I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

I wrote this poem while at work, simply to use the various words I had up on the wall as inspiration but never did use. There are some words that I can no longer remember the meaning of...

But I love the way they all sound nonetheless.

I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

It was pure and utter serendipity.

The first time I saw her,

She had all the panache of a Victoria’s Secret runway model.

It was in a department store.

She was standing still.

Achingly so, like all the world couldn’t have inspired a movement.

I stepped closer.

‘COWABUNGA!’

I knew our relationship could only be quixotic.

In a few weeks I took her home.

Our life together was a labyrinth,

Bamboozled by my idealistic dreams

And her ataraxic nature.

She always smelled of fresh laundry.

And I, of petrichor.

But our shenanigans were fairly transient.

She was acting ridiculous and I,

Was pernicious to her health.

And so I,

In a lackadaisical moment,

Left her standing out by the door.

Where she haunts me every day

In her ephemeral beauty.

Her pizzazz fading with the days,

Weeks, months, years.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Our time together lingers,

Festers,

Obfuscates.

My current quandary

A riptide through my being.

This vermicious pain is quintessential.

But it’s such a buzzkill.

Her body is now a palimpsest.

Rust, leaves, metal, vines.

Green, white, brown.

Her pulchritude even more irresistible.

Only she could smell fresher than laundry.

Saudade.

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And now if you are wondering who she is, as so many people have, I present to you, her:

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Holes

Depth, size, shape, location,
Factors that affect your mood,
Your state of mind.
Bottomless pits are the worst.
They'll hit you the hardest
Scientifically because of potential energy
If you ever reach the floor.
But psychologically,
There's a loss of earth,
Weeks are light and floaty.
Reality is an illusion,
Like a magic trick performed all wrong
Got you stuck in another dimension
Because the science behind it wasn't fleshed out.
You're living in two parallel universes
Running through both
Crossing into the other
Each different but can't be told apart.
You can't survive in two worlds.
You can't bear that pressure.
It's inhuman.
You're delirious.
In search of the answers to questions
Or is it questions to answers
Questions that lead to questions
Lead you to your mind.
A piece of muscle
That can't be flexed
Without a crossword with hidden meanings
Codes and ciphers to drive you crazy
Are you even in control of yourself?
Actions that are inexplicable
Like that wrong turn on the way to the supermarket
Away from that crime scene
Which had clues to your existence
Scrubbed clean of luminol
Nothing to decrypt it.
It's left you empty without purpose.
The quest is over.
That heaviness in your chest
Is a hole in your brain.
A mere bit of data that went missing.
But bits fit into bytes
That grow into gigabytes
And soon you're left with
Traces of information.
Incomplete, inconsistent, incoherent
Incapacitated.
Scattered in forks of time
You're getting left behind.
Catch up to yourself.
To that brain that keeps whirring
In constant need of comfort
From unknown familiarities.
A separate part of you
Detached from the world
Nothing to keep you grounded.
Missing soil can't hold you in place.
Patched up holes leave a mess.
Rusty computers
With information half lost
The rest recovered
In attempts to fix the memories
You'd rather not remember.
Old mixes with new
Sand replaces clay
Or clay replaces silt.
Soil that is lost
Has more likely been used elsewhere
To cover up other holes
Put a lid upon
The remains of disturbances.
It'll happen to you too
So that you may not
Further dig into rock while
Prospecting for gold.
Gold found in rivers
Washed along with the flow
Of time and space
Sieved into nuggets
By astronauts looking for moonrock
During a supernova.
Supernovas can go two ways:
A new star or
A black hole
That takes in everything
Leaving large blanks in your mind.
Your attempts at filling those blanks
With forceful words
Leaves you with bad grammar and
Too much punctuation.

Teeth

White teeth.

Glowing pearly white teeth.

Not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Corrected crooked misalignments, saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Artificially-altered smile, corrected crooked misalignments, saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Antarctica

Last summer I went to Antarctica.

It was covered in ice.

White ice

Cold white ice

Cold melting white ice

Global warming was taking over.

He was blowtorching the polar ice caps.

