Monday, March 27, 2017

Poetry

Poetry to me
is like a
double edged knife
without a handle
that I use to
slit my wrists
horizontally

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Some Nights

Some nights
live for
the rest of your
life

Some nights
are never
born

Sax Solo

She's like a saxophone solo
She's like a saxophone solo by Alanna Sterling at Live on Elgin
We are on our way out at 1AM to catch our last bus when this hypnotic-magentic sax solo clamps our ears and drags us back inside
She's like that saxophone solo

She's like the sunset
She's like the sunset at Nepean Point
She's like the sunset behind the Gatineau Hills which paints the sky with Monet-esque golden hues which I see, observe, experience, live, one quiet Autumn evening sitting under the Champlain Statue

She's like an afternoon breeze
She's like a cool afternoon breeze on a warm summer day
She's like the refreshing, invigorating, gentle river wind while taking one of those regular strolls on the Prince of Wales Bridge

She's like a thunderstorm
She's like a thunderstorm in early February
A thunderstorm which rumbles over the Britannia Beach as we watch over from a nearby skyscraper
A thunderstorm sandwiched between two 15cm snow storms

She's like the spring
She's like the best parts of the spring
She's like the birds chirping to the melodies of the wind or the naked trees budding light green for a new beginning or the smell; the smell of life after a season of frosted death or the freshness and the warmth of the spring
She's like the tulip festival

Afterall
when I really think about it,
She's a bit like this city
A little boring, a little small, a little conservative, a little closed up, and a little repetitive (kinda like this poem actually)
But if you look a little closely, you'd see that she is full of life. 
She is full of music and poetry and art
She is the centre of culture and she is the oil paint in an oil painting

And I guess, just like this city
I kinda like her
because
She's like magic
or a saxophone solo

සිතිවිලි II

මා මඟහල
සිතිවිලි අහුරක්
අමතමි,

නාස් පුඩු අගින්
ගිලිහුණු
දුම්වැටි දුමක් මෙන්

වා තලයට නැඟී
මියැදී
මැකී යන්නට 
මත්තෙන්

මේ කඩදාසි 
පිටුව මත
ලියැවෙනු මැනවි...

ඒ නටඹුන් මත්තෙහි
මා මියැදීම
වෙනුවෙන්
She had
the kind of eyes
that enlighten
the darkest corners
of my heart
like lightening
sparks

Friday, March 24, 2017

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

One-two, one-two, one-two, one-two,
I count the beats standing next to the bar
The bar is crowded but the beats don't seem to add up
I take another shot of whiskey and the haze around my eyes disappear for a moment
I take that moment to gaze around at the sight of disco lights obstructed by the sweaty shoulders in my personal bubble

I look up
There are lights flashing
A millisecond of bright lights after a millisecond of darkness after a millisecond of brightness
It seems as if all the souls jampacked between these walls are stuck in some sort of a trance

One-two, one-two, one-two, one-two,
I still can't count the beats
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock,
I see time fly past me as I buy another shot of watered down whiskey

Each shot smoother than the last
Each breath heavier than the last

I take a step away from the bar towards the dance floor
Everywhere was the dance floor
I take one step and my personal bubble behind me gets filled with strangers

I sigh
I feel my breath approaching my nostrils
I feel sigh leaving my nostrils
It adds to the carbon dioxide density in the room
It is warm inside

I take another step
I see a girl with her eyes closed
She has her arms to her sides
She has her head leaning slightly backwards
She has her hips moving, sideways, from left to right to left to right to left
I see another girl with her eyes closed
I see another girl with her eyes closed

One-two, one-two, one-two, one-two,
At this point I should just give up
This counting beats thing isn't working
Copy-paste, copy-paste, copy-paste
I see a few girls with their eyes closed
I see a few guys with their eyes closed
I see a few guys looking at the-girls-with-their-eyes-closed
I see a few guys looking at the girls, with their eyes closed
I see a few girls smiling and I see a few guys smiling

I see a few couples dancing together
I see a few strangers dancing together

Copy-paste, copy-paste copy-paste
People at the bar dancing, people at the dance floor dancing, people in the line to the coat check dancing

And I see the red dressed, red lipsticked, black haired you... dancing

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Tombstone

When I die,
Leave my tombstone blank.

Do not write my given name on it
Avoid my birth year altogether and ignore the year of my death

Do not mentally note whatever name you recognize me with whenever you visit it, if you visit at all
Do not paint a picture for any random passer by to recognize the dead soul inside that grave with

Let that tombstone celebrate the carbon waste of an arbitrary human life lived and done
Do not give personality to decaying chemical matter

Do not mourn the life I lived
Do not mourn the life I didn't live

Afterall, what is in a name?
Afterall, what is in an ever changing chunk of carbon?

A life well lived would last forever on its own
Why is there a need to create random memorabilia?

When I die,
Do not even have a tombstone

Do not let my remains remain. Let them go.

If anything, if you really want to keep something, make a little grave in some empty dark corner in your heart and put my name on it.

