neon eye for the plastic sky

birth of time

2011-01-21T03:27:00.000-08:00

Birth of time

Time be alive,
we, like trees and peace ,
are raised to the ground, beneath even,
for the fortune-shackled chasing tail

Exfoliate. The shed skin of the moon,
grown to imitate sunbeams and bows of rain,
a petty soldier of circumstance, newly divorced.
Only to be shredded like memory stained
paper, petty change down the reverend throat.

Blinded was the halo of GODblinding the sycophant mirror to shards
of light

With scene of crime drenched,
in shadow-lines from the pencil of time
on paper,
rickety spiders hurrying their
burdens down the green mile. Naked.

The wound lay waiting, patiently biting nails; waiting like a room
betrothed of doors, invisible.
Like a room wailing woes of witnessing war,
upon deaf ear, after year, after year.

Solemn and sedated in sun trance, eyes of ageing
falcons betrayed belief.
The machine it was. The daily standard honked in newsprint ink blotches.
The still-water prey, suicidal in glee
arrived with the cigarettes for the night.

This is the reddening sun turning blue. This is my birth
coming on a little too soon. Cried some child
on all fours.
Madness and chaos embedded
in microchips,
sold like sanity on the street, sold like hell.
And I watched the souls turn to eternal flames

tea for two

2011-01-21T03:23:00.000-08:00

Tea for two

Similar hues
of that moment, reeking of tea and spring flowers,
now lay suspended in
familiar epiphanies of past roads. And the shoes
we wore out on the ones untrodden;
their coal-charred still-life negatives
hanging, drenched in life.
Our skins spoke lesser and lesser.
And so did we.

And old summers of love
floated alive
in their feathery closing
of your eye-lids,

Cotton-mouthed love it was,
glistening like gold in irises burning
into angels;
their eyes mere shadows.
Grown on earth, pure and brown. Our amethyst ascend into
the moon’s eye,
now blind
in our illumine bubble of sun’s tears

But we did not look below or beneath.
With the sun in our conjoined aorta,
never did we know
that the sun, skin and shadow
share same blood.

Now in the memory of our dawn,
I FIND NO SUN
in the ground beneath
LAY GRAVITY DEFLOWERED
in wooden eyes before, in the mirror
I FIND TEARS

And the reel shrieked across
the soft grass of daydream stupor,
the projector moaned in pain,
and the eyelids turned back into grey.

The slow weightless amble of our eyes’
beloved curtains reveal the amethyst
glasses of our summer wine.
And our possible pasts
and single-bed linen garden
of Eden as gleaming as it was, would be.

The remainder

2011-01-21T03:21:00.000-08:00

The remainder

Blank open spaces remain, from the eclipse,
not much around has changed
false and plastic prophets, still carry megaphones
of blindness

Vast and lush, such used to be words that would ring open
into a starry ocean of our purple night, deepening still, into
little 24 hour long black-holes called reality and truth;
torn and reveling in surrender to
trigger-happy journalists, reporting live
from the grimy confines of lower east side and mumbai’s entrails,
“The television should’ve been dead by now”, you breathed out,
hair flailing slowly from your lips,
against the orange moonlit shadow of a wooden lamp,
you heard me say a number of words,
some discernible, some dead.
they spoke at length about the quiet rustle of leaves
in wintered night of JNU, IIT, New York, Atlantis
and heaven.

were these not the very words?

I do believe that you are quite frankly, out of your mind
wind-stricken fool of glorious vacancy for age
deep-brown in your sleep, and a fall
into what you call grace,
I could just sigh in pity, or pray god to shine his light upon you
perhaps. Someday.

You are wrong. You are not you. You have fallen prey again
to your falcon of choice,
and you don’t need to blink.
that wouldn’t prove a thing to concoct any further cry from truth,
to what has unfolded and will lust for the sheets,
and fold, and fold, till you are no longer familiar with your own mirror.

The slander in your words, quivers forth in your voice
only those who have used, can feel the dull ache in their joints,
before the turk sets upon,
if only you never knew such a word existed

Of all the red apples

2010-10-11T04:56:00.000-07:00

Of all the red apples

Of all the red apples, rotten and ashen in moonlight, collecting memories off the grass,
there was one that stared up at the velvet sky, wondrous and unaware.
Ripe, crimson as angel blood,
dripping with nothing he could remember.
To clasp to his breast as memory.

Of all the king’s men, none seemed awake.
Riding stallion after stallion over
mountains of rusted iron in the night;
quiet as steel before the anvil wakes.
None, except the king in wait of gold.

