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.

Surhan Kamal

Imagine 

Imagine if I came to you
Fly across all oceans and skies and tear through the clouds and the stars
See the sun spit fire in all it’s rage 
And pass the moon as he weeps from lifelessness
What if I float through the dark forever, let it consume me and become me
Disintegrate my mind to tiny bits and pieces
Would I then be close to you my Maker?
This soul wants to leave and reach you
My dreams only show me a light that I must float to
I tried writing poems for you but my pen loses rhyme every time I think of you
My jaw quivers and my eyes get cloudy, the pen scribbles as if it has a life of its own
If I came to you my Maker, would you love me for hating you 
Would you forgive me and show me and remove the knot from my mind
Would you place a piece of your light where my heart should be
Smile at me like a teacher does at a struggling student
“Think deeply about the wonders and creation of the universe”, you had said
Drove me into madness, now cure me my Maker
You made me and the angels and the Devils and all evil
They say you will everything but you kill everything too
Am I insane or are they
They call you names and I have too but I want to not hate you 
I fall on omy knees in prostration every time do
I am insane just as you had willed it to be
And I want to come running to you
This flesh and this earth imprisons me, separates me from you
Will it that I may come floating to you
Tell the keepers of my soul that it’s time for my release
That it’s time for me to meet you
Will it my Maker and kill this prison of life 
So that I may reach the light of you
Leave the futility of earthly matters and see the absolute

Tell

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Won’t you tell me of the things

That make your soul stir

And your breath shrink

Of things that set on fire

Your mind and you feel it burn

Course through your veins and reach

The tips of your fingers, tingling

And your palms itch, curl into fists

And make your eyes electric,

Diamond mines in coal lines

Tell me of the things that

You’re scared to say out loud

But the tip of your tongue

Has lost taste from being shut

And numb from suppression

And your ears long to hear

A sound of your kind

A sound that may rhyme

With the beat of your heart

And the whisper of your flaws

And with the sound of your soul

A silence that echoes within

Won’t you tell me of the things

That we share in broken glances

And broken sentences

Within broken caresses

Tell me what I want to hear

And our fears might live in harmony

 

 

 

 

 

How To Converse like Sheep


Sustaining a lively and unadulterated mind requires a practice of self preservation from any element of literature that might pose as a threat to the naivety of everyday life. The real struggle lies not in your pursuit for meaning or reason, rather it lies in keeping your demeanor and social display firmly eschewed from your beliefs; unless you wish your ideas and thoughts to devour your sanity as a whole. A distraught conduct leads the individual vulnerable and perilously exposed. An attempt to exhibit firm control on one’s actions must therefore, be practised diligently.

A societal manner best adopted would be hence to engage the listener in an essentially hollow yet witty chat regarding the latest gossip, carefully circumventing any topic of politics or social perils. Much like George Orwell’s oblivious society in his novel 1984, (but mind you don’t let anyone know the novel has mentally affected you, the simple excuse of casual reading should suffice if anyone seems curious) one cannot trust the people around to fully grasp and comprehend the grave nature of our current situations. Petty conversations about celebrities and fashion should be more than pleasing to ears that know nothing of the sound war artillery makes. 

The question then arises, how does one successfully spot an intellectul among a crowd of sheep. In a desperate attempt to find a mind with whom one can share their darkest theories with, one forgets that everyone has a specific threshold for darkness. One person’s level of darkness might be enough to drive another into madness. One risks the hazard of being responsible for stealing the spring from the step of their listener by rambling about reality. One risks surpassing the listener’s threshold for dark thoughts in their desperation to let theirs go.

The best way to go about, therefore, would be to take turns with one’s mind. Daylight means you control your body and actions. Night time is when, in the safe confines of your room,  away from people, you may let the darkness take over. A pen and a paper should be present always on one’s side for when things get out of hand and regaining control of one’s concious mind seems a struggle. There lies a beautiful strength in endurance.