And if you really really want, take that grave to yours.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

සිසිරයකි සමුගැනෙන

අසනි වැසි ඇද හැලෙන
තුෂර කැටි නොම රැඳෙන
අකුණු දෙරණත ගැටෙන
සිසිරයකි සමුගැනෙන

කණ්ටකය දෙදරවන
අන්ධ හද සසලවන
දුබල නෙතු තෙත කරන
සීතලකි අතැර යන

මීදුමට නොම පෙනෙන
අඳ බැවින් නොම දකින
පත් නොමැති තුරු සෙවන
සා හරිත දළු දමන

අඳුරු මුත් මුළු දෙරණ
රඹැතිමය පෙර ගගන
සැරිය තුරු හිරු නගින
කෙනෙකි අතැඟිලි ගණින

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Dissect Me

Dissect me
Like a frog in biology class
Find my softest and most vulnerable spots and master my insides.
Locate where my lungs are, where my brain might be and most importantly, find where my heart is
Everything you will observe there is devoted to you

Embrace me
Embrace me like your best friend’s cat you have to take care of
during the first week when she is gone to Cuba
That millisecond of care would be a lifelong moment of warmth to me. This winter is cold.

Crack me open
Crack me open like an unborn chicken at a breakfast restaurant bought from some local farm.
I hide behind this thick shell and you are the only one I would open myself up for. But I do not have the courage to do so myself.

Clip my wings
Like a Brazilian scarlet macaw
and cage me in a tight space somewhere inside your heart
I would give up all my civil liberties just to roam around the depths of your soul and observe the hidden galaxies and nebulae and supernovae in there.

Slaughter me
Like your companion camel while lost in a desert
I am no masochist but I would sacrifice myself for your comfort and happiness at any given time.
What is the point of my existence if it is not to serve you.

Unsex me here
Like the raven himself who is hoarse
Except don’t. Just don’t do that

And just kill me if you have to
Like a mosquito on your skin, or a lobster at a hotel tank, or a fish stuck on a fishnet, or a moose in a hunting range, or an elephant at a reserve, or a hamster at a lab, or a whale in the sea
I would gladly, gladly die at your hands if that is what you desire

But at least let those animals live.

       Maybe.

              You know.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

A letter to my former, present, or future self/dude!

Dude,
See you are here
Where else would you rather be?
I know you've been there done that maybe a dozen million times
I know you hate this perpetual boredom
I know you hate routine
I know you hate repitition
I know you hate repitition
I know you hate repitition

But what is so bad with waking up?
Why do you want to not breathe so badly?
What is wrong with seeing a Clementine dawn after a carbon monoxide laced night covered by tangerine clouds?
Why don't you just look outside at these multiple concrete dildos standing tirelessly as far as the horizon?
Why don't you look at the graduate factory to the south to which you belong but you do not belong belong?
Why don't you just try to enjoy the petroleum excrements that you breathe in every breath?

Dude,
See you are here
I know you didn't ask to be here
I know you never wanted to be here
But dude, you FUCKING are here
And why not make the best out of it?

Between the big bang
And supersonic land travel
There must have been billions of butterflies who flapped their wings to get you to where you are today
To get this useless "perfect" little planet to where it is today

So why don't you or I or you or whomever it may apply to just fucking breathe the air you can breathe until you can breathe it and for a second, a millisecond, a microsecond, a nanosecond be grateful

Because,
You privileged little shit,
You made it,
And billions did not.

Monday, February 27, 2017

I am not a poet

I am not a poet
I am not a poet because poetry does not come naturally to me
I have to put my blood, sweat and tears to write a piece and just like in every other facet of my life, I hate the fact that I have to work for it

I am not a poet
I am not a poet because I am unoriginal, inauthentic and disingenuous
I don’t think there is a single thought that crosses my mind that is not a fabrication of the society I live in, the media, my acquaintances, my friends and my family

I am not a poet
I am not a poet because I did not have to struggle to get to where I am today
I was born to an upper middle class family in a country laced with poverty and had a supportive childhood until my dad became a diplomat and ended up here
My struggle is not real

I am not a poet
I am not a poet because on my regular sleepless nights, I sometimes wish for a tragedy
Sadness seems to be more interesting than this perpetual boredom I am stuck in and more than anything else, tragedy sells
And I am trying to sell myself

I am not a poet because I am a fraud and I know it
But it’s too good to throw it all away, anyone would do the same
And I’ve got ‘em going, and I am careful not to show it
Sometimes I even fool myself a bit, it’s like magic

I am not a poet because I plagiarized the last two lines directly from my favourite Gotye song

I am not a poet
I am not a poet because I am all skin and no flesh
Before my ex and I started dating, when she was still my best friend, she told me that she loves it when artists break up because that is usually when they produce their best work
When she broke up with me to start a relationship with my best friend, she and I sat down beside the stinky, dried up canal and laughed at how we should both be inspired now

Wait was that me calling myself an artist?
This is why I am not a poet
A hipster isn’t a hipster as soon as they call themselves a hipster right?

I am not a poet because I victimise myself
I am not a poet because my parents work hard for their money and I blow it all away on alcohol and marijuana
I am not a poet because in front of unassuming strangers, I spread my legs
I am not a poet because maybe from their perspective, they see me spread my wings instead

I am not a poet
I am not a poet because…
             
             Fuck maybe I am a poet
             Maybe that is all I have
             Maybe that is all I am
                           
                            What does it mean to be a poet anyway?

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Synthetic Hearts

Crystalline stars and polyethylene clouds
She strolled through the dense
paraffin streets at the
tangerine dusk

Her saunter with her gaze
fixed non-existently forward
serenated the onlooking swarms
as she finger picked their
nylon minds
immersed in a composite
mesmerizing muse

She made the singers weep
She made the painters bleed
She made the sculpturers melt

And the poets...
the poets are still trying to find,
in this vast concrete wilderness,
their lost semi-metallic minds
and their neon
synthetic hearts.