Of all the lions feasting on a gazelle,
The yellow rectangle of NatGeo,
stared at the empty couch in front; the one
the feast was for. A mother-less starving cub lay beside,
steadily out of frame. Till flies hovered over him by the first rays.

The opal eye, stone like torn pages, his wrinkled skin moved
towards the button.
With the buzzer, appeared a door.
Stumbling over the broken ledge,
he fell his fall
and slept like the baby who never tore pages.

As white- noise filled the darkened room with the hum
of the television, the montage swerved to the city lights,
concrete luncheons and soliloquies dancing,
like petals in the first rain, proud like an unseen blood-stain,
a crouching tiger by the curb with no vein to lust the pain.

Of all the red apples, one was born with a crease.
With no one to devour his flesh and bone, he rolled down
the mildew and pebbles, rolling the hill around him like
a blanket, till the rot and halt.

The last act

2010-10-11T04:00:00.001-07:00

The last act

Severed. The slippery truth
like feather, swallowed, peacefully,
rain and dust,
And as hollow as mirror, things held their breath,
with the splash of a distant wind chime
things died like echoes

Gone like vultures in fear of a birth,
the christening was the warm foam from the stains of coffee,
we left ignored,
And while the silence fell,
like a small uninhabited circle of lamenting stage-light,
the garish eyes of the protagonist sang in the din
and made childhood rye-field dreams float,
in the eyes of all

All was not lost. Not the war atleast. The riches flowed
down the streets in a grim crimson, the poor fled in the epiphany of joy.
The city lights lay hunger wrought that night, the underbelly like violins gazing,
at the burgeoning moon, with new-born waters learning to swim

The druid, while dreaming the strangest opulence,
metered and sewn, into words, a creaking door
severed its hinges in full view of insomnia-stung-red-eyed-god.

The ovation was loud and clear.
And so was the lull. The asphalt waited till the last act.
And then died with rain.

2010-09-28T22:57:00.001-07:00

Tangerine nights

The image melting into mirror, the doe eyes gaze like the lone drop of dew
of night,
silhouettes, chasing, panting, claiming at the top of their voices, there are shadows now,
drawing eyes,
red rooms and films in repose, of more orange shadows than silhouettes, moonlit
till the curtains and applause,
And outside, a lone leaf has grown on the bare tree to the song of the sparrows, hears the wails from the window, of shadows captive,
dug away from the girl in the orange scarf, taken, shaken and strung

broken echoes of these thinning walls,each have names, rhyming with the sound of silence, comfortable
and listless in wait,
of a time when birds circle, in and out of clouds, and cobblestone coffee mug
shuns all souls and indifference of the street,

The matchsticks speak, of the daydreams and landscapes only words could paint,
a smoke ring cirles the fly and a blue neon halo beckons the photographer again,

An orange shadow of windowpanes and cars, flailing specks of mud, imprisoned in the picture,
the girl’s almond eyes gape at the shutter through her tangerine scarf,
the shadow stolen, and the clock still ticks unevenly same, a dungeon of dreams draped in a red room
awaiting paper notes and plastic smiles,

The silhouettes all agthered, leaving their swords and words behind, and gently crept walls

The pictures had dried and the amber sun ambling in the horizon shone in unison of joy, as the shadows flew back to the toes and kissed her almond eyes, the blue neon shadow was already drying,
in a dungeon of dreams, draped in a red room
awaiting paper notes and plastic smiles,

cellar door scar

2010-09-04T04:00:00.001-07:00

cellar door scar
A night, weighed down into existing,
by hazel clouds without tears,
turning the moon into a nail-clipping at their behest,
There, the illumine finger of the night,
moon-drop engaged shining ring finger,
the sun lay beneath the hazel cloud asleep,
the cushion of oceans abound,
yet the rising was in the wake, a sleepless pair
of eyes reddened in fraught remedy for life,
It was only the taste of ink, thrown into the sun’s mouth
by the frayed-coat poet as the fountain of his pen
flailed, impotent and frowning at the brightening sky.
The smell of an old yellow crackling notebook then,
And he remembered to look down
The boy’s eyes told stories undone and unheard.
The sun, looking through lashes and bleary eyes saw the scar
under the belly of his hazel cloud,
and then the one torn into the asphalt below.
The poet escaped to his cellar door, leaving another scar through
his frayed coat, leaving time alone on driftwood,
yet the poem was now a wondrous spider spilled like ink on paper
no longer crackling but faking apart.
The boy’s eyes still shone and the poet was proud of his scar, looking through same lashes and bleary eyes that the sun did.

