Dispossession

You knew
that I looked somewhat
like you, and
lately I find you
in so many ways
I sound
and act
and where
we come from, they might
just say that
a part of you
must’ve latched on to me
the last time
I held
your.. fingers
and I’d kill for it to be True..!! but
I recollect… that
I was
this way
for as long as I can
remember, and
just didn’t realize
it
sooner… to
see
how a lot of me died
with you.

 

 

From Book IV

Where the Two of Them Watched Late-Night Movies, While I Fell Asleep

It came
late last night:
a vision
of perhaps… the safest of places
from those early, freer years that
then dried up
and hardened as burnt-brown earth..
to something
long-suspended, poorly preserved and
somehow… I felt it
observe me intently,
in
the saddest of ways…
before crumbling altogether
into the dirt.

 

 

From Book IV

mantra

She said
I spoke to you.. while
ailing and delirious, and I remember
what I was saying,
but can’t recall hearing
the sound of your voice, nor feeling
an air of your presence – at all, at
the time, except
for a part
of an unfinished sentence, on
an obscure page of a much-unused diary,
where you wrote
that the discovery
of your life
had been
that you were wrong…

   
and I wanted
to finish the sentence
in writing: you
were loved… you are remembered…

   
yet all my demons held me there
as I kept murmuring in hopeless delirium..
as if to answer
an expected question:
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”
“yes I am a part of you”

 

 

From Book IV

Wishful Thinking

These days
are strange as the nights,
where I can’t help revisiting
the absurdity.. of your defeat..

   
And
it seems, then,
a rather good idea
to visit some
snow – an evening
with a small handgun,
have it loaded, listen
for the ‘click’ – as
the hammer’s cocked; then
hold it backwards,
point the barrel
right down between
the eyes – straight up
the middle, and gently
slip a calm thumb
before the easeful trigger,
lean delectably into
the freezing metal muzzle..
grin.. pull..

   
BANG!!!

.. ..

.

   
And it’s all fixed..
it all… gets better…
it all
goes back the way
it was always
meant
to be:

   
no lights
and no more
fucking eVERYTHing!! up..

   
to
end up nowhere…
unconscious of being
with you.

 

 

From Book IV

Ones of Twos

It should
begin in twos:
your worlds – for you, upon
a time, until one
is gone.. and
it doesn’t hurt at all..!
as long
as you’ve forgotten
that there’s no longer
one completely familiar
place… you can always… at
any of all times, come ‘home’
to – to complete safety…
and then
it all collapses
and impales you sharper and deeper..!
each time – like drowning again
and again,
in colder
and colder currents
of blinding, pitch-black snow.

   

   

   
Thereafter,
the fullness of the world:
the last
of your first, in the one
remaining other… would,
on another unexceptional day,
disappear..

 

and
you’d find
you’re old overnight
and may have already
become one – yourself.

 

 

From Book IV

What If?

It’s hard
to cloud the closure..
and remember just
the fullness of good
in what
you had become.

 

The irony in mind,
remains the spectacle.. the sound
of your resounding laughter!
in innocence
of impending inevitability.

 

This failure
isn’t
reversible, as are
so many
benumbing things, in wading
these shallows of unimportance.
Yet..
dreams arrive
in waking, to transpire
as madness
of impossible abstractions
on concealed sources
and conspiring possibilities..?

 

 

From Book IV

Deficit

Were words not overused
as they are,
perhaps
there would be more dignity
in ‘grief’,
that is to say,
the vicissitudes of turbulence
in the ravaged valley of the ‘heart’,
that serves
as contemptible metaphor
for the entirety of one’s substance
susceptible to ‘despair’,
the kind
that makes you despise
the glass half-full
and envy
the sound of ‘laughter’
made in blissful ignorance
of the barbarity
of cold ‘time’,
which is,
as Dad used to say,
just “a unit
          used to measure
          the changes
          of nature”.

 

From Book IV

Denying the Flies

Didn’t see
it coming; not
that I couldn’t; just
didn’t. Didn’t
want to.
No one wants to;
not when it matters…
no one wants
to have seen it, even
if they could.. even
when they knew.. or at least

foresaw
an onrushing wake of mistakes.. and
closing probabilities.

No one’s ready
to see
when they figure
it might
turn out exactly
how they expected and refused
to acknowledge,
in ..disbelieving fear.. and…
no one
is really
prepared.

 

 

From Book IV

Noise

It
will
get
better.

Let time heal.

Stop torturing yourself!

You need to pick yourself back up.
There’s nothing more you could’ve done.
There’s no way that you could’ve known.
This isn’t something we can change.

You’ll start to drive yourself insane..

You can’t give up.
You can’t break down.
You cannot just
d  i  s  i  n  t  e  g  r  a  t  e.

You can’t just keep thinking.
can’t just keep brooding.
can’t just keep bleeding.

There’s nothing more that you could do…

 

 

YEAH WELL YOU KNOW WHAT, FUCK YOU TOO!!!
I know I still got work to do.
As what he would have said to you.

