Procrustes

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
lying
like i’ve always done.

i treated nature like calculus
but
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
but
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.

The Spring of Early July

the morning’s cold
afternoon’s dark.

the clouds are grey
the thunder sparks.

his eyes are fallen deep inside his head,
his shoulder droops, reveals a tired back.

with the umbrella, he covers his eyes –
lets his vision grow black.

the winds seem to read his mind – she’s just like him:
uneven, pitchy & stark.

Copy Wheel Eye

“those who do not understand true pain can never understand true peace” – pain (from naruto).

  • my tomoe sees you:
    you jog then run; turn the crescent moon
    to a reflection
    of the upside down.
    you laugh; i laugh too
    not wanting to understand what i already feel: just a replica
    of the face you took
    from my face; that is
    you wore me so i
    wore you backwards
    to synchronize the heartbeats of the people who are dying yet,
    acting like it’s all
    child’s play and our feelings are
    mere toys with knives ready to strip us naked: aorta by aorta.
    like you won’t wake up one day and tell me, it’s over.
    but still, it won’t faze me: what i already know never
    haunts me, when i understand so well
    two opposite emotions trapped in a body:
    both, i’ve felt
    both, from you.