to cloud the closure..
and remember just
the fullness of good
you had become.
The irony in mind,
remains the spectacle.. the sound
of your resounding laughter!
of impending inevitability.
reversible, as are
benumbing things, in wading
these shallows of unimportance.
in waking, to transpire
of impossible abstractions
on concealed sources
and conspiring possibilities..?
From Book IV
‘is’ – exists
entirely in the mind; and
would be absent in entirety
from it. And
any lingering presence
in the world outside, would
be rendered new,
and alien to memory.
of just one’s memory
the complete excision of the individual
from the existence of the other.
or repressed – would
to engender… old existence – if
mined, disinterred and wrought
as newer life..
From Book IV
I see you in waking,
in all your varied temperaments,
and past these eyes insatiable
for the frenzied meanderings
of a wounded mind.
From Book IV
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The Magic Man
A parent can be a number of things to a child, but it’s rare to find a heartless parent. Their unconditional care is neither something to be taken for granted, nor feel entitled to, though most of us have always been guilty of making these mistakes. Growing up, my perception of my father was one of mixed understanding. He was considered by most to be a decentred individual who wasted his talent and potential in favor of addiction, a brilliant man of many vices and harbinger of suffering to his family. However, despite his many faults, he was to me a man of singular kindness, who tried to shield me from his own darker nature during my formative years. Upon a time when both he and I were stripped of our guardians, he took it upon himself to set aside his dreams and predispositions, and did whatever it took, within his hard-earned and meagre means, to provide me with an education. Reducing himself to a human being with fewer and fewer needs, he became a bulwark that protected and sustained me in times of dearth, uncertainty, and emotional upheaval, and largely made me the man I am today.
This book was written in the days, weeks, and months following the sudden and unexpected death of my father. The poems venture into inconsolable symptoms of loss, grief, guilt, regret, memory, madness, absurd irreversibility, chimerical conjurings, and reigning despair. You may not find much comfort here, dear reader, if you should so choose to read this book.
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The nerves keep their habit
of stretching thin and breaking inaudibly,
every chance they get.
And long have I failed to count
of strange persons
wandering the cramped foundations of this cranium.
At times, this inward space
is all too little
for me alone. Yet,
a constant foreboding of voices
so imminent that I can forever almost.. hear them,
fills.. fills all my space past brimming!! till
there’s no longer room for me to exist, save
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces in the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
T. S. Eliot—Rhapsody on a Windy Night