The Love song of Imagination

Part Six

Sorry Love, for I can only praise your beauty in verse,

and shout your grace from this hearse.

And preach your beauty from this pulpit,

If its a sin to love then I am surely a culprit.

 

When all the words for your beauty are arranged,

Too busy to notice that my meter has probably changed.

 

There is some charm in gaining knowledge under street lights,

I write this poem without opening my eyes.

 

There I stood in the center of the universe,

That hallowed epicenter to which all the planes traverse,

my brother had scarcely turned eleven,

The candles that still do burn.

 

As some wondered if Goliath had finally fallen,

Terrorists are just revolutionaries who do not comprehend the pain.

 

The whole world was divided into others,

an impassable chasm separated the brothers,

no on accounted for the grieving mothers,

they are the first casualties of war.

Untold suffering aside,

it is an unforgettable sight.

 

The black grey smoke rising up to heaven,

Babel crumbling to dust in sight of Eden.

Everyone hoping his sins are forgiven,

Some would claim all Lucifers are risen.

To which direction do we want now driven?

What scheme he wants now proven?

The moment when God is officially disproven!

 

Taking the swan dive,

it is a flight to survive.

 

What thoughts flutter through his head?

as he stumbles towards his bed.

 

If I had not come to work this very day,

It had been happy with half the pay,

It I have decided to pray,

I would not have been His prey.

If I could have had some more rest,

If my heart could just be beating in my breast.

 

If I could see her one more time,

If I could tell her that she was mine,

 

If I had a couple of wings,

I would buy everyone  a round of drinks.

 

If I could see a nightmare again,

Never again would I mind getting soaked in rain.

I would consume a healthy diet,

I would try and make everything right,

I would hold her in my arms,

Buy some land and build a farm.

Keep her close,

safe and warm.

 

While such thoughts do continue to flow,

he dies hoping he never feels the blow.

 

Comfortably singed in my furnace,

I am almost ready for consumption.

 

My thoughts are still raw.

Rhyme is a major flaw.

And the vacuum is incurable,

thinking harder won’t make it go away.

 

Pacing anxiously in my thoughts,

I lie mortified a dead log.

What asymmetry should I sing of now?

What sin do I confess now?

What do I think now?

 

Thinking is over rated.

And countless jingles explode in my head.

Which promptly compresses upon itself,

Inside my head is a black hole,

once where used to be a soul.

 

Token acknowledgement of my essential humanity.

Emotionally stunted, why feel?

I hope my ambitions would go achieve themselves.

I lie in bed in this prospect.

 

Heavy drooping eyelids,

erratic breathing,

stuttering pen,

unthinking smile

vaguely moronic books on my shelf.

Nauseating toxins in air,

no style in my hair,

the heat peels me away layer by layer,

as my thoughts carry me from here to there,

Plausible attractive paths at every turn.

what was  the basis of any decision?

 

Some people just hail their cabs,

others spend their lives at intersections.

A couple prefer elegant travel by subway tunnels,

 

Why does one go anywhere?

What place is less revolting than here?

 

Our destinies are manufactured,

registered, trademarked

and sold back to us.

 

Every fact is a lie,

every truth is a construct.

Every system of propositions is indeterminate.

Where is your God now?

 

You see Gabriel, in actuality,

I am my own prisoner.

You are free, I think ironically.

can never be sure of meanings.

 

Is a lulzy contradiction an irony?

I think so.

 

Pigs exist and you don’t,

what greater affirmation,

the world is my illusion.

 

The world is a nightmare gone terribly wrong.

How do I wake up?

Going to sleep is waking up.

Everything means the opposite.

Nothing means the same.

 

Synonyms are the Devil’s Gift.

They can sufficiently wreck any tower,

in less than 54 translations.

 

Religion is just there to prevent cheating.

But afterlife is  such a long fucking way away,

So we needed the fiction about money,

so that our honesty can be justly rewarded,

so that our labor is correctly repaid.

So that we do not cheat,

so that we toe the lines and

stay the fuck inside.

 

And civilization is the individual’s kryptonite.

Six billion workers diligently constructing termite hills.

