Mind Tavern

Rumbling at the forefront, the only frail defense, I’m concealed behind my own view of misty charcoal, An untoward lever of a cuckold whistle, Awaiting when the approaching cavern lures in The ghoulish gale that confiscated my emblematic top, Yet hoping for it, a merciful cowcatcher I never met. A knee jerk away from certain dismemberment I tantalize the starving flames with the stale oil Trying to fly with the lace that binds my feet My sooty forehead runs deposits of chugging memories That my steamy spade so exquisitely mourns. The congealed scarlet bears my burden As I circle out distant lights with my solitude I marvel at their fickle character, their teleporting flux, This routine wanderlust is just a contract in my briefcase, A detour from the disbelief of loneliness. I conjecture if my flags can stop stars from falling, There are no arms for this protector, Just a name, in this revolving shade of red and green, A grieving forward of retreating landscape.

In the distant rise of the choir, Some stolen salvation slides down creased coattails, Spectating a chase of eyes and fingers In the gloss of a guitar, chords broken in places That felt her back, between a soiree of laces. Leftovers sorted on the moon cloth, There’s a thirst for pain, stifled in a buoyant heart, Until the borrowed white lends me an impaired hindsight, To mourn this sour broth, with her aged scent in my heart. Across the span of night, my limbs sway in obscurity, Grasping at fleeting shadows and loud piano strokes, Only to fall gasping on unbent knees, beside the bed, Moments of interrupted light, reaching under my frame For these words, I shed in cold pulses of breath, And those smiles I meant, would she ever want them back? Her hums are written into my songs, The ones that I dissolve with, in dawn and dusk, On the bridges, over the water, on the straight roads, in the mirror, And in the feeble steps passing under her window, And the curtains, th

Drops of Juno descend as rain, Invisible strings disappearing in veins, I slip, like a doltish fly on glass, Into the mane of a headless horse. For Elise, I shall cast a Jazz stupor, Condemn the Plague with the Holocaust, And when the Last Supper comes to call, Stab your brother for the Roman fall. Paper soldiers and exiled archers Mount their aim on creased swans, The dark cardboard chains you to the oppressor’s cause, A moment of moonshine, an eternity of religion. These little pigs donning a red hood, Hide their porridge in a giant bean stalk, Hurry! Throw that poisonous apple At the big crooked wolf. Adjourn from your weeping under the Christmas tree, And stare at the forlorn mime’s craze, A teaspoon of claps, a slapstick of screams, A shoebox diorama of scattered scenes. 

It's dark and you're late, Fright and disgust quicken your step, Skillfully dodging me and the heap of filth, That you find so hard to distinguish. Not unlike you, I was taught of four walls and a roof, Never saw a home or humanity, Something tells me you haven't too. I see the brushes and pencils in your stares, Do not exaggerate the shading, to show me in proper light Because I will only see your sketched illustrations in shop windows, My episodic suffering stands as a luminous spot on an obscure zebra crossing Between your art and my reality. Some scavenged bread to please the stomach, How the fire hides my shivering breath In the small can of water, Reverberating my frozen smile between floating leaves. Licking the cut in my thumb, Awfully metallic it purrs, I chuckle at his frizzy fur He looks beyond my shaggy beard And acknowledges an existence, not different from his own. He points at the holes in my glove, Is there room for another? I w

One at a time, You surmount those numerous dents and shoddy patches, With tear-stained digits, you turn the wrench on a disfigured bolt Hiding in this secluded garage To repair what you cannot do without Leaking vulnerability as you knit along your split. Your sight refracts in prisms Raining a cataclysm of colors in snow globes, The mundane wallpaper pulls you through the rib cage, And the bricks absorb you in their gaps, Burying your fading essence in termite cartons. Cruising down the paved asphalt You hold out your hat To catch fireflies, dandelions, and shards, Would you be so sharp if you weren’t broken? You prefer solid black against the setting sun Because there are features to hide, The hanging receiver oscillates with a beep Carefully tuned to be out of reach You watch over your brethren, between sleep and awake, Polishing a trophy you never had. There’s an endless freefall in you, Trudging under the chandelier of distant

"A drizzle I cannot see," said the hunched weatherman shrugging his drenched shoulders. A wrong forecast in his closed umbrella, strangely dry in his coat. A shove pushedhim into the narrow thoroughfare. He silently proclaimed his innocence to the dozens of inconvenienced pedestrians that do not know of him. But in an inexplicable way, their grievances took the shape of a protruding lump of cement, upon which his feet abruptly halted. In a forward descent, he rotated half a circle and smacked the pavement. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as his extremities were channeling pain to his brain that it successfully acknowledged in one syllable, "Ah!" A neon gleam carefully incised into him, picking out parts that it could not seduce with its light and placing them on his pupil. He was a man and even a seasoned child, but looking up at the sky, at those ominous clouds, he searched for a space of clarity. When we found an unclaimed edge, he painted it a shad

