Genesis

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We waltzed into hell

Clouds of forbidden flames,

A sickening scent of freedom,

Blinded by desire,

Our numb intuition,

And senses paralyzed,

We made our way in.

Here an eternal prison for us awaits,

With arms open wide,

A fatal embrace.

Genesis of the mind.

 

 

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War guns

They say that it’s an art son
Making humans into war guns
Paper people, hearts blunt
Slide into your armours
That face deserves stardom
Your blood is to run in their gardens
Before planes shower pardons
What if the holy martyr
Turns out to be a bastard
What of the promised dark suns
This night lingers in all months
Go fix that paper mask
Paint it with soot and tar
Let flames engulf your mansions
Tonight we talk through arson
Die with brave scars sons
Reclaim what was ours once
Steady your guns, soldiers
Brewing wars they say, is an art son.

 

Her

Have you ever seen someone

Lose faith in front of you

Powereless, crying  clawing at the head

Kneeling, begging, sweating

Face red and contorted like the body

Like the mind in shambles

Have you ever seen their breath move

As it fills and leaves the lungs in vain

The hair in clumps flowing through fingers clutched

Have you ever seen someone in pain

As they crash in front of your eyes

Falling from a height divine

Their existence a burden their hearts can’t bear

Have you seen such a thing and lived 

Knowing you were the push off the brink

How does one live, knowing they killed a mind

And left it to rot in a flesh-clad machine

Tell me how I wash off the guilt

No soap can clean the grime off my skin

And no prayer can clean the filth off my soul

And my heart weighs me down like an anchor in my being

Have you ever seen someone lose sanity in front of you

Reach out to extinguish the glimmer of hope in an eye

Rub the wick between their fingers till the flame loses life

I see the mirror every night 

And see the other me as a dead girl with a smile 

A corpse trying hard to look alive

I have seen her stand defeated in front of me

And she doesn’t go away ever

Even when the mirror is broken and dead

She blooms in the shards like a ghost of past

An Ode to The Ocean

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You beautiful monster
Drifting careful in a slumber
Deeper than your thunder, how?
You deadly lover
Riding warriors on your back
Giver of life
Your ripples of anger
Setting in action only destruction
You magnanimous creature of wonder
How?
Your waters a thing of horror
Where do you keep your love
Does it come and then leave
Like your tides on days of glee
Where do you keep your love
Your barren surface deludes my ignorant, how?
Shall I bow down?
Your towers of liquid, send my blood to shivers
In these fragile bones, my heart booms
With warnings and rules
Your belly is a “valley of doom”
But I see no doom, how?
You astounding monster,
Sitting in the eye of the storm you conjure
You’re the chaos inside of a silent calm, how?
You show me blue
Another trick you use
To lure and seduce
Don’t seduce my mind
You know not how it weaves poetry for you
You’re the lover I want to deny
I run my fingers through
The liquid death you brew
And like the sun that you engulf
I long for you to embrace me too
Hold me in your arms
And give me the love you hide
Kiss my forhead and my mind
Envy burns in me when the sun or the wind touches you at night
You’re so beautiful when you sleep
What a perfect harmony You and me would be
I see no death in you
Only longing and a muse, how?

How

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What do you tell
The heart that breaks
When faith begins to shake
And all Reason feels fake
Existence seems a gory game
Electric realisation of mistakes
And all your hair stand on end
Shivers run down your spine
And your hands begin to shake
And your body contorts
To meet the knees’ embrace
The forehead that would graze
A prayer mat all night and day
Has now found a new place
Between two worlds in space
Blinded and dazed
The tongue that would say
Only grace and supplicate
Now stammers every time it prays
The eyes that held a modest gaze
Now struggle to detangle this maze
What would it take
To restore a broken faith
To put belief back in the mind
What of the heart that fails to find
The silver lining behind
The Misery of all time
How does The Divine
Intervene in crime
When crime sits on thrones
And the innocent fall prey
To the justice set by fate
How do you save
A stumbling faith
When the innocent pay
The price for the sins
Committed by saints
In the name of a god
Who silently watches us decay
As tyrants pave way
For eternally bound slaves
How do you save
A dissipating race

Fixed

Shutting his eyes tight no longer blocked the image from Junaid’s head. The bloody face of 10 year old Grace kept lurking in his life day and night. 

