There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               


I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 


The Imposter Syndrome

The Equation of Desire. Martin Soto Climent. Mousse Publishing.

He would always sit ahead of us

In his citric orange T-shirt


Against the abandoned air-conditioned classrooms

Made by the Japanese and

Maintained by the miniature birds,

Who often get trapped in lecture-hall limbos.


I cannot write him

He’s a plant that does not germinate

Into wishful thinking

Of infatuated hearts, struck by poverty

Of lack.

A lack that begins to define you,

Your illegitimate parent.


But here’s a trick, 

Chance a find

you have to look.

Glance upon his quivery brow


the rickety case of criss-crossed legs

That dares to announce

—If just for a second—

The same lack as you

And your

Out-of-the-league desires. 


Image result

There isn’t a letter on my keyboard

That will have you

Smarten up your collars, sleep with a chord of food

And set you off to your

Island of mercy.


I know

There glasses full of chuckling ice,

A home-made monster,

To whom your blankets

Reproach and yet still shiver

With all the cold,


They said, build up some walls

But what of those

Towering inside,

Lying frigid

Against the storm that is your kin

You fall, all of all

Your scratching nails will

One day give in.


Stand on one leg from now on,

Islands are no places for hot-blooded men

We flux, We cry

But, just have a spirit to begin.


Photo credits: http://www.joelcartier.com/photography/fashion#

No man’s land


I sat under the tree
I dripped of words, bled myself dry
Nothing came close
Nothing came to pry

Two eyes, seven hearts
Hands to hold 
No more skin to give
They asked me, 'O goddess under the tree
Where is thy lord? Where is thy almighty?
Mine stands here, Mine loves me.
Where is this tree? Where is this tree?'

My skin chaffed to my bones
I wear my silken night oak
White strands 
Blue strands
I said to her, 
look ye to the sky
No star am I
When the night closes in,
I slip under my own kin
I am my home
I am my own skin

This lord you seek,
has have had a
gloomy goddess 
Neither above, neither below
but within him
within him

But I stand here alone,
Fully indulged. 

Lone Poets


A silver nerve throbs above my eyelids
It says snap
And I see you,
slurring past a cherry tree

As the afternoon sun gazes upon your lips
I kiss my cello
And tell him to calm my daydream,
Let it yodel down a mountain rivulet

But as the afternoon sun gazes upon your eyes

And I confess,
I have seen the world
within a desert

without a single oasis
“What a wonderful phenomenon it is, carefully considered, when the human eye, that jewel of organic structures, concentrates its moist brilliance on another human creature!”
― Thomas Mann



A torch set out to dive inside my fingers  It’s sparks are call lights
Though red
Flung out in the open drains
Of arteries away from my heart
With only sharks and blood clots
But no sign of the Checkers game

When I saw it for the last time
I saw it for like 15 minutes
I knew
one day in my sleep
I will cut my head in a half
I will cry
For Checkers to have their own open stream

And now
The torches have rowed
They oomph like old trains
And produce a river with their steam
With only Cells and slots
But no sign of the Checkers game

Metallic Taste

I am taped to the wall

With my old-lanky legs wrestling with the bees

Eyes: gushy

Mouth: brandy

And, am I now, popping up a heaven-song?

It must be dunk of the ice

it must be the slush, rushing beneath my tongue.

I wear lockets with smiley faces

and yet happiness is the most lousy chamber of my heart

Then this flu–It copulates with anxiety

and lead my livers towards their foundation banks



Then, I study faces.

Empathizing with human insanity

Delivering reprobation to my virtue:

The irrevocable sadness.

Let’s study again then,

Happiness. Anxiety. Sadness.

All three elements like temples of Dionysius in my vessel

But what is elemental of these elements is:


Staring-at-the-never-dying-clunk-clunk-moth, Sadness.



I like this. Breathing.

And not running into the strange abyss of a mortal universe. For it is dying the moment, I am not swallowing down my food without a thought to dissolve it inside my mouth.It is dying when I am not really listening to the songs ringing in my ears and I am just letting them move to the other side. Clicking impulsively, like a mad outrage.

It is dying when I am not seeing the stars while I walk down the rain-drenched road. Oh it is dying when I am mulling over imperfections of a conversation. And it is dying when I am just staring vacantly at this screen worrying about thousands of impossible probabilities.

‘Would anyone read this? Would they consider?’

And yet, suddenly, I gulped water down my throat and I feel it travelling inside my body, its energies enlightening me like never before. I am living now, realizing I have to. I am just writing it all out while you all wonder what moved me. A prophecy or a song? Nothing but a curious little sudden realization inside me. It says, I am changing. It says, I am growing.

It says I am Breathing. Now.

It says I have become a real ‘muser’. Loyal to the rhythms of guitars. No longer lurking into the future situations.

Just gazing at the stars.

Just gazing at the stars.

Image1 credit: Mashina_deviantart