The darkness seeps

The road seems to blur, I know fog

this isn't just that

I have been reading the fading, it has been approaching closer, the horizon seems near

I attribute it to my world shrinking, a condition I call apathy to my self

And here I start to think, not how not why, but when

I wouldn't want it silent, peaceful, calm for those are the very states I have been afloat in

I seek a violent, slow, tormenting end 

Mediocrity is not for me, and peace has become just that

Pain, is welcome, I have only laughed as intensely as the pain was. But this time I want dread too, a serving of dread would be nice.

I wasn't born in calm, nor could I live in it until I could earn my living

then came the barrage of choices, some I made, most I made a mistake of

no regrets, not for the choices, not for the cigarettes

So then, is the end what mocks me, or is it life, I wouldn't know

I wouldn't be able to attach a value to either, I have been me for long now

So, maybe the living will, maybe a DNR, maybe to get my affairs in order

Sooner... than later

The code isn't working as optimally as I have wanted it to either, I wanted it to, so that I could give it away free

At the end then, what have I got to show, and to whom anyway

I love the hills, the fog, winters

Maybe a sudden stop, on one of my journeys would be an exit

Maybe,

For now I wish, I have so many poems to delete

I have kept most promises, I have also lost a lot of my sleep

My soul is now frosted, It no longer earns its keep

Who knows really!

 if the roads of my end and not , meet;

Who really does

 Who could, not me, not you

yet....

Coconut Bites

The rains wean, and the land has called

the brass bells rang, the pappadams crackled, the kheer amongst kheers is  vermicelli she recognises 

The land is a little too known for her, but it's the first time she has set foot there

She tells me, how she remembers me

she tugs at the suture that I had weaved and imprisoned my soul behind

It leaks of longing, reeks of missing

But neither of us is in proximity to hold hands and share a moment of this grief

And then she speaks of a house and a garden, that we would be at

I tell her, my choice of trees would be bitter lemons and lime trees

in a garden walled by jackfruit trees, and palm, coconut palms and me ... how can I discount those 

She drifts to sleep, speaking

I drift to my coldness, adrift in the dead of the night

I smile, knowing she has finally seen what I have been telling her

Of those places and the astonishingly lovely food

Come Forty Six

Ships by the bay, I would wave 

Not that I would be seen, 

 yet

 for what it's worth, I would

Approximations, belief, delusions, 

  and thereof maybe

Even at past five of forty, I do

I now choose though, to aim my waving

  to those further away from the  coast

Pointlessness is better exaggerated 

The seagulls are a hundred strong

 Maybe a hundred more, or twenty less

 Gross value, probability, 

    guesstimates, thereon

I don't wish to fly like them,

  I prefer my fish store bought, 

   cooked by me

Precision, crafted, selected 

 sans compulsion of hunger

They don't do spice, I do, I relish

My arrogance is underrated, 

 or my belief of being unlike me is.

My existence is overstated

Cognitive Decline

The sun will be beautiful tomorrow 

if I fade would it still be, obviously 

not like the sun and I have deal of sirts

I am alone, the earth and the sun is all I got

but they have been here longer, habe they not?

Yes... 

They have

I chance upon such a random thought

and wonder, if 

'if' is a good thing, isn't it?

not that all questions have or need answering 

Most of mine are outrageous and senile, asinine even

Besides Snagglepuss was my favourite as a child

It was what? yesterday then

Heavens to Murgatroyd

My poems are nothing less than incoherent ramblings

or so, if it helps you feel better

I know they are just a caricature 

some of me is in there, most of my dead self too

Damned, uncouth

unfit for my own love, yours is not even a question 

I am

pretty much

I

So I wish you a Good Night, and peaceful sleep

with a chance of sweet dreams

borrow, no... take them

I hate it if they aren't nightmares 

What would be greater than love?