She was always there in the mirror when he shaved in the morning. She’d be there in the driveway when he’d get into his car. She was there on his desk at work, and in the dark parking lot and on the kitchen table watching him make dinner. Always waiting on him. Ready with her bright smile, wearing the same pink floral dress with doilies in her hair and a dead rabbit in her arm. One would have thought of her to have come straight out of a postcard picture–if it weren’t for all the blood.

And it drove Junaid crazy. He had the death of his daughter on his hands and it had to be fixed. 

Ever since he had killed Grace, she’d been appearing to him. The court dismissed him as “not guilty” but deep down he knew it was all his fault. 

It was his fault that Angie wanted a divorce from him. It was his fault he failed as a husband and a father. It was his fault he took Grace for camping that day. It was his fault he got too busy starting the fire. It was his fault she went chasing after the rabbit. It was his fault that she tripped over the rocks. It was his fault that he couldn’t hold on to her hand. She had trusted him and he had failed her. It was his fault that the drop killed her.

He had failed her and it had to be fixed.

He shut his eyes tight again. His face was drained of any blood and his hands shook in terror. His breathing was laboured and his heart was ready to explode any minute. He felt the thick abrasive rope in his hands as Grace stood watching in the corner, streaks of scarlet caked into her beautiful hair and onto her beautiful skin. 

The door was locked and the neighbours were out. The knot was tight and the rope was strong. He slowly opened his swolen eyes and stepped onto the chair. His trembling hands slid the noose around his neck as Grace giggled. He had to fix it, so he shut his eyes tight again and with a forced kick to the chair, he let his body dangle from the noose.

The momentary peace was quickly swallowed by a crippling sense of regret. Panic started setting into Junaid’s body as he kicked and thrashed his legs and clawed at the noose around his neck. His vision became blurred and his head felt boggy as the noose slowly ceased any blood supply to his brain. As the rope dug into his windpipe, every inch of his lungs burned. He felt his heart give in. The flailing slowed as his limbs exhausted. And he saw his daughter playing in her school playground. And he saw Angie yelling at him. He saw his mother sleeping in her coffin. He saw a 5 year old Grace topple and giggle as he tickled her in bed. He saw the judge mouthing the words “not guilty”. And he saw Grace sitting on his kitchen table. Her face was angelic and there was no blood anywhere. She was smiling and alive. 

They were even now. He had fixed it.

His eyes had popped out and blood had engorged every vein in his face. His body had quit all struggling and his limbs had dropped. As he drew his last breath, a soft whisper echoed in the eerie quit of the room

“Daddy you’re home…”.

Art

Pen held steady
Over a blank soul
With blank thoughts
A dam to the ink
Nothing flows out
Neither ink nor emotion
Stillness surrounds existence
And stillness kills creation
And it kills all emotion
Blank thoughts
And blank hearts
Bearing stories
Of blank souls
And your blank eyes
Staring into mine
Lifeless like your body
Another blank heart
Still and cold
The pen carves into your soul
And out your ink flows
Blank no more
What have I done

Filth

Its 10:48 pm where I live. My sister made an amazing dinner and we all just ate. Everybody’s out in the t.v lounge, watching old songs. My youngest sister who’s 7 is playing with her doll house that Mum just bought for her today. Dad left for some work trip out of city last night. My brother is in the gym since the past 2 hours. I’m sitting here in my room playing with my matchbox. I’m thinking about setting my house and everything that we own on fire.