At Antarctica, I saw pink penguins.

It was warm so they’d taken off their feathery jackets.

They were nude penguins.

Nude and pink like people who’d just sunbathed.

Penguins are cooler black and white.

The Thing

A poem from last year

Nightmare. It’s only a nightmare.

The-there’s a thing.

An odious object sitting at the foot of my bed.

An article so astronomical I can’t see behind it.

The terrifying tool sits still, while I lie quaking under the covers.

Immobile, the item seems innocuous enough.

But could I trust it?

The artefact had appeared quite abruptly, and I definitely hadn’t put it there.

Did you?

Did you dump this dubious device on my duvet?

Is it a gift?

Is this great gadget a glorious gift?

Now this is interesting.

What is this curious commodity so covered in cotton cloth?

This extremely endearing entity that draws me closer as I crawl across to the contrivance.

I opened it to find a glossy glass gizmo.

With polished planes and cool curves,

The instrument has intricacies etched on every exterior.

The insides of the implement were equally elaborate with

Serpentine strokes scratched on the surface.

This breath-taking body, manufactured of manual muscle work, how could I ever use this utensil?

I can’t.

It’s too phenomenal a form to be flawed.

This piece of work, perfect from every perspective, I plan to preserve perpetually.

So storing the stupendous stuff, I go back to sleep.

I wake to warm water, sprinkled on my idle eyes.

Fragmented figures flash from the previous night.

Dashing to the drawer I find that forged form was a

REFRIGERATOR?!

In a Pot of Bubbling Sauce - The Result of a Quick Poetic Exercise

He had been prowling the streets
The usual routine
Checking for spies
Or even traitors
But the godfather could not save him now
He was far too deep in his own pasta and meatballs
The spaghetti ropes were overcooked and falling everywhere limp
Like the clandestine antiestablishmentarian establishments
Fuck. He thought...he was stuck in a pot that he had not wanted to even step into
Magenta walls towered over him as he hoped someone would find him
Down this dark alley vertical in the ground
He looked up hearing a voice...Bharti? Was it her? Was it that no good mother of his come to rescue him everytime he couldn't solve his own problems?

Home is Home No More

It's been a year.

I look around.

I see that nothing has changed.

Except that it has.

Everything has.

People who were once called friends,

They are now strangers.

It's like meeting them for the first time.

But they're still the same.

Playing HALO 3 on the Xbox.

Giggling amongst themselves at their lame jokes.

Making fun of each other.

Yes, it's all the same.

Not just my friends,

But my family too has changed.

My sister, she has

Broken out of her tomboyish shell.

A young woman of 16,

Her actions seem obviously

More mature than mine.

My parents seem distant, stressed and cold.

What happened to the warmth, the love?

The warm hugs that used to make me feel safe

Cease to do so.

It seems robotic,

Forced onto me by societal norms.

Everything seems so dry and shrivelled up.

Home isn't home anymore.

I look at the walls.

They are clothed now

With posters of movies and TV shows.

Large and small,

They advertise, propagate.

They lure customers in.

Success will be theirs forever.

The once blank wall

Leaves no room for creative wonder.

It is quite stifling in this room.

It feels more boxier,

Defined.

Except for that one rectangle of comfort

That shall always be mine.

My bed.

The one thing that hasn't changed.

Still comfortable,

With pleasant dreams and

Moon rays falling in through the window.

And then it hits me.

What if it isn't the room that's changed?

Or my parents, sister or friends?

What if it's me?

Home isn't home anymore.

Ember of Light

I walk the lonely stairs.
Right to the top.

I look around.

No one.

Not a soul.

Empty darkness...

Just like me.

I sit on the concrete ledge,

Smoothened by paint and P.O.P.

The stark white

Blinds me.

I like the dark.

It’s been home

For 3 years,

While my parents

Busy with their lives

Told me the whats and hows

Of life. My life.

I was a slave.

Their slave.

I lived not for me

But them.

Them, Oblivion’s children.

My sister,

The sheep

Amidst all the bitterness

Was my only hope.