The sun is not tropical

 the association of it being long held as though is

If I was asked yesterday, I would tell you I like the sun

But now, I will state that there is a general likeness of it

If I found the golden magnolia

 I could rush to give it to you

 yesterday it was my favourite flower

But today, I will tell you it is considered to be beautiful by a few people

If the mountain mist beckons, and should I write poetry

I shall remind myself to file it with all things I have rejected 

I fear it may have my thoughts, bare, open

It is not warranted now by me either

If asked about my existence, I could approximate, but not state

For I have started to understand my thoughts now, which I joyously truncate

I is no longer me, it is no longer a redundancy

It may be my best name, It suits as most would agree.

Drowned wood

I shed leaves

 it should be considered shameful 

  I have been told

But 

then being the tree

 I have fixed degrees of movement

  and I do shed 

    sometimes

     often seasonal

I have now learnt

   to cannabilise my own leaves

   than let the ones in shade be inconvenienced

I have found it easier

  I am now akin to Ouroboros

   I die into me

     unceremoniously

      without a rustle 

or annoyance

See the green

  find the shade calming

   find me as.

But hey!

At some point,

I would have to apologise

 for wearing my heart in my sleeve

and often be considered too nonchalant

for letting someone know what I feel

I may have to apologise

 for being incapable of hurt

and thus be considered inhuman 

but then, I have no tears left to breakdown with

I may have to apologise 

 for wanting things to be perfect

for those around, knowing my own past

though most would despise me for breaking their fall

I will come to know

 I have to apologise for being alive

for all I do is just try to ease lives

I do that cos death won't have me, and life doesn't like me around

My Tetrodotoxin

I imagine you  

but my heart imagines you differently

 you are the very invocation of primal fear

in me

willfully so, it courses through my veins

 knowing it will paralyse me

 suffocate, choke me

 and in that abundant pain

 I will remain awake

 what else can loving bring?

 Such is my fate

 or so I have come to accept 

so when you end me

 I shall relish it too, watch you

 not be able to blink

forget to breathe

swirl into the blackness

yearning to reach and touch your face 

when the last ounce of me ebbs 

 I shall wonder,

are there life on other planets?

and have the jars I filled for lactic fermentation matured,

what do those habaneros taste like, since they are six months old now

November?

November then

See you space cowboy

Progressive degeneration

Another Friday has passed

My thoughts of wanting to exist in this frame amongst madness fades

it seems to wish for a reckoning 

mostly of finding a sane and painful way to end

next month, sometime midweek

once the paper work completes

 lets not string people and cast them to hell

 called bank work and insurance forms

and each day seems to bite

as of the boredom beast wasn't already perennially feasting on my soul 

these chaotic conjectures of people saying "things are going to get better" falls off like water on a duck's back

I have a frivolous relationship with life, never could get it 

it could never get me, both of us were distant even in what is purportedly termed happiness or hopelessness 

neither has stuck

neither would matter if it did ...

ho ho ho and a ha ha ha ...even

Heavens to Murgatroyd 

Sheepskins

and the print it has, irrelevant and its chase is insolence 

my will worse, insolvent 

And then Saturday will sit on my face 

worse, it stinks

I prefer it to not

either ways

after all consent is key, to weekends too

while you are still reasoning between that innuendo and whatever else you seem to think this is about

I have assumed half of sixty days are fair

seems more poetic too to say

Where was I?

Oh

'to find a sane and painful way to exit'

where did that idea go, I had stored it here somewhere

later

maybe

Disclaimers were offered

Here it is

Ethically sourced 

A fear from my mind

not a soul was hurt in crafting it

no governments were offended 

no border disputes occured

There were no slave children mining it

nor a widow was underpaid and forced to work making it

No illegal immigrants were needed

nor was it against the law

here it is

my fear

of existence

 amongst all that is you

 so tiny 

The darkness leaks from my fractured soul

Hemlock and barbiturate

is just like what this universe has made

love and longing

foolish desires and love's charade

towards... then

like saving my food from monkeys

and they are a hundred, hungry and in rage

and starvation arrives, in a bloody serenade

but... you

Walk in on me, in abject desperation

intoxicated on the want and need for your reaching

and then I find my own shadows to hide in

thinking of killing myself, before your leaving will

for... I

am in absolution, in dread, and  avoiding delusion

as my heart winks at me, to rile

these years of life, have run its course

I cower, sleep, hope to never wake from my sleep

but.. no

I will never accept peace, and you are the chaos

I was so, I have seen the universe too

The mediocrity of life is my shame now

here I am, writing poetry on that somehow

But, me

When you are me, everything with me dies organically
Some I help tune out, others tune out themselves
Between wanting to be someone and my life’s inadequacy
I let things be, I let everything be free