2010-08-03T23:32:00.001-07:00

The Dozing

One where the nest fell,
and then the shoe followed suit,
followed by another,
quite uneventful, the day said as he sipped
on rain in full view.

And the dust gathered in no hurry, drawing
a sheet upon the time lying deceased
as the distant window blared advertisements
for watches.

The ageing floorboard made no bone of the
pain in his shin,
no pain was worth his voice that creaked
in silence and wait of the apocalypse,

The oracle said it would save the day,
and sleep would be restored.

2010-08-03T23:28:00.000-07:00

Confidante

I like talking to walls mostly,
and find mirrors under their skin,
They don’t smile much,
or scowl when I turn,
like a coin waiting on the sidewalk
still on spin,

Their ears are yours alone, for
a moment atleast,
Wail, shout and howl as you may,
these walls haven’t yet learnt,
to stalk your words to the feast,

A feast for strangers,
whose mouths are tongue-less
and hunger wrought ,
gobbling all you say,
not a single morsel dropped,
just another sun,
unborn in the dark,

But how long will it be this time?
before the writing’s washed off the slate
and the wall?

How long before the wall
shall hold again
your mirror as bait?

Your words are naked now,
making their way to all
roads and ears abound

Only because you looked
within and never
without…

2009-09-09T07:32:00.000-07:00

Its a little cold inside this womb you've kept me in, strewn like rose petals
on the grave I had set aside,
for none but my dreams, a well dressed mannequin
burnt hair by hair and a little plastic heart stuck in freedom talk,
and then the placebo comes knocking like the opiate man.
hoping you're inside, stuck like hair to a sweater worn just
before the endless brood and television glare glue ravine,
and you thought every rapid was going smooth,
much like the ocean you had never seen, but heard fables of,
its waves crashing and mumbling into your ears,
sweet nothings and dreams undreamt,
but your gills are now sold and dressed with the half true diamond ring
some man hopes to turn his girl into wife with.
The lastI heard, you had learnt to play 'big eyed fish',
and sing along too.
But now look at you, a motion picture stilled by just
one glance at the mirror.A likely fall into half cooked bliss,
no poison tree or nibbled apple to blame

blind dream

2009-03-25T12:21:00.000-07:00

the ash of the cigarette , spread on the ground
like earth's grey hair, strewn in an order only He,
the deranged, and the myth can see,
The hurried flurry of your fingers and the door
slammed,
you said i was way past me
and a little too far behind to appreciate the view,
Well you said a lot of things.
Lest you disappear, I feed you with care and fodder,
I am god and so are you,
I have stared too long into the lake to know the difference.
And so I jump into myself again.
I drown.
And then I'm awake,
having wet my bed yet again.
A real nice shiny dream i bought today.
In exchange for my eyes.
Lest I sleep now?
or dream my blinding dream forever?

A mirror for a mirror

2008-12-22T05:23:00.000-08:00

A mirror for a mirror

I feel like carrying the burden today, of peace talk
And deflowered trysts, promises stripped of their skin
But their clothes on,
The sting tasted like the ancient dew, a life-spring of fragrant
Crackling century old pages,
Their print quite poker-faced. Like the eyes I see in the mirror while I speak,
To you dear friend,
I speak of and for you oh comrade, bleeding like wars unfought inside you, hanging, in limbo, in wait.
Godot lay at the corner of my view, waiting for the mirror in front of me. The deepest juice of lilting sun of an autumn afternoon spent in the arms of another. Mirror. A mirror for a mirror. A hole for a hole.

It was winter I believe. And as far as I can remember.
When I met your eyes. Broken like mine, dry-cleaned like wine-stained linen. Bearing nothing but the ash from the cigarette we shared in bed. The morning after pill; silence. So how was it.
Terrible, nauseating and splendourous like a two day old Spartan warsoil, dry blood and all. The smell of your skin.

