Author: poetryfest

I did not account for
the complication of dreams. I
want to be truthful to
you, which of course means
to the self. There is
a part of me that
knows that the still-sleeping-before-coffee self
is the self. but the
day-self is relentless and convincing.
The alone-self is the self,
I know. I know there
is no truth, just well
spoken logic. Just powerpoints and
sample products: the simple power
of holding a model of a
velvet hummingbird in our hands.

New Delhi 3 wheelers
lean maniacal turns
on raging roadways

Krishna, Vishnu, Hanuman
Rama and Shiva dolls
lean off flimsy mirrors

preposterous horns
blare a maddening drone
lurching plastic Gods a whiplash pleasure

drenched in sweat and smog
jousting open air taxis give way to
a polished Bentley oozing a heaven unimaginable

Tuk Tut drivers
however notice
something more impressive

on the luxurious dashboard
wiggles a large Ganesha doll
divining one golden transport.

Paper: perfect.
White paper, crisp paper.
I, Pretty paper palace purged of imperfection.

Paper: flawless.
Sharp paper, clean paper.
I, Clean cut canvas of creativity.

Paper: held.
Held?
Slipping…

Paper: lost.
Flying paper, tumbling paper.
I, Soaring, swooping, shredding, screaming.

Paper: fallen.
Dirty paper, crumpled paper.
I, Caked with crust and covered in cuts.

Paper: ugly.
Muddy paper, grubby paper.
I, Hideous, homeless, haggled.
Help?

Paper: found.
Picked up paper, moving paper.
Little girl giggles, grabs. Going. Gone.

Paper: embarrassed.
Yucky paper, ripped paper.
I, To be tossed to terror and—
Wait.
I, Taped with girl’s twinkling smiles of potential?

Paper: healing.
Broken paper, learning paper.
I, Watching worlds whisper new words of meaning.

Paper: growing.
Drawn paper, coloured paper.
I, Scribbled with sensations of silly stardust.

Paper: magnificent.
Blooming paper, bursting paper.
I, Broken yet beautiful, different yet divine.
I, Nameless novel. Not nothing nor ever nothing.
Original paper, proud paper.
I, Paper: perfectly imperfect

I think I wish you
were a canker sore on my
tongue; sweet and stinging.

When it’s all over,
thank the Lord for the exposure.
For tumult on soil, camouflaged soldiers —
infants in torture, and deafening culture.

For suits spewing sludge, clad in magnanimous awe,
punching the button to enact martial law.
Will we all spring? Or have we seen fall?
Give us discernment to note You above all.

We’re agents of will, we hunt for what’s true —
ignorant of the barrier we’re called to break through.
Thank You…
for each truth, though troubled, received by the few
fortunate enough to forfeit life at the pew.

These youth are the future,the only right future.
Because they believe in you, because they believe in the truth.
As your power works through their bodies and minds,
all other feelings subside.

As you have saved, as you have healed, we will kneel,
kneel to the sky,
and cry out your name in glory.
With no shame or guilt.
Only the sturdy temple you’ve built,
a temple of hope and determination.

Praying away all wrongs,
as you died on that cross in return for our sins.
All of the victories you have won on behalf of us.
When you-my god are the true creator, the true maker of everything.
The great miracles you create.
Day by day.
Hour by hour.
Minute by minute.
Second by second.
We will no longer be reluctant, to explore the truth, to explore more of you.
And never stop faithfully following because we were made for you.
And for you we will serve, your message we’ll preserve.

For we constantly learn,
oh God how much we want you, how much we crave you.
As you cast away temptation, our faith shall never be taken,
not from us, not for granted, and not for the souls of a dying world.

May this town be blessed, blessed with the Holy Spirit my Lord.
Blessed as you hear them roar, roar a song of prayers.
Like a raging River-unstoppable,
only controlled by the almighty.
As their spirits light up and their lives’ change,
and their hope finally stays.
Coming from you the source,
the source of it all.
Making sure none of your children fall.
Calling them to their purpose, to the father of their nurture.
Only one in this room who is deserving, and that is you.
My lord, my savior,my truth

Thou art the melismatic chant of monks,
whose echoes haunt the stone walls with a splendour
near loosening the clutch on the bloodied crux;
as winter’s simple suffrage’s cold vapour
has voiced thy names, again and yet again,
I see the snowflakes falln upon thy lashes,
thou lean against the arcade’s gothic column,
with sighs that still must pass beyond those lips…
dissenting eyes so soft from meditation,
thy sooty robe confesses sleepless nights—
thou lift thy head as I turn yellow pages,
how long until the clapper clangs the bell?
The elements have allied in my plight,
sun, withdraw your light from beetle eyes,
and plotting winds, fly now from fluffy hair,
assailing hearts, like gulls the fisherman,
this trial, O Lord, has put me in Thy care.

it wasn’t hunger. not exactly.
but a fistful of air folded sharp
teeth on the edge of a cage
clawing at marrow.
the flavor thick and syrupy
stuck to my tongue
a rusted sweetness.
flipping soft gut to hard coil.
tearing the wet silk.

metal, bright and jagged,
hooked on its way down.
prayer, cold and chalk-smudged,
blooming damp beneath my palms.

something slid upward
a thing with no name,
the muggy and ancient,
the kind that sits
in your joints, gnawing softly,
familiar as breath.

soft pulp of a pear low and pulsing,
it was cleansing but not clean,
like spilling ink over every inch of a page.
humming low,
soft as a vulture’s stench
on the edge of carrion,
tasting archaic and bitter.

Again.

Imagine a garden.

Now, imagine a girl.
Her age is uncertain.
Her girlhood is, also.
Some still call her a child, others
stare at her like they do at women
who are ten years older.

She has always lived here,
and though it doesn’t feel like home exactly,
it doesn’t feel like hell, for sure —
more like a gentle cage, whose
golden gates one got used to.

Her name doesn’t matter.
Her age doesn’t either.
What matters is that pain,
in her stomach, the bitterness
that settled in her throat.

She lies there, on the grass.
She has been for hours.
She watches the trees above,
or the clouds, or nothing at all,
she just cannot find sleep,
nor break her own silence.

A man has lain with her,
just a few nights ago.
Or were those weeks,
or perhaps months?
Barely matters either.

What matters is:
he came and talked to her,
when she was the saddest,
took her to the rose garden.
He showed her the flowers,
he talked about colors, petals,
how rare their beauty is.

They stayed there for hours,
she still can’t remember
how it happened that they
ended up there, naked,
and she was in his arms,
but she still feels the taste
of salt in her mouth as he
was sleeping.

One by one your teeth are chipping, breaking, rotting away and then falling out;
that’s one of the things about substance abuse you were warned about.
I mean eventually your health will deteriorate but fortunately this minor inconvenience has a slow
start,
at the end you’re standing one foot in the grave constantly worrying about the beat stopping of your
heart.

Your bladder is fucked, kidneys pounding and liver aching
and it’s just a matter of time before your sanity soul starts escaping…
That’s what I suppose we call the point of no return?
That part of your life where you start embracing the thought of hell’s burn.

Always thinking this beat is the last one your heart is gonna give;
it’s been 5 fucking years and yet I still live?
Now to live with heroin addiction plus worrying about all that shit every single fucking day,
now that really fucks you over and take every single one of life’s little joys away…

Always lost in this huge dark ocean of hate, fear and despair,
standing at deaths door and still for one single second you don’t even care?
You really need to figure out what the fuck you have to do?
God dammit! you’ve even been stupid enough to sniff petrol and the odd bit of glue.

You really have to sort out your fucking head
cause otherwise I’ll die with nothing but loads of fucking regret..