When love arrives, I prefer to let it slip by comfortably
When confronted, I choose peace
Between being what I can and what I must be
I choose to just remain wherever I am supposed to be

I fly, shimmering, my lofty iridescent purple feathers
I perch on gargoyles, look at dead, unswaying trees
Between death and resignation of myself
I mock the sun as it tries to burn my wings

I see you have found my nesting spot somehow
I find another where I can be me
Between the performance and dress-up
I relinquish my need for your eyes on me

Doesn't warrant a title

April has gone by, 

  and left me questions 

 of my insanity

  that believes I could be human

I won't be, I will always fail

The mango ginger plants are dying

 I sit on a tile where my dearest dog died

 I search for meaning in a folly

 that the universe seems to toss at me

and 

 truth is just being a bitch right now

I know it hurts

 my hurt spews laughter

  unlike tears

   this mask

     I wore long before I wore a suit and tie

 Those were terrible times

  weak

    and wishing for death

and now

 death doesn't come

  it fails me

    Love seems to being more

       deathwishes

I do not fight

 for my derangement is total

  all forms of me wish for a violent end

     preferably dressed in violet

       playing a violin, I hate violins 

   and then

 such thoughts

 of being something someone can hold on to

Sacrilege 

  heracy and such

But I respond with

 "Hey, how can I help ?"

Vague

Lampwork beads

 cracked in shipment

  and I had such high hopes

     it broke the violet ones

       amongst all others it could've 

This is a story then

  one of those whiskey ones

    spoken to my other selves

      who seldom converge

         and when they do, they mock

"Here is some glue"

   "why do you worry"

      "order more as always"

        "it always is the case"

          "why not give up?

questions

 of selves

    to me

     Le roi est mort, vive le roi!

       and some other incoherent words 

Pity,

 I cannot for me

"Purple ones are pretty too"

  "alter your choice"

    "there are other colours too you know!"

   "Right", I say to my personas 

Sleep

  others have things too

    your waking is a flaw 

      your banter is not much less

 sleep

   "not that sleep!"

    more such voices

Here then

  poetry

     or somewhat

       stylized 

         burnt

           deprecated 

   stop

 here

now

"fine"

I need to order violet beads

   three extra strands then

     of lampwork beads

       pretty

         "why not order chrome yellow ones?"

 "like in a sunflower?"

 "they are better!"

 "Right" I agree.

**Short summary:**

A shipment of fragile violet beads arrives broken. Instead of simple disappointment, the speaker fragments into arguing voices: pragmatic, dismissive, fatalistic, nihilistic. They can't decide anything because there's no unified "I" to decide.

But at the end, the voices converge. They realise chrome yellow, the colour of sunflowers, represents something resilient and life-giving. The scattered self stops arguing and makes a real choice: order both. The delicate violet beads that broke, and the yellow that grows toward light.

It's a poem about how internal conflict can actually lead somewhere. Not to giving up, but to choosing something larger than you started with.

   

So

So what will I do now, 

 Will I repeat my mistakes

follow my sense of control or forsake my logic and reasoning 

will I push the crude raft into the ocean

 built from the debris of the boat, that used to be a ship once

Ulysses has nothing on me

I have my will, 

 the absolute unhinged, brutalist will

   that lights the path to destruction 

  and I got my heart to hold my hand too

  forces of my undoing, working together

  as always

Et tu! 

 isn't you, is me

 and that is what It always have been

   the mind has no respite 

I seek it neither 

 here is rope, enough to bind sails

   or to tie me by my neck

Feeding time

Fate sells insane cutlery

 for Time to eat

  full English style 

With a side of poached dreams and toasted hopes

It pokes with the left

 cuts with the right

And to try to wash it down

  it splashes hot black tea

for me it's earl grey

 spills it on tables I hate too.

analysis.