The only ember of light

In my darkness.

I lived only to see her smile,

Her sleeping face

Every morning, angelic,

Lying amidst

Soft thick blankets

Which smelled of strawberry jam

Or chocolate cake,

Whichever she’d eaten,

With hints of hair oil.

Until two months ago

When Death’s arms embraced her.

Today I stand

Surrounded by white

Disturbed by the brown of a ladder.

And a rope,

Rough and knotted,

Thick as my arm.

Its braids within a braid

Remind me of my sister’s life

Within mine.

How we were intertwined,

Until the fatal day.

I look below.

Happy people, moving on

With their lives.

Is the jump worth it?

I step onto the flat edge

Of the low wall.

Nothing above.

Nothing below.

It feels rough on my feet

The edge,

Like my parents have been

On me.

I stare out

Waiting for Death

A friend from the dark.

A double tap on my shoulder

Turns me around.

No one, but wait...

My sister’s face in the wall.

White, pale, sad.

A hallucination

Or a sign?

I step down,

Off the ledge

Back on solid ground.

A salty tear

Escapes my eye

And into my mouth.

There’s too much to live for.

Today, …today I live.

Outcast

They say we have freedom.
But from what?
We're stuck in a void
Where the only people
Who rise,
Are those who have
Already risen.
Our words are
The void we are stuck in.
Their words', absolute.
Who said we have freedom?
Who says we're a democracy?

They mock me,
Push me around,
Watch me fall.
And laugh.
I'm not a plaything, a toy.
I'm not an alien.
I'm not so different from them.
I'm no different from you.
Then why treat me this way?

They don't accept it.
"It isn't a way of life."
"It isn't normal."
Is anything normal?
'Majority wins' isn't.
It's just unfair.
My 'condition' they say
Is a 'disease'.
Snaking its way
Through the crowd
Spreading, making them
Fall at its feet.
I've fallen too.
Not at its feet.
But at their feet
Whose every word is
Framed and hung on walls,
Worshipped like Gods,
By those who've
Shunned us all.

Shields

She sat in the corners 

Right at the back. 

Though dark, she would hope 

They’d cut her some slack. 

But the light of their evil 

Would shine, find her out. 

Torture her, torment her 

Till herself she’d doubt. 

Feelings of helplessness 

Would wash over her. 

For days it repeated. 

She soon was a loner. 

It’s not that people

Did not approach. 

She just stayed away. 

Like they would from a roach. 

Running away 

She hid in a shell. 

How she was coping, 

No one could tell. 

Her parents were also 

Kept far at bay. 

They were so in the dark 

They could help in no way. 

She’d created a void 

Where her heart should’ve been. 

From The Wizard of Oz, she was 

The man made of tin. 

Though the sadists soon 

Got tired of their game, 

The shell and her ‘shyness’ 

Were not to wane. 

She wasn’t cold to others. 

She was cold to herself. 

The only love she felt were 

Words of comfort from herself. 

She’d put on a smile 

For those she called friends. 

Everyone around her thought 

She was making amends. 

Alas! They could not have 

Been farther from truth. 

She was still treating 

Herself with the same ruth 

The kids in her class 

Hadn’t treated her with. 

But what had been done 

Could not be undid. 

She felt as worthless 

Two years after. 

Sad and alone she was 

Despite her friends’ laughter. 

Her parents and friends 

Tried to break through 

The many layers around her. 

Some did manage a few. 

Though she’d allowed them 

To let themselves in, 

She could never let them 

Come deep within. 

The Scar of Difference 

Had burned its way through. 

The only way out was 

To build herself anew. 

It was quite a task. 

Would last her for life. 

The only other option: 

To die by the knife. 

Month by month,

Day after day.

Through two years

She’d found her way. 

She’d met a girl,

Her friend transformed. 

Was just like her.

Her heart was warmed.

The layers around her,

Slowly they melted.

Layered still she was though, 

In case she was pelted,

By tormentors again.

Because of difference, so cruel.

Never again did she want 

To be another tool.

She still shields herself

Keeping everything out.

To this day 

She’s walking about.