As I conveniently dreamt myself into the warm cocoon of your orange lamp. Overhead, I overheard your squinting eye and the parched corner of your lip from a wintered day long sleep, breaking into a wry smile.
Cracked, your lip uttered not a word that your eyes couldn’t.
The lovely silence of you and your shadow falling onto this page you read.
Confession.
Overhead, I overhear your dreams as well when you leave your lips slightly ajar and I crawl into your eyes,
Or so I’d like to believe.
I slither inside the untread bones of your contention, the words I decode before you awaken to find me deep, deep, deep inside of you.
How long do you think I’ll last as a page in your hand?
No. Wait. Don’t say a thing.
Do you feel it yet?
We are turning, slowly, into a new species of silence.
Endangered from birth

Angry Tree

2008-09-23T23:34:00.001-07:00

There was no fall for the leaves that day,
sunning their way, the prophets of end and a half,
the angry tree bellowed and burned right to the ground.
His was the sun, his were the waters below,
yet he wore no tears, might they moisten
his arson dream
Mostly muttering and sometimes whispering with intent
the wrinkled priest followed suit;
burning his altar to the ground and then his dream of god,
his jesus slowly falling from the worm-eaten crucifix.
Looking down from way above the bluest skies
and the darkest cloud, there he was,
my god with sunken, reddened eyes, sloshed
on one prayer too many.
My eyes were mirror to the all the apples on fresh
dew,
which were once in his eyes like I was in my father's. Perhaps.
Wide awake with his flaming lips, he spoke to my eyes,
'smother some mothers, steal all the clocks and watches you can,
sell all your dreams until they reek of the same, till they smell
like the decade old bible your hands clasp'
And all the while there was a wooden stairway,
many falling on their way to heaven to
descending upon this land as a milkshake
of a cupid, a jesus and silence.
White clouds came pouring down,
grated like cheese upon earthy bread, flowers all
deranged in fragrance.
The wind came down, caressing the old man
with iron claws,
He was finally going to make the grave. The one
he drew on asymmetrical toilet paper as a child, with
crayons and blood,
he had his way; persuading the molehills to adorn
cloaks of snow-tipped mountains, their beaks all
piercing the cotton sky, his pen with him sat meek.
And there was day!
The wooden jesus shriveled into a smile and forgave
all in a day's work while the shredded clouds
fell upon these pages praying for endless neon night.
Bringing the moon to the sun, burning to the ground
cotton-fields of the boldest hue and cry,
the angry tree churned embryos in his dreams
into a fine thin thread of silk;
dubbed silence.
In repose, looking as the angry tree narrated his
familiar story of being a worm-eaten wooden jesus in a past-life,
the haggard, hungry silence spoke;
of a time when he was never born, never needed,
just like eye do.

Confession box

2008-07-02T03:58:00.000-07:00

There, there, on the sun’s brow you will find
a drop of fire, waiting to turn into what
was fathomed as tears, but daddy ate with
pomp and prodding at daughter’s full inner thighs,
she wouldn’t complain, she wouldn’t paint her tears.
She was meaning alone and so was her name,
bundled like soiled laundry, she hurled herself quite
like an astronaut, NASA emblems glistening quite like
her eyes, quite like the sun.
Now, that she stood half a light-year away from the
sun, she threw her suit away and stood naked.
Yes, she cried for a microsecond before burning like
another aurora gone a whiter shade of pale,
The NASA emblem wouldn’t melt till it fornicated with
An Earth-bound asteroid,
Asteroids don’t hurt no one except this groping father.
He burned like a pyre, he dreamt of last night.
Premonitions were his only gift except for a reputation, a holy man indeed.
She became the tears the sun learned to cry,

‘Where the hell is my bourbon Martha?’
This was another father choking on every psalm he read
at church.
He too had quite a liking for the nuns in heat.
‘See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly’
Beatles were crawling all over his moustache, he was the
Walrus they said.
But the really story began when he groped at that bald nun
and gave birth to a little girl destined to reach not the heavens,
but the sun.

Of pungent dreams and time

2008-06-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

Dream, but responsibly

I don’t think I had much to say,
standing like a still-born tree, 100 years old,
a leaf to wear as a half-glowing Tiara
in the morning dew and sunbeam,
I don’t think I remember my earth-lusting
roots,
Standing on the sidewalk, I was blowing kisses at the sun,
hadn't met him in ages you see,
but I saw the number in my dream...
the number of cars that stumbled by (uneven-pebble-afterlives)
thinking I was insane,
The sun came by at the doorstep of my dream
a little later and we laughed just like the cars. At the cars. Stumbling by.
but cried each time either went to the wash-room
after the draught emptied itself like
rusty gun-barrel flavoured memory down
our pretence-lacquered throats without a thought, but only a bag full of dreams,
these cars, like time won’t stop, no matter how you look
or you don’t (for your shadow sitting behind, smoking the same cigarette you are),
nothing is a word they said,
in my childhood and droplets of dreams
of who I will be,
But, it don’t take too long change words into
homeless homes called minutes (and sometimes seconds),
Except that the paper-weight is wearing away,
scraping against broken shards of my tomorrows
and memories stained with the ink, smudged in
endlessly petrified rain,
I first stood on the sidewalk, and then lay down on
the throbbing heart of the asphalt,

now that the sun was begginnng to die once again out of his slumber,

from his bed of razor-sharp
stars.
Then even the railroad waited enough as my hair and my ankles shuddered in utter bliss

as the morning frost lay like drenched Persion carpets upon the tracks.