 

This one is taller, see how it pierces the sky.

Don’t make me laugh, I know a pebble eight miles high.

 

Safe to assume that I am unimpressed.

where are the energy repeaters and warp drives?

Remind me why did we become civilized?

The Love song of Imagination

Part Five

Doodles are more meaningful than meaningless words,

Books are great for shepherds to manage their herds.

It is a common mistake to think all writers are nerds.

Understanding is akin to rationalising surds.

 

And words are words as words were before there were words,

Heavily under research and development is the GNU HURD.

Life is known to flow along Bezier curves,

To restore health one must consume green herbs.

 

This wanton poem is full of references,

that I have arranged according to my preferences.

This modded armor is a boost to my defences.

 

I detest hacks who play as tanks,

Then it is too easy to level up your ranks.

Life is analogous to a role playing game,

But looking at the real world fills me with shame.

 

Can someone load me up on a drip of distilled Fallout three,

haters can hate that fabulous rpg.

It was also my first introduction to Ella Fitzgerald,

she is to Jazz a Roland Dahl.

 

Life is a series of random particles interacting.

And unrequited love is indistinguishable from stalking.

 

Lying in my bed on hot afternoon summers,

I contemplate on life and all its horrors.

 

From whence do arise guilt and shame?

And other feelings that sound pretty much the same.

I want to feel these emotions but I can’t,

well I guess its because my heart says do not want.

 

It is so easy to be mortally offended,

but the routine outbursts seem comically pretended.

 

And a fatwa is like a veto in that it is an illusion,

taken seriously only by folks who misread the gravity of the situation.

The appropriate response, I am told is to LOL,

as most fundamentalist butthurts are hardened trolls.

 

Yet anyways, if angels are God’s reflection,

man is but God’s perversion.

 

I guess it really doesn’t matter,

if your Zarathustra is Nietzsche or Carlin,

to people they would always sound like dogs a-barkin’

 

And knowledge sells the price of peanuts,

as illustrated by Charles M Schulz.

 

What is it that I was thinking about?

Must be something I have forgotten no doubt.

 

Silence has a music of its own,

its a skill that takes years to hone.

 

For what some may call depression,

for others is merely an observation.

 

Now that I have written quite a lot,

it is imperative to have a plot.

But life is its own narrative,

not much is gained by being contemplative.

 

A good poem is assisted suicide,

a bad one merely kills your pride,

I am thankful that Lucy is my bride.

 

For Gabby and Lucy are one and the same,

this transformation is achieved through pain,

how fucking wrong of man to sully her name,

we all ought to die in shame.

 

To their struggle I am barely adjusted,

in her eyes I am probably perverted,

I am ashamed to repeat a rhyme,

but how else am I supposed to complete this line?

There is no measure and I miss every beat,

and lamely blame it on the heat.

 

It would have been nice to know a few more,

for then I could have had a bigger score,

All my poems are turned to rust,

having an structure is a must.

 

Poetry needs a Frank Zappa,

in my eyes he is the baddest rappa,

rhyming should be as easy as putting pain to paper,

To write, it is better late than never.

Make your thoughts flow like a river,

wish that was easy as turning a lever.

Even for that the mechanism needs to be in place,

inside my mind is just empty space.

 

But then, Einstein unified space time,

why then is there a need to rhyme?

 

Everytime in my head that I cry,

I hope to become a Family Guy.

Yet my intention is not to pry,

you know, Gabriel, you could always lie.

For that is our one crowning achievement,

I claim to be happy in bereavement.

 

Relativity means not knowing if,

we are in the basement or in the attic.

The dichotomy is rather problematic.

Even the descriptions are fucking insane,

Heaven to me seems rather plain.

 

While we are debating the relative merit of verses,

our particles are busy traversing parallel universes.

 

While we are busy debating our consciousness,

outside my window is a beautiful nest.

 

The songbird that lives there,

can count to pi on its feathers,

 

Her verses are mostly in D sharp,

compared to her I juts harp.

 

I am not too sure of her gender,

but I don’t find that too much of a hinder,

all things beautiful are necessarily female,

in front of which the universes turn pale.

