Walk the talk

July 2, 2016

Dear reader,

I do not mean to be anachronistic in this stylistic nostalgia of ‘dear reader’, but that is how I feel today. It just might be a conversation with one of my scattered selves that I’ve decided to share with you. Yet dear passer-by, I have now defined you. If you will choose to stay here like myself, I will sit by your knee and tell you all my, most ordinary stories. Of Thoureu’s art of sauntering. Where poetry falls into prose and where people who say, ‘oh, you are trying to write prose today?’ are stared at with silly-unkind mischievous eyes. Arts are nothing if not play, as I propose that this letter shall dive down from heaven to be stirred in your often-impatient mind like sugar in warm milk. Like touching several textures at once.

I have a lot of qualms and illogical desires flooding past me like sneaking foxes. But when I write, they sit by you and me and we pet these wild prodigies like dogs. Such is the summary of the whole mind.

The other day I was walking and I saw that the sky was favorably dressed in clouds as if a giant man with a swollen belly, smoking out beautiful cotton-candy smoke. I walked and if you live where I live, you’ll feel injured by the weight of  faded-jeans blue sky too. But not that fine Friday sundown, I didn’t.

The whole day I had my desires fleeting about. I almost felt that I had left my door open in the noon and that the perverse sun had come uninvited, to sit close upon my heart like some nightmarish incubus. But that can be mortally-worded as dehydration. And I decided to sing aimlessly, as if to let out all the water that I’ve swallowed in this reverse-drowning. It helped. The silence afterwards was of a mystical séance. A bad-throated séance-leader was my old fan. The silence where you could hear the gurgling stream of your own mind. That which is only audible around wishful walking and in-depth dreaming. Dreams where someone is throwing handful of cool mud at you, burying you and preventing you from waking up, especially after you’ve slept more than nine hours of your share. I wonder if that is what death feels like?

When the heat came back again in my heart, I switched on the T.V. and wondered why this even need to be put in a future letter or why can’t I forget about this ordinary twitch and nervousness like most people all around. But I couldn’t, thus the T.V.

Anthony Hopkins came on in Surviving Picasso and took the centre stage of my life. Like most divine interventions, I didn’t enjoy it much, or so I thought

When I stepped outside my house to run an errand. I plugged on my earphones like you take antacids to digest complex food that your stomach may feel clumsy with. Funny, I thought. Only yesterday I had to submit a poem on the theme ‘colour’ and the amount of fight I put up with simple themes, is amazing. If you will tell me to write about the flower-pattern lining inside your professor’s shoulder bag that I’ve never even seen, I’ll invite it for a dinner. Yet I found the muse when I had already fulfilled the prompt. An androgynous muse, who changed its gender every time I took a playful step. I was blinded with all the colours, even though my first thought was, maybe Picasso is not my type. The sky was like a mustard colored duck swimming in her own feathers. The road smelled good. The leaves…the trees that had looked rather miserable as if down with a viral fever yesterday, now looked as if they were dressed for an evening ball where all taboo-sparkles and confetti are allowed. I walked so tall that my shoulders ached with the strong grin they made in my silhouette. A stranger came by and noticed my air, asked me my ‘good name’, I flew away like a skittish bird, still entranced. The joy of being lost in every fiber of the world. It sat in my heart and the road I walked, I engraved in me. That night I dreamt of most beautiful colours in the most playful way. I realized, in me lived something that liked and hated things on its own accord. Something so natural and independent of a conscious me, it would corrupt the moment I’ll write it.

Liberated in a small ladder-house, I write till my blood colours my veins red and I blush with happiness.

Such was my walk. And I hope, such will be this awfully ordinary letter to you. To breathe in false glories is something we do every day.





After Chase

Selene by Mela Muller, 1910

What about the wishes that have a body of their own

Till they run under your sea-bed

Like wild hounds shooed away with the force of the hand,

Yet with the tread of fiction,

Sparks flying, what a relentless metaphor

For me to love you and name it in pitiful words

Of need

As if a nurse,

putting out dead men with the scent of her hair,

Called out for murder.


I put a face on you/ I fill you with my words

Lo, a mutt.

Of him, I made the sky/ of him, I made the earth.


A river I float,

I let him touch my eyes/ I let him droop to my waist.