Bent over the windowsill, at anchor point I look below at an injured gargoyle Ravaging through the litter, Symbiotic parasites miserably feeding off his flesh, Ironically macabre in sight. I hear the last train, sleepily calling in the distance, I wonder about the last passenger, Deceived from the company of absolute strangers, The nippy night seem to trick his counting of posts Between the only two stations He bothers to be on a first name basis with. Greasy overalls drape the rail yard worker, And lying on his side in the abandoned coach Over the scent of some beloved's pillow, He stares at the last retreating pedestrians of the day With a twinkle in his eye. Sometimes, there's a rustle in the attic, When a bat dives from a high rise To shelter in a crouch near the oval window, Knocking at the moldy glass, For a sonar exchange, existing without feeling. These evenings freeze in an orange daze, Numb hands steering a stationary projectile, Ever so su

Scornfully resting in the bowel of a brown box Truncating remnants of a dusty form, These cobwebs elegantly outline inconsistencies In the slanting warmth of ticking chimes. A closet is not a makeshift bed, A blanket is not a looking glass, Yet counting up to an ever changing ceiling Until solitude is unbecoming. In the winter of the great recession, Her arm fell asleep, Wisps of frail affection and decreasing reach, A frigid soup of her delicate screech, Landing perfectly on a superstitious twitch. I walked every day to her, Sometimes close to the ground, sometimes further up, Avoiding the patches of sun, but not the puddles left by rain, And to scratch the rhymes of her forlorn evenings, In the blank lamps of denuded carriages. The fancy towards madness is a momentary delusion, An attire for special occasions, For a tongue appreciates a blade of blueberry, Stations away from monotonous morality's clutches. Would you lay out

These glances make acquaintances, subtle and momentous. Of all places, you chose a drenched park bench to seek warmth. There's a buffer between us, a small inclined field of human absence where our coffee cups touch. They have our names in grandiose misspelling. A penny for your name? Another evening, I'm on the opposite side of the road. The street light sneaks through the crowd and falls on your trembling arm. Those lifeless fingers so catastrophically puppeteered on ivory, to cast a defunct melody, reverberating from tinted windows upon my ear. I'm reduced to a standstill and you recede in perpetuity. A penny for your voice? A vision for it's difficult to differentiate from dreams. The bed leaves a small clearance from the wall. Your silhouette, looks down this finite chasm and the darkness fails to hide those strained veins in your eyes. They drip all that was unspoken into that narrow space. The wall is so cold and aloof as it touches your cheek. A whirlwind d

I spy through a misty perspective, Whilst battling a musty hotel room With a silent cough and an evening breeze Setback by a trifling window mechanism. Clouds huddled in the sky, Like schoolers, clad in gray uniform, Around the pot-bellied headmaster, Listening and mocking his village folklore. Calm waters rested in blue, Neatly wrapped in  a blanket of currents, That seemed like looping scribblings, From a child's painting. Moored boats tugged slowly At the anchor, wallowing in soft mud, Seeking permission to sail for the horizon, Only to be yanked to the bank. Nature seemed to borrow from Tagore's tales, And lacking a Kraken, released a tolerable fish stench, A return call for diving fishermen, And an incense for their evening prayers. The sun decides for a long swim, Takes light beneath the surface, The trees mourn with a swaying routine, They yearn for those distant lands. A candle, a bulb, and a narrow dwelling, A bowl of rice and freshly ca

The rusty doorknob opened to a half lit room, past noon. The white-washed walls greeted me with a spray of bleach. The silent air reflected across the room, slightly penetrated by the solemn drawing of breath. I peeked through my naive eyes into the dim cataract of a wrinkled face. After piecing the fragments of my face, a deep exhale acknowledged my presence. A twitching finger overturned a tray of assorted pills. The floor turned into a canvas boasting of exotic colours of amnesia, lipids as well as the mediocre paracetamol. I wondered if there was a cure in this abstract caricature. Heavy lids struggled to hold onto life. Wilted wrists were violated from every pore, slowly discharging clever concoctions that will nearly do the trick, but not quite. I held them, the ones that made sandcastles, earned bread, supported the beloved, those frail hands craved warmth. Ironical, indeed. "Will you pray?" The lack of incense and imagery got me there for a second. It had

The summer comes down pretty hard around these parts. But that doesn't stop some pesky visitors from making my life unbearable. Do you know how many times I have cleaned up after summer break parties? I did sign up for this. But if I wanted my paycheck to be sliced in half because some stupid man got their insides nibbled by a grizzly, my ex-wife would've been just fine. I'm telling you there's a scam in the ranger service because I don't see any of the money they are pouring into it, especially not after the batch of canned soup they sent in last week. Don't get me wrong, this job has its ups and downs. But, sometimes the low points are just too deep to fathom. One minute you're picking up cheap booze, and the next thing, someone is wiping your brains from the cliffrock. Did not talk to old Chris much, but he was one of the good ones. My window has a good view of the wilderness. Maybe, that's why I am still here. You would think that your ghosts,