 

I have strayed all over of course,

I like to think I have stayed on course.

The Love song of Imagination

Part Four

 

By the time I had awoken,

there were things I had forgotten.

Yet I was filled with fear and dread,

on what roads had I tread?

What was it that I had done?

By whose rope was Jesus strung?

 

On his lips, there is yet a smile,

he stares at me with groggy darkened eyes,

his cheeks are hollow and a tooth is missing,

From his hands is the blood spilling.

 

He laughs at me like he is high,

I died for your sins you know.

This is my Second Coming,

my Glorious Resurrection.

 

Sorry to interject your idyllic banter,

Gate-crashing your party is all I am after.

This rope here cuts too tight,

I have been hurting throughout the night.

I lunge forward and grab his legs,

he laughs and forcefully rejects.

Do not worry for I am fine,

I have been practising since I was nine.

Jesus, Jesus O Lord of mine,

Your eyes are darker than sewer pools,

Your crimson shroud smells of rotten flesh,

please come down and have some rest.

 

Then we would proceed this meaningless chatter,

I think you deserve the break,

then you can guide me and I would do the rest.

 

Don’t you worry for I am just peachy,

I heard you are lagging behind on your coursework,

sit yourself down and do your homework.

 

Like I fucking care about that I say,

Oh please one should never curse,

mentioning a reproductive function is hardly a curse.

Are you pissed because even your mother didn’t get any?

 

In the tradition of Hellenic parthenons,

Father raped mother while he kept watch the other guy.

Yeah, but since it was your father, it doesn’t really count.

Yeah, true that, guess my father has pretty much fucked everyone.

Getting molested by God isn’t really rape.

 

Jesus if there is one thing that sums up religion,

its that rainbows are a fucking illusion,

You might even say it is a contemporary comparison.

Yet there is some good amidst the confusion,

I myself wasn’t the product of irreligion.

The problem lies with dogmatic stands of arbitrary precision,

and having conversations with your hallucinations.

That is quite coherent for someone in a constant state of inebriation,

which is exactly how I define dedication.

 

On better days I feel like Emperor Palaptine,

To find and consume all that is most definitely not mine.

Sometimes I have the sick urge,

to sic the heretics and clean and purge.

And often when such thoughts do merge,

I find myself a rather unpleasant man,

far too much of a coward to take a stand.

 

Jesus, I wonder where man’s honor is gone,

or if it was all just a con.

 

Everything good has been mutilated,

Everything bad horribly overpopulated.

Your church has become Satan’s nest,

mine sports a bloody crest.

Such a gloom prevails in the atmosphere,

the biggest sin is to be a philosopher.

 

Thinking is for pussies is the new motto,

how did we find ourselves in such a grotto?

 

There is not much point in writing arbitrary lines for the sake of completion.

Or thinking about some other mangy description.

I have started to feel like I have bitten off more than I can chew,

this is also pretty hot too.

Now whatever paths this prose meanders,

It would never be the same as me and her.

I will keep writing for it is an obsession.

This is not healthy is an obvious conclusion.

 

The blowing wind has subpar capacitation,

the heat would probably melt off any excitation.

I have started to lag behind as my thoughts have damped,

I am exactly where the wise ones camped.

 

This world is but a fatal nursery,

and our glances have so far been rather cursory.

This is why no one knows anything.

That doesn’t prevent them from weaving tales,

most of them sound pretty lame.

 

The whole objective of this exercise is to fail.

which is something I am pretty good at.

 

And we can set each other on as many paths as we like,

or we can start them whenever we like,

Even then there are undoubtable symmetries.

The past and the future are complementary.

 

Hiding in every corner, in plain sight,

Knowledge and observation are in every mind.

But dear God, there are a staggering number of books,

all but some have been written by crooks.

 

Every book read, there is one less we can read,

every path travelled is one less that we can tread.

 

Reminds me of the difference between distance and displacement. 

whatever we do we end up at the exact same moment.

Everyone is wrong and completely misguided,

our ancestors got it wrong at everything they trieded.

 

And there is no running away from the present,

so hard to conceive of other times.

I have noticed that I am getting preachy.

I must head off and cool my mind.