 

From Book IV

Stigma

And when I
still had… the chance,
you hardly asked.. for what
I knew
I should’ve been more… for you;
and I didn’t
take enough
care…
of you.. and I wasn’t
the only one. So,
now I keep reminding
not just myself, but
also the few
who should have,
and I might just be killing
us all.

 

 

From Book IV

Gauze

It doesn’t help..!
this irate
and bitter writing in powerless agony.

 

Like alcohol,
it doesn’t dull
that ..sinking
feeling one gets
on disinterring
an indispensable
image..
that no longer
exists
in places
other than the heart.

 

At least cheap
whisky, in a while,
fogs the senses
and knocks you cold… while
..a metamorphosis of despairing thoughts to disquiet expression..
in contrariety,
keeps you waking
and alert
as in excision without anesthetics,
at times… with words
to stopple
too much bleeding.

 

 

From Book IV

Excuse

It doesn’t feel
as if Time
has already begun
to eat away,
to dull and coldly
anaesthetize the pangs
of the immitigable finality
of this vacuum.

 

It’s just
that this bitch of a life!
doesn’t let you
stand still…
and there was too much
raw sewage! pointless shit – to look into
today, as there was
the
last
time
you called
to ask if
I was coming
that day,
and I said
that I’d come
that weekend, and
asked if
you were feeling
alright, if
you were feeling
tired…
to which,
after a long
pause,
you replied
that you felt
very… tired…
and I asked
of you,
for the
last
time… to rest… and
you
listened.

 

And again…
there was too much
of all this today, as there
may be
for who knows
how many hollow tomorrows…
to let me
get lost
in visions
of
‘you’.

 

 

From Book IV

Hunted

At times,
I find myself running
away from all the things
that remind me of you…
or more,
the ubiquity
of what is now the absence
of your shelter.

 

 

It is,
as if to attempt
escaping a labyrinth
of chasms.. left
inside this body,
and struggle
to slither off
this build of hollowed bone.

 

 

Can’t run for long..
and there is no place
to go to..
to save the remains
of the mind,
where respite is lack
of consciousness:
to slip into,
past your living pictures
that wander
about this head..
and
tear away!
with a distinct.. echo
of your distant… searching.. call.

 

 

No solace
lives
in memory.

The bad
is that
we never ..imagined.

The good
is what is lost.

 

 

 

From Book IV

Unrealizing Hope

I wish,
most foolishly, that
it eludes you..
that you somehow escape..
and it never
comes to pass… that reality,
in impersonal manifestation,
leaves
the brightest
of all dreams
upturned, without warning,
as a figment, an
illusion without possibility; except.. in
red moments of desperate madness. And
it remains too low
to crave
the obliviousness of beasts,
and despicable of our nature
that time
is meant to submerge
even that One brightest
of dreams.

 

 

From Book IV

Echoes of Disquiet

I’m glad that one old man
remembers to take his medicine.
He tends
to speak very little
these days
and the few words that surface,
are sometimes, a solemn source
of sad comfort.
The other day, we happened
to discover
a mutual guilt…
in possibilities of
a few things
we might have done different… to thus,
have deferred the routes
to two abrupt terminals.. of a kindred loss – in
our divergent histories, that
since then… cannot matter.

 

But it is
at times ..unnerving
to know that one is the last
of a particular kind of blood,
and has failed irrevocably..! to protect those
who had always protected him.

 

Therefore,
it remains
to gaze upon reflection
and search for traces
of faces bygone, where one might
imagine reflexively.. for
the dwindling remainder
of the cherished few… as much as for the self:
how the face, the lowered eyelids,
low breathing, tired arms,
restive legs,
the twitching.. in all,
would be rendered
– when devoid
of the animus of consciousness – of the spark of life..
then
left alone for days, to rot..!!

and
in these forsaken hours
of insomnious nightmare..
can one glimpse.. the ruthless truth
of the nature and eventuality of this raw flesh..
can see right through seductive illusions
of presence… and mistakes
of love and hope.

 

 

From Book IV

What Next?

Is too much
of a bad question
to ask
a thinking-man,
who mostly
spends most
of the next moment
somewhere… in the past;
for the past,
in experiencing,
was… reality, in
reliving is unreality
of dreams…
while a future..
a lone eventuality – in all of now,
is inscrutable myth!
for hardly
do dreams
entail a future.

 

 

From Book IV

Will-o’-the-wisp

It’s strange
how…
in the homelike refuge
of a single inelaborate dream…

it is too easy
to dismantle, on pure instinct,
and thereby dismiss

what you
somewhere.. still
remember to be
the unshakable dominion
of the sum
of unforgiving reality..

as simply, the absurd deceit
of an unimportant nightmare

within a dream.

 

From Book IV

The Mourner’s Writ

It is
to run slower,
to walk
at the pace
of despair.. that
moves to surround
and devour the whole
of what keeps
the mind.

 

It is
to not just be
haunted.. but also
to face
the hollows..
collect
the roar from winds..
patterns from thunder..
to hold still ..the rustle
betwixt cold fingers, and
try
to spell
a picture.

 

 

From Book IV