Confessional ? Anyway I have been receiving my new inspiration from the French world. However Sylvia Plath has greater and greater influence on my own life. I see more and more similarities nearly everyday... which sort of creeps me out but also give me great pleasure. hmmm duality - a clear Plath trait. Along with the face that she did not want to reside in a single form but in many formless and substance less state - stasis. So I must go and read other books, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell and all the others. Currently i have given up on Ulysses for now. I have proceeded on to read Freud's interpretation of dreams. It is fantastic. So Reader, I pray you will not judge me but just enjoy my poetry for what it is and not compare it against other poems. so here goes.
Oh and one last thing : A poet's occupation is not to form words which rhyme, or sound beautiful. It is all about capturing the emotion at that moment. Poets do not depend on the words, we depend on the speed of capturing that emotion into stanzas.
Ok now here goes :
Stupid man who is an idealist
disillusioned by his own words.
Questions being asked,
incapacity to reply.
To stare is to cause trouble
trouble is no matter to him
Abused and stricken by the silence and
static actions.
Disturbed both mind and heart
inability to function. Paint me
floating above, magpie, refusing to be grounded.
Logic, just a thorn in the flesh.
Test, tomorrow,
Procrastinate and refuse to perform, the circus of balancing acts.
maladuous self induced
anesthetic, ease. Narcotics freeze my senses.
Love is a passionate thing
only given to a few.
a chimera, changing and turning turning into
a serpent. The demon turned inside out.
the car must still move on
the engine left along the road.
the barren dessert
with one blooming flower, naked in the sand. Teasing.
Heat burns and cleanses me
the operation on my skin, my sin.
sears the numbers I.O.I.I.T.4.
the mirage.
it cuts, stings, the chloroform
wearing off.
The gods standing around this
baby, born. Screaming and shrieking.
The Leaves are no subject to this
only us man.
The groveling creation of the lord.
Purity, a Rubbish love.
Fine line between love and
obsession. Dogma Dogma.
let no man draw in the sand, nothing concrete
formless shapeless all contained, in a box.
There the lovers
the two sitting and swaying. Nothing
Action speaks louder than words
bending and their voices, a mix. echo echo in the deep
mindless. hands clasp
the fan spinning over them dizzy.
Breathless, pain
and I breathe again.
Poetry, A torture
a deception.
corrupt practices that kill my miracle.
Attached to the shadow,
the nigger I control
insoluble, feasting on me.
Solemn, as the pope serves the communion wine
spilt everywhere. Clumsy
dreams fill my head
the floating, fleeting moments of amnesia
empty empty
darkness.
I cannot reign sovereign
the machines overtake me.
I am run over, I rise but am compressed
the glass ceiling above me.
look but cannot touch
hear her voice
as the gas begins to fill
and starts to kill kill
kill.
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