Clay

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What more am I than
A living statue of painted expressions
Carved in beauty yet lacking life
Filling emotion in a barren heart
Every beat a crackle in the chest
Shouldn’t I be feeling something
Butterflies they call it
Intruders in my stomach
Shouldn’t my head spin
At the sight of you
When my head approves
But how do people like you
Conjure love out of the blue
How do you string words to suit
What plays in your thoughts
Should’nt my heart skip a beat
Or my breath fall short
When you come near
Then why do I feel nothing
Except a void that I call home
An emptiness I can never seem to fill
Do you see what I fail to hide
How do I look through your eyes
Does your image of me have a smile transfixed
Or does conceit fill the contours of my face
Or do I look like just another girl
To stare at in hallways and lust to at night
How do I tell one apart from the other
How do I tell you apart from the others
Maybe its better to not guess at all
Save a heartbreak from happening
Make apathy your friend in need
Clay dolls don’t know of tragedy

Safe

 

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There lies in this chest

A heart of stone

Hardened by

A misery unknown

A believer of nothing

A sanctuary old

Holding up against time

Pouring ashes in gold

There lies in this head

A web of lies

A labyrinthine faith

A fragile mind

And these eyes they

Hold diamonds huge

Show auroras in place

Of life’s ugly hues

Phosphenes ignite

Two deceptive eyes

Save a fragile mind

From shattering a heart,

From shattering stone.

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?

Blue

 

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On 23rd of June in the summer of 1992

You asked me what my favourite colour was

I looked at the blood red sunset view

And I looked at your blood red BMW

I looked at my sundress and matching red shoes

I looked at your cheeks, they were red too

And I looked at the red oozing from your fresh wounds

I saw it drip from the tips of a broken wine bottle

Jagged shards holding dregs of blood and booze

The tie that you wore, too, had a blotchy red hue

And so did your face when it choked you

As I slid the broken glass into you

And like a missed train I saw your breath leave you

On 23rd of June in 1992

You asked me what my favourite colour was

And I told you it was blue

And I had lied to you

It was red that I craved, not an ugly blue

That reminds me of you or your icy eyes

Or the oceans or blueberries or the skies

Or of our little blue cottage in Peru

Or any other memory of you

I had buried long ago deep beneath

All the red rage you left in my blue little dreams

Had you asked me in the summer of 2000 instead

I’d have told you my favourite colour is red.

Gifts

“He used to shower me with gifts, you know” She walked in unannounced. The sound of heels clattering against tiles ceased and her heartless gaze met the horrifed face of the only occupant of the kitchen. 

She studied the maid like an animal weighing its options. A disgusting housekeeper is what he fancied better than the one woman coveted by hundreds of suitors. What was it that he saw in a filthy maid that he failed to find in a noble woman like her. Beauty maybe, but no ranks, no jewels, no class, a piece of garbage. He got what he deserved.

“M..Mrs. Desmund! How n..nice of y..you to stop-p by. W..would you like s…some tea?” The maid frantically dug into the cupboard, looking for an excuse. Her shivering hands let slip a kettle and the sound of expensive china shattering like her sanity, enveloped the kitchen. She froze and so did her heart. 

“DON’T YOU FUCKING MOVE UNLESS I TELL YOU TO! UNDERSTAND YOU WHORE?!”

The lady like poise vanished as a monster slipped through the crevices of a perfectly polished persona. Mrs. Desmund took a deep breath, composed herself, and tried to block out the sobs of a filthy 18 year old, panic striken servant.

She placed a beautifully wrapped package on the kitchen table,
“Always wearing himself out” She continued in her previous charming tone, “finding the most expensive ring, the smoothest pearls, the largest diamonds, the perfect tokens.”

“And yet, this one is the best I’ve received so far”

A slight tug to the ribbon let the wrapping loose; the grip on the rag tightened and so did the lungs making breathing laboured. Prespiration and tears adorned one woman’s face while a steely smile carved into the other’s. The paper slipped and a mortified face of Mr. Desmund peeked through. Glassy life-less eyes stared back into the gleeful eyes of a woman he once cheated on. The air seemed to thin in the spacious kitchen and lights seemed to dim as the maid fought hard to maintain focus.

“Don’t you think?” whispered Mrs. Desmund, stroking the matted hair of her loving husband. The maid stood petrified, holding onto her dirty rag as if she had just peered into the future, and seen her own imminent death. Her skin had turned a pale similar to that of her lover’s putrid head. 

“It’s a shame you have to see him like this.” She turned towards her. Her limbs and conciousness began betraying her as she struggled to get up and run for her life.

“P-please Mrs. D..esm..umd p..please, believe m..me please, It’s n..not…NO! Please…It was him…” she tried to sound intelligible between sobs, but Mrs. Desmund wasn’t listening.

The sound of metal scraping against stone followed by wallowing shrieks of misfortune echoed in the newly furnished kitchen.

“It’s about time I gave him the perfect gift.”