s vast shores.
A ship strewn
Upon the rocks.
I reached beyond
my limits there –
At the foot of reason’s cliffs.
I prided myself on creativity;
Praised my word smithery
While fearing to write –
Away from the huddle of my
Own imposed privacy.
I criticised everything
Grew tolerant of nothing
And chose to remain silent –
My pen dried up, my mind closed down
No longer god of anything.
The harsh look, the broken cheeks;
Many smiles have lost their form there.
You venture quizzically in my direction;
I know you mean to intimidate.
I’ve drunk enough to understand that.
All you do, though still beyond me,
It still reigns through the vital-est thing.
Our honesty will make or break us.
With my head full of clouds
It is morning.
But in the corner of this
metro carriage
it doesn’t really matter.
It could be night, it could
be early afternoon;
Not summer for
the Winter clothes.
But it’s morning
with my head full of clouds.
I’ll try to honest
But I’ve done that before:
“Do I look fat?”
“Well you don’t look skinny!”
“That means I’m fat!”
“Well skinny’s unhealthy…”
“And what about fat?”
“You’re not fat.”
“You said I was!”
“No. I said you’re not skinny.”
“The same thing.”
“Well, ok. Maybe you could exercise a bit.”
“Hah, LIAR!!!”
I’ve tried to be honest.
I must try it again.
What if I were to love
All my moral vicissitude?
Surrender the bounty of reason
Which I’ve been compelled to?
Allowing the sheet of blinding lust,
The fountain of my honesty,
Distort the very ethics
Of this world – my exactitude.
What if I were to lose
All of this and still have gained freedom?
To die young and beautiful
To desire this really!
What striking, utter vanity!
What heroism in that?
To die old and withered
To struggle till the end.
What wisdom resides in old bones?
What joy being bed-ridden!
To die trying hard
To live, love, and understand –
What other meaning could we give it?
What other life is worth living?
He walked in
And walked out again.
Hands pocketed,
Jacket pushed back.
Again he walked in
A friend accompanying
In walk, talk and
In looking at me.
I’d wanted to write on this page from the moment I opened this book
But I restrained myself, instead allowing myself, rather forcing myself
To read till the end of the poem.
The problem was my impatience,
Till that was subverted by interest and
I forgot what it was I had wanted to write.
In truth I guess I had only a notion
Something, some fleeting romantic attempt – at poetry.
Well being that it’s gone, this urge, this feeling,
I present this – My reality!
