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.

screw nature!

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:
you’re pretty.
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.


blasphemy’s cooking from a poor man’s
eyes, nose, lips;
steaming hot. insipid steak on his tongue, he still thinks he’s not caught.
he’s burning &
he’s not burned alive.
he has taken the priestly gift from the temple: he’s fearless [you think?].
staining the wine cups, the gold dust,
staining it with his uninvited entrance.

“i’m not a sinner,….
i was just hungry”

he tells the priest, like it’s a game [i mean, we’re all hungry too – we’re humans for christ’s sake!]: like it’s a bet made with friends on
who’s fearless enough to stain a cathedral bright red without
calling down a curse on himself.
still, he pricks the meat hard
& watches it bleed (unmoved), until he’s unable to wash his hands.

until his sins are too many to escape the curse.