Fruit Ninja

There are two knives
and there is a battle for the Lieutenant General.

From the oblivion of Plato’s roof
a golden fruit falls down
and out come the knives
for outcome of fight
and outcome of fight
decides the seed:
the book.

In the book,
the bloodshed of the other
knife has never mattered
In the book,
the meaning is owned
from temporary (matter)s.

It is so dual
my mind becomes its weapon,
because how do you preserve linearity
with multiplicity?
Every second, the knives sharpen.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Liquid Mountain by Dave Sandford

A point comes in your life
when you fall into a group of people
who have thought of the world
very unlike you.
And then, like a moth
to the yin-yang
you want the annihilation
of the world of an either and an or,
which does not exists
and so in the end,
annihilation is all that remains.

Contradictory things on their own
are not contradictory
and you’ve realized that,
it aches your existence, doesn’t it?

I think a poet or a writer
must’ve already said,
To live a life everyday
—and if “life” stands for meaning–
is to make a sand castle
down by the beach.

Oh I hope
I hope
the waves will be gentle.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Paintings Aivazovsky,  Ivan Constantinovich

Storm in the north sea, Aivazovsky (1865) 

I have never lived this life before
and the land is ever alien,
and the light keeps changing
with questions of mortality,
if not purpose.

The looking glass is my circus
and meaning is my cup,
“oh what could she possibly mean by that?”,
I mean my mode
of writing solemnly
as the sun drips my window with glass-sweat,
my house a greenhouse
and my body within, like my soul within my flesh.

For once,
I wish I wasn’t so mysterious,
I am not trying,
Do understand
the meaning that lay trapped
like a doomed boat diving under the crest.

In Time

The moment I was clothed in sheep-wool

And put out to bah with crowded language,

I strayed, I strayed

I dug the graves the vultures had ploughed

And made a song to amuse

The charade called joker-faced destiny


Marx said you are too good

In markets to run, all the stable boy parades

We ran, we ran

Inspecting the pulps found in the tomato cans

So exotic and bloody, if that be true

We thought we had seen the very last of you.


It is a love letter to a reluctant lover

I pray, I pray

Listening through the metallic walls

Into absence

Of history, time and space.

The mangrove older and taller than us all, 

Has never and will never say.

Words about Words

I try writing about myself

But the crock of someone else’s house clock

Surrounds me

As I lay awake thinking,

What is what do we live for.

Let me exist in an unarmored suit,

The soothe-eth looseness,


Of staring at the peeling universe on my ceiling every night,

The trance that is swallowing me awake.


Write words which haven’t been organized,

A prison-break

And give me the trial of making up fiction

Simply when my hands slip upon the keyboard.


And lingers like a suspense tune

Joy becomes jot

Tied up to a silly-rhyme knot.


All I use is jittery words with bull horns,

Crashing against my dry skin,

A beach that winters shun every morn


then I provide them texture, like a packet of Lays, the grill that breaks upon my tongue

For you to taste

That extra sharp, Shakespearean sonnet’s last lay,

I web I web inside my jotted head

Against the catchy commercial song that I have to escape,

Lest it leeks heroism and become a proverb.


Yet, I can’t help my words for my words can’t help but rampage,

Like a wave shot from the screen

A pool of patterns,

So just pick up my rags

And scavenge for meaning.