i owe you myself

you buffed up teddy who lived for all

today when i remember you

to be honest i dont think i am anymore

it took years to be here

it will take years to be where you were

but trust me even if i defied and defied and defied

i did so because i didnt know who i was

now i know

i am you and i will always be you

and now i must also walk on salt

in these tiresome shoes and the wisdom of dormancy-

felines and plundered dreams -

all surround the elixir of forgotten and tomorrow some

fortitudes in musky waters -

sanguine little bird whirling

around lesions silled in

red bricks

standing in oblivion

to krakatoa and orlando

exits and brexits

bullets and rowdy

orbits that sanity cuttles upon

watering ivy grown on an abandoned ferriswheel in neverland

she remembered the eye of the sahara

there was no correlation between the two

but then was there a correlation between anything

walking away from ivy - she stalled her feet in quicksand

she dipped deeper and deeper till she looked down

she found that her feet werent in quicksand but quicksand was in her feet

she mustered courage and tried to find her feet

courage devoid of fate loomed to be nothing

it was the site of an approaching quicksand seagull that rushed her feet up

that seagull was her courage- quicksand her fate

life reversed these analogies to cast her anew

she walked with her thighs covered in wet gluey mud

that green ferriswheel zooming large

all of a sudden she saw kittens sucking onto their dead mother

her son had died leaving her mammary glands painfully milky

those kittens then sucked onto her

analogies reversed again

night had fallen anew

there was nothing in sight other than reflection of a single star on quicksand

she found hope in quicksand

changed her direction after having fed the kittens

her nipples didnt pain anymore

her feet no more in quicksand

she sat by the bay of quicksand and prayed to that single star

she prayed for the quicksand to turn into a lake for her to reach a shore

she slept over it

she woke up to see a shore

the mother cat was sleeping on her belly

she took a boat to the shore and rowed it with the mother cat and her kittens

they reached home to a red sky at a place called zanzibar where they lived happily ever after

star-splashed at what at happened she asked a local where they were

she kept asking but noone replied

there were rivers of liquor devoid of hangover at this place

there were rivers of honey

date palms here and there

and no-one talked but only took a sigh of relief

this really was zanzibar-

imagine a dagger at every step and still offering yourself

you weak jigsaw type fuck i wish you had your flesh ripped apart

for safety that never was you opted for survival

a safe dungeon you dug for yourself

you were never there

you never said that

you never did that

but fate had put you on a cross

they believed folklore passed on at your expense

slander flamed open at your expense

tis pit was yours

what is after crucifiction

rosaries with beads dripping of hebrew and arabic

calling to God to fix it all

fixation is my utopia

reclining on the edges of redemption i was buried today

rosaries are at it to redeem me where the streets failed to

there may be some layered stories of success hereabouts

but jackson still tried to go white -

and utopia has even buried teenage sons

years ago he dreamt of four streets

all of them were covered with pythons

dejavu was such that he ended up living on

the fourth street

here he was slandered to the extent

those one reads about in books are slandered

priests and saints

he remembered one of those holy

books he had read

it said losing ones reputation was essential

when chasing piety

what piety was it he often thought-

to be scarred

hated

swirled around in abyss

he kept proceeding on with life

executing life

day to day he ran on

pythons were there yet he held onto his own salt

some called him a loser

some the very definition of what a man is not

supposed to be

he learnt to be a step ahead

his personal diary was published posthumously

he was eulogised as a saint

as a steadfast walker on thorns

no man is supposed to be as brave

his cathartic nauseous day had so many triumphs

yet the salt was zoomed onto

the pythons died one by one-

but by the time the streets were safe-

he was no more

he manifested the pythons

they had died way way before

but he had given in to what he thought

that was his disease

to think of what never existed

and johny even if those pythons existed

he could have focused more on gin and tonic

tulips and butterflies

kiddo gave in to those sketched pythons

could have lived- atleast tried

i threw a bird in the bin

she tried to fly open

upon her first thundery burst over

i clipped her wings and banged her against the base

tremble she did

bluey reddy bird breathed her last not much after

i said a prayer for her and buried her

her time in the bin resonated with the ire of so many

we write obituaries of those we murdered

we wrap their stories in beautiful remorse

while they live we never spare throwing shade over their blue and reds

while they sleep we acknowledge their once flight

this bird is amongst the many i murdered

but this is the first obituary i write

a new low even for me

do you

do you brisk at irrelevancies

i marvel at them

im plagued by my own self

remember the class three myself essay-

that was the simplest explanation there

tara wrote she wanted to be a mom -

instead she became a cocksucker

im the cock she sucked

i wrote i will be a pilot

shes the plane i flew

this drippy conversation will never be pope sanctioned

boom

boys at the mosque fondle each other

the fathers at vatican fondle too

the fondlers have declared me a sinner

god would have judged better-

so where are you taking this bullshitty nonsensensical poem

is it even a poem

its a fuckfest of so called stanzas

nah a fuckfest only - spare the stanzas

i dream of shakespeares yellow

freddie mercurys bare chest

leo kissing kate still better porno than all the rest

im a figmentation of too many imaginations

the head at the receiving end of hbk's sweet chin music

the leg at the receiving end of bret harts sharpshooter

undertakers tombstone

bidens cognitive absence

the fondlers thuggery

wet drippery of porno unbound

those who blocked my way preaching

were cunts unbound

me a saint

i thought that we would never speak again

but i am the stanza on your tombstone

the stanza with purple must of a teenage jacaranda

muddy coats on pulse paramount

we will never kiss again this i know

but you have immortalised yourself beyond

any day i may have not lived