Yet, I awoke (or did I?), unfortunately alive again.
ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE like the still-born tree!

But the joy of awaiting an end.
An end of what we have been caressed with whips,

into naming life.
I don’t think I am awake as I write this.
So long live the dead. So long dear friend.
And I like summer rain and dead daffodils,
lay inside a box of still-born willow,
with my eyes almost closed, open only for the
dream to breathe. They called it a funeral!

I called it birth. And if I recall correctly, they were the ones dead

by the time I shouted out from the coffin " I am still alive! I am still alive?"

But what if my handful of dreams runs out someday?

I know I'd die without them. Life needs antidote you see.
Will they smuggle it, into this box I live in.
With the flowers laid above me (I can already smell the dream and the rain seeping in)

Even now I don’t have much to say
because I am obscenely in wait,
for something, someone or better still-
Nothing at all.
Oh hell! I remember now,
It’s only my dreams I need.
It’s always just a dream.
It’s only a dream.
So, my name’s time, what’s yours?

Backdoor

2008-05-02T00:50:00.004-07:00

How much longer can I escape me?

Escape words for they happen.
For they irk you and your pen wont bleed?
Floor is an open sky
For us creepy crawlers,
So much awe for root and none for seed?

You dream far too often to live inside me

2008-04-10T04:12:00.000-07:00

We have dreamt too often of the
sandy, balmy that evening
Unchained by time or space or thought,
licked by the sun's last
lusting yet inert sperm-shaped rays.
The sun kissed my toes as I awoke,
Awoken by her insistence that I should try dying,
for a while atleast.
'You can start living again if you want to, like the glorious
gaudy sunshine in the middle of lilting night'
(She said this as I saw the sun drown into
an imaginary dawn)
I understood. She needed time alone with the
frail sandgrains preaching of long weary journeys.
I think I promised her that I'll make it painfully quick.
'You wont have the heart to love, hate or believe'
the words spurting out of my mouth
like a tired spurt of paint upon a dusty canvas.
The thick blood-red paint dragged the dust
into an embrace. Like lovers making love for
weeks and weeks upon sand-dunes after sand-dunes.
'You dont have to eat, drink or dream if you
inhale the heady blend of love and death' I said.
I think after a long while of pasting the blue velvet
of the Goan night sky onto the curtains of my parched eyelids.
Those eyelids, which I wore to school, to college, to life.
I wore them everywhere, except my dreams.
The sky was now sweating in a imperfection
that only clouds hold in pregnancy.
'Will you stop your murmur. Will you atleast open your eyes?'
She had stung the moment with nectar, the venom
Fallen prey to the loving refuse of meaning.
While her hair involuntarily brushed my pupil,
I waited till my eyes went the same blood-red
On the canvas. It was precisely that moment when I realized that
It wasn’t any paint from a palette that I spurted
Onto the dusty canvas (I had always wondered how could the
Paint look so much like blood).
It was the second last hour before my second last death.
I too had fallen far too easily to the loving refuse
Of meaning. Time did not matter anymore. I was dying again!
‘Bliss atlast!’ I thought. Yet time, in its heavy, unmovable
Stance rested upon my wrist. It stood between the puckered,
Pierced veins and the irresistibly rusted blade. Yet
I found my way and died my second last death.
Even then, I remembered the journey of her eyes.
A decade in which the incurable innocence of her eyes
Turned into the same listless, soothing indifference
Of eyes, drenched in insomnia and the pregnant sky.

I slowly lifted my head off the pillow and watched
The maternal love of the clouds letting her children fall.
‘They were born to fall’ the cloud whispered to me
As I let one of her sons fall right into my eyes,
Turning them red.
I went right back to my pillow trying to
Paste the blue velvet of the Goan sky
Onto the inner curtains of my eyelids.
I tried wearing my eyelids for the dream
But she refused. She liked to be called ‘eyelids’
For she was night-blind.
…her insistence that I should try dying,
for a while atleast.
'You can start living again if you want to, like the glorious
gaudy sunshine in the middle of lilting night'.

