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.

Friday, February 17, 2017

රිසි හසරැල්ලේය

රිසි හසරැල්ලේය නිසි කඳුලැල්ලේයා
වැසි ගඟුලැල්ලේය රිවි වියලිල්ලේයා
නොම නැවතිල්ලේය අපමණ රැල්ලේයා
හදවත අල්ලේය හිත නිවහල්ලේයා

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Haiku's on Josef Sudek

1.
Ordinary life
Looked at through a looking glass
Elegantly art

2.
Magical window
Peeping through an urban soul
Mystified beauty

3.
Momentary sights
Glimpses into the special
Ordinary heart

4.
Capturing moments
Transcending more than just time
Frozen - Eerie - Love

5.
Haunting naturale
Lens - extraordinary
Romantic poetry

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Rooftop

Dear Allen Ginsberg,


One cold wintery evening Sam and I kissed for the first time under the dying rays of distant supernovae, on the top of a 16 floor skyscraper, in front of the mummified remains of postmodernist architecture scattered as far as the horizon,
where we were buried knee deep in the freezing snow slowly turning into ice, looking at the almost luminous tangerine sky through which a lonely popular star or two tried to peep into our world in which the aesthetic had changed dramatically as we fucked it over, over the years,
where the building has been old enough to have been built in the superstitious era of the North American Modernism, skipping the 13th floor,
where emergency vehicles with their rhythmic melodies flew with sinusoidal frequency occasionally waking up the random sleeper, illuminating the streets with radiant reds and blues and whites on top of the pre-existing reds and yellows and greens,
where desultory birds drunkenly flew over the freezing spectacle of human night,
where resolute humans flew over the birds at the edge of the atmosphere at supersonic speeds (because to travel fast is important right?),
where we could see the average middle aged man sitting on his couch flicking through the channels on his flat screen television illuminating the vacant-night-air through the windows of his condo on the adjacent skyscraper,
where his wife and kids were probably asleep or didn’t exist or whatever,
where, in the next unit, the bottomless teenager, flicked through pornhub in a y-generational meditation,


where the cold wind that blew across us couldn’t awaken any goosebumps as we were wrapped in a cloak of incredible warmth radiating from our hearts, I think,
(or maybe we were just so drunk on the whiskey and rum we had been drinking for the past hour, I am not sure)
where the past and the present and the future collided into a singular point with the precision of a blackhole to create a moment of inimitability,
(at least for me, for I have no idea what she thinks of it anymore)
where I had spent and still keep spending multiple evenings, days, and nights waiting for a miracle to happen to clamp me out of this first-worldish boredom,
where we are all corroding in the machinery of false hope, working our asses off to feed someone already at the top of the ladder,
where those up there, oils the linkages (which happen to be us) to keep it working as smoothly as possible to make the most profit,
where even psychiatry has become a profitable business,
where to be suicidal has become the automatic norm and opium has become a better option than to go through a ‘regular’ day, whatever a regular day means nowadays,
where I lit a cigarette even though I don’t consider myself a smoker, and shared it with her, even though she definitely is not a smoker,
where we waded through the shallow end of this Samsara, seeking a drug induced narcotic enlightenment,
where we swam through our cardiovascular graveyards and toxic blood vessels,
where we dived deep into paralytic daydreams and parasitic nightmares,
where we drowned in a synthetic Nirvana, embarking on a psychedelic sleep only to awaken in this material world,


where I wrote poems and read them out so loud that only she could hear,
where she wrote songs and played them on my guitar and sang, so that only I could hear,
where she and I failed at school and work and “life” together and still had each other's backs,
where we let our days and nights decay, and turn into absurdist, surreal art, until the day she left, by which time I had already decomposed myself in the spectacle of social media transcendence,
where angelheaded hipsters burned for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, (thanks Allen)


where I found myself, alone, naked, beaten up, victimizing myself, when all around me, I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.




haiku (16)

I am very sad
Fuck the world and it's bullshit
I am gonna sleep

Monday, February 6, 2017

lunch

we have lunch
surrounded by the
elderly
and those who arrived
as refugees

we talk about
death and
injustice
and how to form
meaningful relationships

all the while
eating
culturally appropriated
cuisine
and drinking
coca cola

Objections

She didn't have
any objections
- the way she did
for the objectification of
women in media -
when I wrote about
the purity of her smile
or the depth of her eyes
or the texture
of her moist lips
or the goosebumps on
her breasts
when my fingers touched
her nipples

She only ever
slid her fingertips
through my hair,
looked deep into my soul
and said,
'I love you too'