---

**On Fate's Table Setting**

This poem works through precision disguised as fragmentation. Looks broken, but it isn't.

The architecture rests on a single detail: English place setting. Fork left, knife right. "Full English style".. that's not just colour. It's the grammar of how Fate operates. Left hand pokes (memories, what's already happened). Right hand cuts (what's happening now). No chaos. Just protocol.

"Insane cutlery" because it's doing exactly what cutlery does. Perfectly ordinary devastation.

The poem refuses to explain itself cleanly. Short lines, odd breaks, indentation that makes you move through it awkwardly. You can't skim. You have to sit with each fragment and work out what it's building toward. That formal difficulty mirrors the subject.. Fate doesn't announce itself. It just arranges the table and waits.

The personification stays strange throughout. Fate isn't a force or a god. It's someone at dinner, methodical, using the right tools in the right order. Almost mundane in its competence.

Then the spill. Hot tea across tables you already hated. This is where it reveals what it's actually about: not abstract cosmic harm, but the spreading of private damage into spaces you never wanted it to reach. Gossip. Exposure. Your specific pain becoming public knowledge in the worst possible places.

The speaker arrives at the end.. "for me it's earl grey".. not as a rupture but as a specification. This isn't universal. This is *yours*. The bitterness tastes like that particular flavour. The wound fits the exact shape of your life.

It's economical. Nothing wasted.

I always will

 I will find you

    wherever you hide

for I shall come guided

my blood will call me

When I gave you my heart

    You were marked

I shall come knocking

    claim my heart back

you can have it

    find me

        this time

Neither

 Restraint

 from having to reach out

intrude 

I stop

feel a void

expand it further

my insides cave

die a million times

over

I speak

in stories

to myself 

to mask

an absence

of her laughter

make myself feel

a self I rarely know exists

but does

I've allowed to show

banter

as if this moment 

will simply pass

or arrive

what if it does neither

and in it all

I allow myself to fall

into such desire

unfathomable

untamed

and somehow

innocent

Comply

I see you, everything that is you
I remove me, all that is me
I remember
  I am me
in the shards of my vulnerabilities
I dismiss it myself
I do not break
I cannot feel
I feel your skin against mine
I read every bump and scar
I know these, some of these 
like mine
some worse
most innocently given
by those I dont speak of
I see no imperfections
I shouldn't see beyond the flesh
I follow your thought
be just my kind
in all these stories
I find me
I find my flaws
I still fall into you
sans rhyme and reason
post recall

Thai curries and pasta

There is this brook near my house

A few kilometres off,

Serene and calm, rarely loud

except in rain

I hear the rustle and gurgle in my thoughts

I sometimes wonder if things have changed somehow

It's almost May

Thane does what it does best

belts my bare skin with its summer

it hides the stream too, within a man-made forest

been there twice, under the evergreen trees

June arrives, the first week bringing rain

only for Thane to turn again

by the third week, runners underground defy

paint everything green, bring a gentleness to all

the balcony becomes my frequent haunt then

Mom visits and leaves

I sit, sipping my ginger tea

July and August will be loud

they bring those dark, thunderous clouds

I watch the hill and breeze hold what is missing

the oregano coffee forgotten, unmade

I sit there

  at the balcony

  week on week

Frost, Blok

undecided

read, or write my own

you would appear in the rain, in its mist

linger

We could dig a few holes

  in the protected forest

plant some coconut saplings

September and October will be loud

festivities, crackers, things I avoid

I'll deliver perad before a certain someone shouts

these promises to deliver

keep me tangled through it all

Come November I'll rest

  buried in beautiful leaves

    unclaimed

      untethered

away from sight

  somewhere deep

    in the forest's boughs

  be one with the ground

December then

The year will end

  I'll have faded

    for a month now

      deleted from thoughts

At rest

the coconut palms may fruit

  or the tree may die