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Posts Tagged ‘naked’

No amount of words can bridge

the distance of years in silence-

because the sun hides its face

like the way a tyke, fatherless

and left out into the world

to fend for himself. Alone.

 

Someone has to refuse

to become the victim anymore.

You knock some doors

and it is locked. You are not

welcome there. And a hand

is restrained to touch his own

 

shadow or an image reflected

a life mirrored in water.

Disowned molting who just

learned its first flight

and give ambled wings

to shattered dreams.

 

Of the smell of gunpowder.

The handprints on paperbills

and the bitter taste of wine.

None of which represents

your true bone stripped of flesh.

An animal with no redemption-

heartless and chained.

 

You will refuse to let the past

define you of who you will become.

 

And you begin the journey

to a place of faceless and nameless

strangers. You will exist

as though you just have lived

and strip down the shadow

as an old clothing. Naked and free

shimmering like a newborn child.

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Why flipping a page from the book  is necessary

to pass time and you know that the hands of the clock

won’t turn back the hours that have been.

And you sit there on a corner

endlessly stare in silence,

writhing in the cold naked

without a soul breathing-

you shut them out of your world.

 

Why talking within your mind in monologues nags you

with guilt as if your life is a mess and you are helpless

about the future and guessing how it will ever end.

And nobody knows that there is a deep cavern

that you can’t escape. While you live the days

carrying the weight of an imaginary prison-

you wish that death is the only freedom.

 

Why people come and go as soon as the door opens

and later you close them. Never wanting them to stay

nor understand you like you always did before.

You said they deserve to be happy with the ones

who can fulfill their happiness and you are sorry-

that you are not going to be the person

who can be able to give the expectation.

 

Why does sleep won’t come as peacefully

like words that overflowed within you but won’t be heard

and you think that anyone would not be ready

to listen to any of it. Because they will feel the

vastness of the deep ocean and they can get drown

and won’t survive alive. And even they-  will feel

the same death that you have wished for yourself.

 

Why darkness is a fearful thing and yet you thrive in it

as if you allowed atonement for something or for someone

you have failed in the process. And honesty is priceless

but you keep on hiding that sad face within a mask

and wishing that this masquerade won’t last.

You go home alone again in the knowing

that you have not pretended to be accepted

for who you are. That is. Liars will go to hell.

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My thoughts are as directionless

as the moths seeking for warmth.

The fire within crackles

sending cinders to my realm.

My mantra of calm are as restless

as the grasshopper hopping

to some isolated and jotted

islands of images, dark-

that painterly abstraction.

Jarring and savage.

 

Some questions will burn tonight.

And answers will die on my bed.

 

I, like a squirming maggot

will never break it out.

My wings  would never ride

the wind like the butterfly.

The ants are climbing

this white walled kingdom.

The night owl squeals a secret.

While the lizard is ready

to pounce for vengeance.

 

That’s what is left of me.

An spectator to the scenes which

I could not connect in a thread.

Bare. Hope. Chance

snapping some strings

and shout eureka. I found it.

 

How shall I fill the blanks

that never beg for words?

Naked. Lying here like a piece

of shit and this suicidal poem.

Eccentricity finds no reason,

dangerous and hangs its limit.

That yielding point.

 

Sanity is a false shelter where

no one wants to be intruder

and break down the door.

Open wide discovering

another neck is lingering

asleep forever in dreams.

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You had no inkling

how it is to suffer.

 

I had a pair of scissors

by my bedside. Ready

to cut the thread of a dream

clinging to me like madness.

 

I regret the insanity

of my deep sleep.

When everything

appears to be real.

But unreal- once

I awakened.

 

That day when I open

my eyes to the naked

truth I found missing.

I am nothing. Invisible

to your touch, fragmenting

like a shattered glass.

 

I am on my own again.

And the constant fear

of losing you. The battle

will end here

tonight.

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Here I am, intending to break

your mirror in my disgust.

By letting you understand

my need to understand you.

I  am squeezing and inching

my way closer to your smoky eyes.

As I am trying to pass through

but you won’t absorb. Me.

 

There’s a part of you

I can’t unlock. You won’t

let me fill. I am a stranger.

 

You shield something away

like the night clouds. That even

the slight sincerity of words

were moondust refracted

into the air.  I keep on clearing

the cobwebs of frosted thoughts

and sand-blasted shadows

of doubt between us.

