laundry’s going wrong.
the rat race is burning green,
& it’s just the beginning.
somehow, i hear zeno whispering,
just be happy. it’s all nature.
is it? –
the fog and all its glory, mystics to unanswered theories;
learning evil, string after string: the ways of crotcheting.
for even i, was a 12 year old son when i learned
how to take pieces of minds as bread under my pillow.
squirming in that black iron bed
like i’ve always done.
i treated nature like calculus
grandpa passed away like my last pride, & i couldn’t integrate the depth at which death ran.
i could hear a man at the funeral sigh, a pity.
i could feel my lips break, parting & yet struggling to keep the name:
a usual feeling that suffocates.
hecato taps me, it’s nature.
i just couldn’t cry yea – i’ve always done my dirty laundry. but the dirt, they just wouldn’t leave. i kept seeing them, lived in them; struggled not to cry because,
men don’t cry.
my eyes hang low, too low as i call quits –
burned red, with coarse words stuck to my tongue.
they called me a coward cast me out of masculinity, said
i couldn’t fit.
i drank them in slowly till my breath was poisoned.
i definitely can’t hide like the stoat da vinci’s paint wept over ’cause i know that no matter what happens, everything, all seem akin to paroxysms of desperation.
but then, what happens
when i change my clothes
despite the piercing ululation of the little boy deep down my sore throat?
it’s all going to bleed – me, i mean
from too many lies, even the ones that smile in my face:
the cuts, the wounds going deeper,
farther than the sacred byway to the ‘welcoming’ innkeeper;
till i’m unable to feel again.
i’m not sure what this darkness means
i have to be happy
who said it’s easy to fit?
even now, when i’m asked what dying means i respond with indifference,
it’s just meta ta physika.