I want to destroy it all. The nice things we bought for ourselves. The stupid dollhouse. The stupid t.v. and the stupid fridge and the toaster and the car in the garage, the shit expensive furniture and the air conditioners and the shit expensive computers and phones, everything. Because I’m fucked up in the brain.

Yeah. That’s what they call this. That’s what they call you. Fucked up in the head. That’s what I am, for wanting to destroy everything in sight that is a reminder of the illusion I created for myself. The imaginary wall that I’ve made. The bars that I’ve set up and made from the finest and the hardest metals. I made my existence impenetrable with my own hands. Impenetrable to the filth of the world.

The filth. You’re not one of the filth of the world. No. Nobody looks at you in scorn when you step into big institutions. No, everybody listens to you because your voice must matter more. Because you are not the filth. Because you were lucky enough to not be born in a filth hole. 

Because you have a nice house. A nice car. A nice meal 6 times a day. Nice schools. Nice clothes and bags and shoes. That’s what separates you from another human that you call filth. The wall you have built with your material goods made sure you were separated from humans who are different from you by just a strike of luck. 

I want to set my house on fire because that is what separates me from another human who lost to luck when it came to money. I want the wisp of fire on this matchstick in my hand to turn into a source of revulsion. I want to burn my house.

Strike the dice again God. Boom. Filth. You’re the filth now. Nice things are a memory. Ashes. Burned to oblivion. No longer the happy family who walks with their noses in the air. No more mocking glances from behind car windows about beggars. No more scanty pity charity as a showstopper stunt in front of your in-laws. No more I have a nicer car and neighbourhood and phones and laptops. Only ashes. Finished. Taste the dirt. Taste the filth. Youre one of the filth now. The wisp of fire is feeding on the materialism of my existence.I let it grow. I watch it bloom. My brother’s back from the gym and I can hear him shout. My baby sister is screaming and my mother has passed out.

I burned my house because I’m fucked up in the brain. I yearn the taste of life as a piece of filth to be scorned at and hissed at and starve and beg out of misery and I want people to hit me for pestering them with my problems. I want a taste of the misery that is found in the ashes of these material things. So I burned my house and everything nice in it.

Beauty

It’s strange how we find beauty in destructivity. The night sky intrigues us. Trillions of magnanimous balls of burning gas capable of frying anything even a few million meters from them intrigue us. Sun sets make us feel at peace. A ball of fire large enough to fit a million earths, close enough to be witnessed from our tiny planet, inching further closer every passing decade, capable of boiling all land, makes us feel at peace. The moon, the beautiful, cold, lifeless, lightless, barren moon overwhelms us with emotion on a lonely night. The vast, never-ending, land-engulfing, moody sea brings us serenity. The beautiful sea that deceives you with the many colours it wears as times of the day change, should you discover what it truly looks like. The same sea with the potential of dragging you into a wet, painless embrace of sweet sweet freedom. Yet we lay in the sand and let our feet touch the shore and pick shells from its floor. We watch the sun set into it and we watch as it bleeds into the sky and we watch it bleed into the waters, adding another colour to the palette of nature. We watch the night sky imprinted onto its surface, distorted by the ripples created by waves that can engulf an entire city from the slightest nudge of a plate.

We find beauty in all of this. We find ways of incorporating it into poetry and art that we create. We define it in ways that best suit our interests. We calculate and measure it using systems that we pride in creating from raw thought.

Because accepting the meaninglessness of our existence in a gloriously self-expanding and self-sufficient universe prickles at our prides as flawed human beings.

Because for once we want to feel like we have control, like a child sitting amidst skilled architects showing off the fortress he made from building blocks. Or a drug addict thinking he controls what he feels, all the while rotting inside, enslaved to the withdrawal symptoms of what he calls “control”.

We think we are entitled to celebrate what we believe to be rightfully ours, drunk on delusions of being the sole heirs to an entire universe. Giving in to self-imposed falsely created megalomania.

We find beauty in destructivity because arrogance blinds man worse than ignorance.