Friday, November 27, 2015

asylum seekers

their humanity is
dissolving into
various news reports and
documentaries...
is it too early
for hollywood
to jump in?
to make them
a part of
The American Dream
and invite them
to the whole
party?

or do we just wait for
their graves to be built
before we start
mourning?

Words have gone on strike

Words have gone on strike
and a whole language gone havoc

the architect of the phrases,
sentences, paragraphs and stanzas
sweats day in and day out
trying to get the words back to work
for the whole future depends on his
success at this

they refuse to come
‘there is too much
injustice in the world’
they claim
‘your sweet words about
Love and Beauty
and uncharted corners
of the majestic universe blind
your eyes’

and they go silent
while the architect
tries to find them
in pubs and bars
and in bottles of whiskey,
under coasters
and occasionally in the
middle of a blunt
that he himself
poorly rolled

until one day in the mirror
he sees a world past himself
where people shoot each others'
brains out
and lovers backstab lovers
and protectors destroy
those who are being protected
and where
the rich goes richer while
the poor goes poorer
where empathy and remorse are dead

and he finds his words
volunteering in his construction site...
a language, again alive...
ink oozing from his pen
creating a future
not just for himself
but for the whole wide world

Thursday, November 26, 2015

to

This is to my inner Tyler Durden
who isn’t half as bad as the real deal
but bears an uncanny resemblance all the same

you can make me an insomniac
whose days do not end and cannot distinguish
the difference between the real and the false

you can make me hate everything around me
be it where I live, how I earn my money or what I wear
and everything I do and every thought I think

you can be with my Marla Singer whom I love
who loves you and doesn’t love me back
and stay together however long it may be

and you can hate life all you want and make me hate myself
BUT you cannot use me to hurt someone else
for I am not your slave and I will always fight back

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Above the prey

With her regal wings
and her majestic gaze
she flew miles above the ground
floating for hours
paying attention to minute details
of all life happening down below
here on the Earth
she was an observer
she was above all
she was a hawk

for us, the prey,
down here on the ground
she was the ultimate predator
and we would hide
when the sight of her could be spotted
far far away in the seamless sky

she flew so far above ground
that she was almost always
only a small dot in the vast sky
and she would come down here
only if absolutely necessary

where she came from
and where she went,
nobody knew
and she coasted so far
so that nobody knew
of the thousand scars
she bore under her wings.

Friday, November 20, 2015

a droplet of water

A droplet of water,
in a long
vast river,
that turns into
thin air
at a large, pretty
waterfall
is you…

bouncing on rocks
losing fragment
by fragment
until its disappearance…
left as a million
invisible droplets
of vapour and
no longer a part of
the river

we are
countless of
those droplets,
in the presence
of the radiant sunlight
together
forming a rainbow...

train


I keep on
waiting for
the train that
will never arrive
and it is only
hope
that makes me
keep my ears
on the tracks
every
passing couple of
minutes...

No noise
and none
do I expect
for I know
the train
would
never arrive

but maybe
it was never about
the train;
the expectation
may lie
just on the
noise of the
tracks,
which begs the
questions:

which brings more
disappointment,
the train
or the noise?

which is
inherently
more disappointing?

Thursday, November 19, 2015

falling

sailing on an
empty
sky,
a tired
river is
you.
falling,
among the
foamy white
rocks,
a long overdue break...

beautiful
where the tip
of his brush
kisses
the canvas...

he is lost

and lost
he wants to be
Sketch by Daisy Kiden

Foggy Morning

Foggy morning,
visibility close
to none...
a grayish boredom
seeps in through the
cracks and edges
of the bedside window
of my 14th floor apartment
(technically the 13th,
but North America,
sweet
superstitious bunch)

In the invisible
distance
there are all those
imaginary
ice capped mountains,
imagining while
freezing my tongue,
teeth and brain
on my iced capp...
too much sugar
making me high,
too little caffeine
keeping me asleep...
too cold for
the fall

sure it is pretty
but it's yet another
morning
I'd rather not
wake up on...
too many of those,
these days.
too little warm air
coming out of the
heaters
too much from
my nostrils

clouds kissing the
Earth
much like a beautiful
love story
or one of those
conspiracy theory
documentaries
whichever the mass
would pay for
(anything the marketing
people like)

all those steamy demons
flying around
in suits
going to work
invisible in the
paleness
driving with the
massive penetrative
headlights on...
even the suicidal
exhaust is
aesthetically pleasing...
clouds and clouds of
white death