And they made me the nun supreme of a dark little purgatory

With an uncertain hill-slope

‘Down I fell’, Alice murmured

Till I was both above and below

Lo, a mutt.


In the groves, Diana smiles at a shooting star

And traces it with her fingers.

For the days, I can’t write

There lives a man inside my neck.


I chew out my words and feed you,

Till then he wraps himself in set of bones

And grumbles till I stop speaking.

Those days he sleeps.


You sleep.

He pens his eyes open

And saunters across my mouth,

Like a dog in an open field.

Those days I face my neck

And speak to him

If speaking is a time-pool of sighs and sobs

A closing tongue, a path to the highway.


I chide him

I long for you


But other days, I want to dilute myself in my own mouth

Till I could say nothing

Of what you can’t anyway, conceive.


Universally Speechless by msdawe

Image credit: msdawe


My words dry up

To speak becomes a Lochness monster

And the horizon closes its throat,

I feel I’ve grown old since the day I first parted

From the many of you,

Under your many heads, one face piqued.

I eat.

The sorrow that comes my way

And I think about a man left alone in a cave for 55 years

Till his tongue tired without practice,

He forgot language.


How easy it is to belong to one flesh

Only to be shorn off with a simple letter-knife.


A mad bird sits upon my lips,

Carving in my gums,

The troops of words that march past me

Whenever I see your face;

In my head, an avalanche.


Image source:


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:

The becoming

As wilted as you are,

It splatters

On the walls and look–


there is so much gore

and still

there is so much more.


I had to order a drilling machine

Or else the music will fall in the pits

of my seismic mind,

Is this what a stroke feels like?

The applause of losing sense

When you break

You break,

The blunt ends of reality

As the horizon folds and assemble around your forehead

There is finally a permanence in the clouds; says:

there she treads unfed


Into the oblivion.


I hear the never-saying so much

I became them.


The trees, the ice sitting in my refrigerator and a sullen end of my toe,

I throb

But I say no more.

The Shedding season


I told you to lay bare
With all your skin down your shins
And you told me
I am hollow
And you told me
I have no past,
Just tomorrow.

But I kept on filling you up with dark lakes
With fishes made of pointed wings
And you told me
That is just too deep
And you told me
That you never even held people
Let alone a single breath.

Then I became an insurgent storm
Your skin flew away like lunar waves.

And I told you
You sit on a deserted throne
And I told you
You are so cold for a sun to hide
In somebody’s bones.


Estranged Gloomy Feelings

I have seen it. The gloom. It is true. Less in song, more in wretched rumors. Do not comply it for the dare. Shall stop it before it claim more lives, it needs victims to survive. Perhaps I am doing the same, but dear reader I do not write it for you, it is but for me. Because I feel if I do not pour it upon this freaky page, I will be lost..lost in mind games for mind can play the devil very well. And I command only for heavenly angels.

This stuff is hard almost dangerous but then curiosity believes it has the “will” to support her desires. Do I speak like Charlotte, I doubt I do. Bronte sisters were indeed a wonder of their times.
I see through their eyes now and then and wonder how some are gifted with bloom and the rest with never-ending thoughts. Thoughts which decayed like winter winds. How cruel at its time and in summer, a complete multitude of bliss.

This thought ate me for an hour now, my eyes are pallid from excitement..I feel If I push a little more, I can laugh like Bobby Macky’s demons. Am I too vain, reader? I know I am.
Can’t help much you see. Ah the caps-lock is disturbing and all these red lines whenever I slip upon a letter.

I know I wished for a calm silence from a century in hyperbole and now as it came I can’t stop writing. It is claiming me because I believe so, because I like to believe everything. Now I think I am little bit embarrassed of this write, what others would think about me.
Am I too dark? No I left that side long time ago but it has always been hidden like Edward mordrake’s demon face. It laughs while I weep for heaven.

The darkness puncture me, I remember I had surrendered to the good and mild-hearted one. Why shall you touch me then with evil desires? I do not demand you. I prohibit you in my system for only destroy me. But I won’t jump, I’ll stand tall. Like a wall in your malicious desires. Go trouble your brothers, I am pure. Though you spit your filth upon me but I shall bath again and stand up in your face. I will fight you.

If you read my story, do not complain for structure and poetry. Take the message, my soul says. We will win. It was prophesied.


Author Notes 

Influenced by ‘Gloomy Sunday’ and a whole day dedicated to paranormal research.