 

Let me stripped you down

stark naked. Fleshing you

out of your reptilian skin.

Your chameleon cloak you keep

on wearing everyday I don’t need.

What needs to be visible- be seen,

transparent and undividing.

I want your honesty.

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To Pablo Neruda

I write these letters in smoke. They are fog

to the starry night of the south where you existed,  

circumnavigated the world, then extinguished

as a flame, long before I was born.

 

You said you had lived in the springtime

among the cherry blossoms of the west. While

here on this island, I had lived humming

lullabye amidst the scorched patches of sand.

 

I cannot sit still and my memory was filled

of your presence here. I can hear your voice

from a distant time and place. Your voice has traveled

and finally touch down inwardly and it lingers.

 

Tonight, the sad lines of your verses haunt me forever,

love is short and forgetting is so long”.

I chewed the words on my empty stomach

as the light from your waning moon fills my room.

 

I have no windows, they are shattered.  There is no door to enter,

so you don’t need to knock.  Inside my house is fire left by bombs

and gunfire.  And on my earthened floor are scattered pieces

of limbs and severed heads of dead dogs and cats devoid of shelter.

 

I have seen the heaven through the bullet holes on my tin roof.

And the fire is still burning from within. I have seen the clouds

unfolding and unfastened as I became the enemy of the gods,

pot-bellied in the pulpit- imposing cruelty to fools purchasing piety.

 

I have been an inheritor of misfortune, like a stubborn root

of an old dying tree, digging the earth to its graveyard, a tomb.

I seek to find in this endless tunnel, a repose for my corpse-

stiff, in pain and left there naked, writhing in the cold.

 

I can no longer find the stars in the night sky, Pablo.

And the tears begin to fall like rain on the tin roof.

Outside, you wailed a storm, flooding my being,

persistent, engulfing me with the soliloquy of the night.

 

This bed I made out of the coconut tree, lacerating my body

of little knives, that have sliced and shredded my soul. And I

smelled of the blood through the blade of your words

as I whisked them away to the westerly winds to reach you.

 

I ask you. Why things happened this way? History blood-stained.

And the sea mourns while changing course of the mighty river.

In the horizon, a crimson tide of the many who died seeking the meaning

of their lives. And the night birds still singing their lonely dirge.

 

I ask you. Where are the lilac? Immortalized in sonnets by men,

those middle-aged aristocrats. And the women becoming birds of prey,

caged and waiting to be sold.  Incessantly knocking on the doors

to see some faint hope traversing the day into their neon light.

 

Where are the language of stars? Deciphered by hypnotized strangers

who quest for clues and signs and wonders.  Why does the rain

did not stop from falling? I am bailing out to exist from this deluge,

finding redemption while concealing my cowardice. I cannot fight.

 

I am poor, Pablo. But I know your name. And the dense earth that

we both lived, became the pavement for  marching foot falls

of the many striving to live to see until their dying day- freedom,

justice and equality. Unanswered like prayers, unheard of the divine.

 

Your verses did not speak of dreams and leaves and great volcanoes

of your native land.  Your verses did not promise the opium

that will heal the wounds of time.  But your verses have spoken

of the blood in the streets.  And the blood in the streets, I have seen.

 

I will offer an elegy in my homeland. I will sing your song in vain,

hoping for someone to hear and join me singing your immortal chorus.

Your ashes I would want to scatter into the night clouds until tomorrow.

When morning will be awakened by pilgrims sojourning the other world.

 

And still, I am waiting for the stars to appear in the Far-east. I had

only a rose to your funeral.  I will not be able to attend. But I will

whisper to the westerly winds my discontent and the endless despair

you will hear from the shore of this island, questioning existence.

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Mystery unravels tonight,

strange a landscape-

since you left. The room is

a parched valley of sheets

as I lay naked, bathe

in the lunar light.

 

Sans the gravity

of your satellite. It orbits

without the ocean’s rage

of high tides luminating

passion, as I grope

within the walled corners

of the stark midnight.

 

Sadness falls

like rockets ebbing

the bed. Its trajectory

creating pockmarks

and craters

of a dormant volcano.

I tip-toed.

 

To our dreams-

pinnacled fortresses pierced

with shrapnels of regret.

Ripping pillows

until blood-tinged feathers

hover the vacuum,

shatter into belt

of asteroids and clods

of moondust.

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