'You wont have the heart to love, hate or believe'
the words spurting out of my mouth.
If only I could pretend my eyelids
Were the canvas. Just like she believed
She was an eyelid or two.

‘You dream far too often to live inside me’

Talk

2008-03-21T00:21:00.000-07:00

They dont teach you to float, or sink even
they dont even have enough air t0 breathe in,
They undo everything they are told to do,
They crumble into invisible, see-through
mountains of decomposed teardrops when told to
believe,
They are always there to see you fall,
sometimes even when you sleep,
uncomfortably nightblind,
They hear everything and speak in deafening
silence,
They have slowly learnt to glare
after losing their eyelids last fall,
They rustle like leaves
and befriend shadows,
They live your lives for you,
when you try hard enough to die,
They are many in number
and none in weight,
They often forget to eat,
while smoking your cigarette when you
talk to pretty strangers starved of truth
or tense,
They all look alike when you conform,
they slowly divide before you find faith
They are too old now to caress your life
into cold damp meaningful fruition,
They are breathing closer now,
to your ear because you are alien to your
malnutritioned pillow,
They are nothing and everything
as and when you choose to talk,
They craft your dreams only when they die,
one night at a time, as you
outweigh your respective wombs,
They can stop you from looking at others
and dismember yourself instead,
They can become you
you can never fit their shoes instead
They can sqeeze in opulent lighyears of space
between
any two minutes in your life,
They stop people sometimes,
from describing them in words
or death

I hardly know them

For

They look straight back at me
from the mirror

Lights out

2008-03-07T00:32:00.000-08:00

I know how to stand, like an inevitable corpse,

hanging my sight upon kegs of indifferent births,

I like to get born every now and then, more so the death

is as warm as a vein in euphoric pierce,

wrenching a puddle-full of tears onto this gardebn of night,

i take a walk under the neon sheen of my plastic eye,

The sun has remained that harmless pest,

a shameless visitor to my hidden room,

these blinds melt far too easily under the warm-gun-push

of his beam,

Far too naked in my pride to lurk like thickening water,

uncertain in my trickle, i behave like ink,

With a pastel prayer wrapped in high-grade cellophane guilt,

I talk to god,

Like this technicolour glee upon your eye, i sleep like a

fruitless bark,

You have had your fair share of fire,

dressed in library flavoured silence,

your eyes begin to look like black black soot

and time turns into an aimless habit,

For you are all love with

just a little taint,

God breathes beside

a fornicating saint,

But they tell me you know how to smile!

like a full moon starved of light...

a day in the life of dear friend death

2008-03-05T03:20:00.000-08:00

Underneath the ink, a thousand trees cry

overhead the fall, wets his blue cloudy eye

right beside the feet, have never walked alone

a roll for a roll, a stone for a stone

And right when the man laid his bed not to sleep, or dream but lie,

they called him a coffin, and coffins dont really get to die

a stranded TV anchor with a slliced tongue

2008-03-03T22:40:00.000-08:00

today, i need to crave,

a crumbling cave, i have no more mountains to eat, no more pages to dry

frequently so, a white flash of light

upon screens of celluloid polygamy, mothers and fathers naked

beware the night,

she shines like a hollow star, between clouds and curtains of space,

dreaming her dreams, growing her hair, speaking like a death in wait

i have received the rainman's parch, lips torn teeth biting the air

today, i feel the bottle break without a sound, just a trickle

of heavenly red, this is why neon eyes can never bend

'how many more?' asks the asphalt to the moon,

'i have some time to kill, a lil innocence to buy'

'just bury me alive if i fail to die'

'just undream my dreams and let me cry'

do you?

2008-03-03T04:08:00.000-08:00

do you wait?

like a street-lamp for the night to end,

for its too late for the early bird to prey

do you breathe

like a wine, through cork and fleshy stain,

satin you become with eyes in constant rain

do you care?

like an unborn mother with a baby to drown,

too many horses with paid saddles to mount

do you live like this word

like this word chasing your eye,

the world's a stage, we could be better lies

do you have?

what others dont like the air you breathe,

just like the tree trying hard to bleed

do you sell?

your soul for for bread and time,

living on roots and wheels and a lil rhyme

do you know?

enough to own your shadow, before you die,

renember your broken mirror was never mine

do you die?

to live or live to die,

upon your stage, i'm a better lie