I live a five minute walk
and a three minute
train ride
away from sanity
a place celebrated
for overpopulation,
methodic, precise machinery
and the slow decay
of thought...
creativity's non-existence;
education for wholesale...

for a radius of a modern
Civilization
no large mountains
looking over us
no live beaches
no birds, no beetles
no animals outside
cages and leashes...
all of flat concrete
waste and a
cyber junkyard
of useless data and
information

20% of the atmosphere, toxic,
made of tweets
90% of facebook likes
and the rest with
every useless thing we Google
while our neighbour
chokes to death

from a chimney
in a random factory
in the middle of nowhere
our individualism
together with carbon dioxide
is squirted into the air;
invisible ash
on the gray fog
while the meaning of
our being
is being packaged
on assembly lines
and dumped on
a river on its way to
the sea;
we are merely numbers

I am (you are)
just a link of evolution...
the propagation of our species
and purposeless after...
to reproduce,
to leave a generation
with occasional beautiful
foggy days like this one
but leave no purpose, no meaning
nor a physical world
to live on...

cursed not...

Hungover

Hungover
on a six AM
bus
on the way to work is
when life hits you
and makes you
write the first lines
of a useless
ugly little poem
on your
ugly little smartphone
for anyone to read
whenever...
or no one to read...
probably never

stuck in the
concrete beauty of
brutalist pillars
of modern bureaucratic
architecture
(as she puts it)
you destress your
already devalued self
in the dipshit dishpit of
a low profit restaurant
in the middle of
a junkyard
downtown

customers can go to hell
for you get paid
too little to give
more than half a shit
and with that little money
you do get paid,
feeding the egos
of the profs and
the deans and
the presidents
of those not-for-profit
education shops

you are just a simple
byproduct of a societal
experiment for
the sustainability
of our species…
a machine coming
out of a bigger machine
making machines
to produce the shit
that the society makes
the society believe it
needs

you are a
simple glass in a
restaurant
one of
countless others
needed for the survival
of the restaurant
only until
a customer or
a waitress
accidentally
shatters you on the floor…

and once you go mad
once your inner insanity
the man or woman alive
comes out,
there is no worth
in you
for the restaurant..
you are human waste
destined to the gutters
even picking up the
shattered pieces
is only annoying
work for someone

home

Since when
is home
a synonym to
disappointment
and boredom?

why does
home
have a lack
of life?

why does
home work
feel like
dragging
your nut-sack
across
a million shards
of glass?

why is
waking up
everyday
feel so painful?

why ,
everyday,
do I have to
go to class
cook
eat, shit,
study,
and repeat?

since when
is life
such a
cartwheel?

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

melt

and sometimes you melt,

everything solid about
you
turning molten...

together with those
chills from
intense coldness

sometimes
at absolute zero
some people
vapourize you into
thin air....

that cold cold warmth

Monday, November 2, 2015

ignite

Does anyone have a
lighter
here on campus?
I forgot mine...

I just want one to
ignite
the river,
the arsonist in me
has awoken
to the smell of it

imagine inhaling
all that smoke
filling your lungs with it
and exhaling
shapes,
circles, Gandalf ships
and such

beautiful beautiful
seraphic flames

oh how I wish
I had a lighter right now,
all I need is a spark
and you
could give me one

or better yet
be one

Sunday, November 1, 2015

රජනිහි නෙත් නොසැතපෙනා

සතන් හිනැහෙනා
උන්මත් කැළඹි නුවණා
තමණට නොහොබිනා
මධුවිත පිරි මඟක දුවනා

ප්‍රේමයට පුද දුන්
යැයි සිති ළය ද පුහුදුන්
නිසලව වැතිර වුන්
මන් හොඳටම අතරමන්

කව් නොලියවෙනා
රජනිහි නෙත් නොසැතපෙනා
පෙම් කවි නොමැති දෙරණා
රා ගිනි දරුණු දැවෙනා

මුව බැඳුනු වත්සොනු
රැය නිම වෙන්ට පෙර සුනු
නොම දනිමි ලියවුනු
කවි මැද පද මඟහැරුණු