The world looks bleak through curtailed holes. I used to wait for grey clouds, not because they brought in rain, but because I could hear and smell them within my confinement. I always thought the droplets from the sky healed you, poured in between the gaps and stretched out to fill them. There were numerous times when I crawled down that stairwell to taste the north wind, until that high window in the dark corridor pulled me back into that simultaneous state of equilibrium and entropy. In moments of lucidity, I would often carry myself to the shoreline. The wee hours of dusk and dawn look like a colorful spill in a bar on a Friday night. I never felt special or gifted in any sense, but in moments like this, I could just listen to my blood, at least in those parts that were alive. The sea is pretty sympathetic to a visitor. I remember the time when the breeze carried away my crutches. I felt defeated, but the water would rush in and try to pretend as if my voids weren’t real, th

I make melodies with my mouth, I run these bleeding fingers down south, My heart separates to soothing strings, Oh please help me, hide my fallen wings. I dance around to shades of moonbeam, I serenade your presence in my dream, This darkness escapes my grasp, My ear searches your clap. I made another world today, I gave something, I took away, Please don't abscond me, For my sins in a fantasy. I laughed on the stage again, I played with my pain, For the whole world may see my excellence, My simplicity seeks your credence. I put up a face to fight, I hid my debilitated might, Beneath those inebriated bandages, My existence dwells in your cages. I saw this empty orchestra, I was dressed in magenta, Were you standing behind that blinding light? Did you come to bless my plight? I lied to you now and then, I professed the impossible and made it happen, My tricks vanished with your fascinations,  My reality is your aberration.  I removed my facade, I

They reside, Etched on eroded epitaphs, Baiting us with beautiful lies, Whilst stifling cries. Those derelict playthings call out, From closets and playgrounds, They speak of dusty sessions and carefree scoldings, Of small worlds and large wishes. Stray reflections on dirty windshields, Ridicule a conveniently erased past, Shrouded with new fascinations and jubilations, Lay decomposing oaths and affiliations. A cradle sways in the dark, As two sets of eyes gape at each other, Nerves connect as fingers intertwine, Soothes the clogged pathways of the mind. Two existences separated by eternity, Life pleads to dormancy, Contends lost adventures and unfulfilled promises, Longs for a break from loneliness. The umbrella hides the cowering creature, From contemptuous glances and ramblings, The rain washes away the mud, But not those haunting contemplatings. The bed trembles at the open closet, Skeletons neatly arranged, Silence remains quiet in fear, As regret

Do you remember the day? When the heap gave away, Crumbling down as I stood, Even I was rendered damaged goods. Pour some malt through the cracks, And watch as it spills out, The stars look beautiful from a windowsill, The ache muffles you whenever you speak. Empty benches and dry fountains, Cold gusts and tattered blankets, Triumphant endeavors and bolstered hopes, Those painful melodies ringing in heart holes. How long will you sit there? And bear the scrutiny of unkind eyes, Oh, foolish mind, you murder yourself behind closed doors, Over afflicted horrors and lost causes. How long does it take? To strip down all those deceitful layers, Those masked truths, those dark mirrors, Do the tears help? Or do they just aggravate? Running through your shallow veins, Of different colour and make, Illusionist in function, numbing in effect, A bed of pitiful expulsions it lays. These same veins bleed out ink, On papers dirty and clean, Of intimate words and excru

I rattle this cage in the dead of the night, As I gape at the morbid guard, Towering walls suppress my plight, As darkness topples me with its might. Light turned his back on me, Many a moon ago, The stale air suffocates me, The silence drives me mad. I weep and wail, I scream and call, Until those chides turn me solemn, And I hysterically laugh. Label me this and tag me with that, Dope me up until I can’t talk, These are murky waters you send me to, Unbeknownst of how I may return. Oh look, what a beautiful night it is, Something to celebrate, Startled at this sudden change of scene, The mind craves familiarity. Where did my pain go? This void feels intolerable, Eyes dash in search for anguish, Because agony is better than vacuum. Love knocks on the door, But I turn it away, Because revelries do not dwell in dreadful shanties, And the dead do not wish for rain. I follow this desolate road, To where it may take, Into the belly of frozen hellfire,

Creaking doors in tumble down corridors Give away at the slightest push, Trembling legs make it to rest, As this ruse slowly strips away. The dilapidated bed struggles to support a fall, As the shabby blanket embraces a hollow form, Winds howls in through cracks in the window, And the moon checks in from time to time. Eyes peer through this veil of darkness, Light fades in the distance, Ever falling towards the seedy underbelly, Yet never reaching. The dusty floor covered in heaps of clothing, Cleverly conspires with the scorching heat, To hide those tears, That pour out from irreparable gaps of the heart. Wails from some invisible corner, Rouses from a sleepless slumber, Who is this shrunk, morose figure, That begs to leave. The mouth of a well, Overlooks the cold reservoir, Tugging at the damp rope, Oblivious of no escape. Dull and musty curtains, Waving in sympathy, Mourning at the dire sight, Of a soul trapped within itself. Loud knocks and comfo