War Rages On
 
the wine flows freely like a piss-colored
river drowning villages. two empty 5L boxes
lying on the floor, defeated in the eternal battle against the page,
and the third one cracked and ready to follow its
brethren to the other side.
the war never ends, every battle lost nothing but the
signal for the commencement of the next one and the river
continues to flow until it transmogrifies into a tsunami
razing down metropolises and birthing atrocious monsters.
the page remains unconquered, unreachable, a distant
dream engendered in the lingering vapors that
rose from burning spoons.


Cold Air
 
the freezing air crawls down the lungs, giving a
small sting down there in the blackness. no waves
because ice blocks are covering the ice, the seagulls are hiding
in their nests somewhere warm. the sand’s petrified but we
could always find a soft spot, somewhere to sit and breathe in
the frigid air. we’d keep ourselves warm with bottles of
rotgut and 8balls of glass. the blue smoke we exhaled rose up,
heading for the moon, promising the aliens a good high.
we drank, we got high. held each other tight as the temperature
reached inhuman levels and we’d refuse to get up and escape the
beauty of isolation. no one else braced the winter cold and
it was how we loved it. as I walked home from the bars
in the cold, the freezing air brought back those cruel
memories of happier times; I punched a lamppost and
almost threw myself in front of a speeding truck.
I got into the first bar I saw, ordered a glass of Patron neat.
it tasted just like those nights at a distant beach and had to
use Jim Beam and rum to wash away the pain.

The Journey of memories

Let me heal
From the pangs of a feeling 
Of my bohemian youth 
I was a naïve child
Whose reason beguiles the reality.
Oh! God, 
Dear and respectful-
The unseen force
Like Shelley’s West Wind
Blowing eternally
Coming down from above;
Let me allow to express
Let me forgot 
The wild, mild memory of a long-lost 
Short lived hope and love
Weird, strange and bizarre 
It sounds now-
Present has the power to ignite 
The flames of the burnt ashes
Ashes of mortality
Transient, unrequited emotions--
That appear to be lucid and sorrowful 
Like a recurring curse.
The more the days pass by
The more it hits me harder
Like a trespasser,
Like a diagnosed malady.
I am a fallen angel
With a subjective gaze and objective view 
Of the material world
Sometimes abstract and unreal
I am a miserable bird
Who got some injuries in her wings
Feeble and frail
Alone in her crowd
The burden of age has mellowed down the memory
Still, it grows
Grows like smoke and smog 
During the scorching day;
Is it a memory of forgetfulness?
Or 
Is it a recurring disease?
A numbness encircles my eyes
Eyes got dry like a lifeless old human
A complete wasteland of neglect and indifference;
I close my eyes 
To call for Thee
The power-
To get an instant relief
To embrace infinity.
18.09.2025

Soul-Walking

Deep down inside
We feel.
Feeling is a treasure.
It is a domain of
Arrival.
The distances cannot be felt,
Unless we have a heart of sky.
I kiss the world,
It is wrapped in a bandage.
I pray and look at
The world's bitter sweet cage.
Trapped in the cannon ball debris,
I cannot step with firm conviction,
Yes, I am shaky.
Tears speak of volumes:
My breaking heart,
An art that decorates to heal.
The wounds are kissed in hate.
Would you look inside,
And do the soul-walking?
I want to meet the "you"
That I address in my poems.
That "you" can be real,
And at times my readers,
Friends, lovers and
Secretly adored beliefs.
When we adapt to a bad company,
True lovers go out of hand.
They were the moral grounds,
But young life felt like mistakes and experiences.
I want to do the soul-walking,
The new ways will appear
Out of everywhere.

City Claustrophobia

I take a leak in the alley
that leads back into the city

catacomb apartments
tunnel rows

doors locked and crossed with bars
chains hung more for alarms

baseball bats and tomahawks
swords and spears

twenty-twos and thirty-eights
Grandpa's brass knuckles hung on a hook

a polished bowling ball and a sledge hammer
and a bucket full of stones

around the arch of the inside door
ready for war

nothing bought recently
where they can track you

trying to live in dreams of yesterday
never wetting your pants.

Friendship 


You’re my best friend.

We sat on friday night 

considering dinner

and joking about doing Percocet.

But we just ended up

just lying in your room

soaking in the sacred quiet

as we both basked in penitent feelings.

You’re looking back and forth

between your ceiling and your wall,

and I’m watching the clouds 

turn black outside your window.

I think to myself

that I know absolutely nothing

and that I am inadequate,

and then you look me in the eyes 

from across the room

and we move closer to each other.

Aging Out


After seventy
years retirement’s
specter shadows my moves,
clouds my thoughts,
clings to wrinkled
skin like death’s plastic wrap
that pulls tighter
equal to pressure
exerted against it.
Equilibrium in effort
establishes status quo
survival in a transparent
jail, a translucent cocoon
that grows stronger,
thicker, with each layer.
It’s best
if I don’t squirm.

As Things Pass

A leaf skates across the sidewalk,
Caught in a swirl of wind
It lands with a sigh 
On the edge of a curb, unnoticed

A constant flow of people move beneath skyscrapers
A woman in a red coat pauses at the end of the street,
Her scarf fluttering in the wind
She clutches a small paper bag
(maybe lunch or a gift) tightly in one hand
She jaywalks against the crowd of cars
Like a true new yorker

Nearby, a man sits on the curb
Shoes untied, a cigarette dangles from his lips
As he exhales
The smoke slowly makes its way into the air
Across the street, a bike messenger cuts through the crowd
His tires spraying water from the recent rain
A pigeon pecks at an old napkin
Its head bobbing in sync with the others

The air smells thick 
Of hairspray, shampoo, or something chemical
A row of mirrors stretches down the wall, 
Each face with different emotions
A woman grinning, thrilled with her new haircut
While a young man forced a smile, his eyes cast down

He

He walks 
with eyes on the ground
Counting every crack in the pavement, 
He avoids all eyes 
He wears a coat two times his size
Lined with whispers that itch at the skin
And everywhere he go,
He trails a shadow behind 
He dines alone 
Picking on food he cannot taste
He sighs and pulls on his faded hair 
By night, he sits at the desk 
Hands pressed to his face, 
Replaying a scene over and over 
Like a broken film reel
But when the stars come,
He only turns off the light
Pulling the blanket up to his chin
he whispers,
Maybe tomorrow

Last Moments with the World

A mother’s wail drifted through the gust of waves,

beware of him who walks where echo fades.
Clung her tight from the
Devil’s hand–choking,
eating those
fleshes 

gargling Death before it spoke
hushed by the piercing wind
Is that what it feels like–to be
Justified? 

Kingdoms fall
like lullabies luring a child to 
marvel at the synchronous aurora and dirge 

Nature sings so calmly,
one day it will realize 
petals wither with with beauty too cold to touch

quivers of sand and wind 
rocked the ship 
side-to-side 
tilting the decks
until all that it left was the
vulnerability a human endures–how they 
writhed.

xanthic light flickers between the rumble while her
yearning carved on the woods
zipped shut by the deep hush.