Stage of Age

You know you've reached that age,
when you know you're not old,
but you feel cool and otherwise.
And you've felt happiness
and some gift-wrapped sadness,
which tosses inside of you
like a coin.
And you've been down on women,
like with a beer bottle,
several times, so far,
but they still don't make sense
of you, at all.
And you have had friends,
who say you've changed,
but it's nothing like that,
if only they could understand.
And mornings seem cruel,
and nights seem so long,
when the ground beneath you
shifts like sand.
And nothing seems like a movie,
or that one song,
when all you can do
is watch the gray moon,
dressed in a petticoat of clouds.
And you wish you threw your phone away,
closed your Facebook account,
not thought of sending flowers,
or that well-meant text message,
but thrown a cat instead
called Edgar Allan Poe.

But then again,
you've never felt like this before,
or looked so good,
or felt so...
so much so, that even though
the man in the mirror doesn't smile,
when all the rum gets you glum,
you still wouldn't give a fuck,
or turn, twist or care a flying duck,
and you could say the last two lines,
because it rhymes,
sit and blame the times.
So what,
you say,
fuck you.
The poets have died,
light a cigarette,
or go to a gym,
or buy shoes,
you've been through this before,
and you drift again on it,
like a miserable ghost,
because you felt a little pain.

Bickerings

Every night clutches me in sweet misery and despair,
while I toss and turn in bed,
mumbling words that strung to a prayer,
wishing to those who cared, I was dead.

And then I thought of you again,
and how you used to call and cry,
and what it was to feel your pain,
and how I tried to try, with each fallen lie.

I swore once that I was in love,
and then I swore I knew none.
It was easy to fall and look above,
to see the moon, still, undone.

Your eyes haunted me in darkness,
and in only dreams we met to kiss.
We're all lost in the wilderness,
gambling hopes to a flash of bliss.

As morning filled the room with light,
the shadows of memory began to hide.
I saw death dressed in white,
reaching her hand out to guide.

I dreamed no more,
as we begun to apart,
to be pulled into some open door,
in an audition to read a different part.

Catching up...

My days have been reduced to waking up late, watching crappy television shows, reading books, working on my book, drinking copious amounts of beer, looking for a job, writing bad poetry, occasional smoke haze, SMS drivels, fucking Facebook, late night Jim Morrison songs, ghosts from the F train, rough dreams of school, Neil Gaiman's imagination, return of her beauty and her eyes, unfolding mystery and simple lies...

The Measure of Crime (edited)

Ordinary questions seem trivial and boring.
My mind is a fish net tonight; dreams are blue as water.
Every morning a crow croaks horror.
And they are bringing us in for the slaughter.

There are voices on the hill that must be met,
Along the old twisted cunning streams.
Sometimes a light glows among the trees,
And I hear you whisper from your dreams.

Of madness and in hope.
The flickering dance of shadows.
The tunes of forgotten lore.
The gardener comes to sow your woes.

When I awake, I think of Edgar Allan Poe.
I see him walking around the grave.
His misery, your beauty and a question on life.
And I lose you in an ocean wave.

Ode to the Romantics

Falling in love was once easy and cheap,
But all you taught me was how to weep.
And now there's a price to pay,
And now there are words you must say.

Yet each to our true we sin,
Of empty hearts we carelessly win.
But your love is the dust of an old book,
And I a thief, who took to took.

If only you let meaning meet with reason,
Your smile could save this season.
But you sit in that room of despair,
With shawls of sadness that you choose to wear.

What glory is now to be craved,
And what misery is now to be saved?
In one moment you could so easily care,
And in another, you wouldn't dare.

You may have played with the moon,
And slept till every noon.
But one June, someday soon,
You will know what it's like to croon.

But I'm a poet, so I suffer,
But each thought of you makes it tougher.
And it isn't that you know no joy,
For you I'll still be a glass toy.

And it's perhaps perfect in that moment of guilt,
when it's sometime after three in the morn,
and I've been drinking whiskey since seven,
on a hot, humid trembling night,
watching silhouettes drape the irony in the hall,
and I've nowhere else to look or feel,
and nothing to really do but watch an hour wheel,
caressing the creases on the sofa,
and nodding to an old fool sitting in the corner
with a stuffed chicken tikka smile,
wondering if that'll be all,
contemplating whether to head to the loo,
or will I ever be able to sleep again,
or thinking about what it was like
or what I used to do on such evenings,
while you light another cigarette
and touch your foot gently against my leg,
and laugh till your laughter fills the room.

And then suddenly we find ourselves alone,
first in a dark room,
then on the roof,
in a house which could be haunted,
and I think about a poem,
the raven, which I once wanted
to be read on a night like this,
then I feel the breeze among the grim trees,
and then I look at a broken moon,
while you rest your back against the rail,
mumbling sullen apologies,
of some previous evening, of some childish play,
you with your quivering wine lips, pale,
and your sweet vodka breath,
which I gently meet to kiss,
and will forever miss,
because I have someone else beautiful in mind.

In a month's time from now, I'll be in New York. And from there I'll be off to Vermont for a writing course. It's a six weeks course at the Bread Loaf School of English. I'll be doing a graphic novel writing course as well as fiction writing. Besides, well apart from this, I've sold my soul for work, handful of financial assistance and an air conditioned room where people turn serious in the evenings.
I'm on the edit and oped page, and I also make a feature page. On the feature page, I write whatever comes to my mind. It's fun, different and the employers seem to have no issue with the twistedness of my words.
Lately, that's what's been up. The nights are late and smoky but at least I'm covering some reading which had led to some despair. When you're writing a book it's extremely difficult to follow books because they constantly make you over-think.
I don't think I'm getting the time to do exactly what I want to. It's upsetting to know that we -- humans -- are so ready to fuck our lives up. But that's life -- you got to what you got to do, and hopefully the side projects outline you well.
In other ways, someday soon, something should work out. An intangible theory to crack the eternal code of life should breakthrough the consciousness, I hope.
I can't tell more. Sometimes I think I'm not there.