Poem — Imagine Fear

Imagine fear, in its mess, as a curious errand
A story of bloody places and crude practices
Or a glance from heaven to earth;
in its disdain for conscious thought,
it is something worth breathing life into.

A it stands now; as a curse for the ages,
as a horror of all of the hours of grief
in all honesty: what would we do without it
If it didn’t scare us into work or love.
Fear can be used as a tool for finer things.

Yet when one is scared of fear itself
Or of other peoples minds, of the life’s test
of unkindly hands and executed loves,
One Will play the tyrants cause, of honours garb
defaced over dead intentions and lost causes.

Poem — I Will Read Some Poetry

The worst part is that i cannot see what is right in front of me
Anything worth seeing has a certain immaculate light to it
or a colour that brings beautiful thoughts to a minds might
But there is a beautifully bound book on the desk, calling to me

I cannot remember if it what I placed was a collection of Auden,
Or perhaps of the works of Yeats, Frost, Poe or of Whitman
Or of a sad, perhaps unknown poet, or undiscovered in the west
Like the anger of Pasolini, or the feminist charge of Farrokhzad

I probably have too many books, or too much time on my hands
To read is to imagine, to see what the mind can make, given the time
When Borges was blind, subject to imagination, his writing more refined,
would make anyone wish that blindness could make them understand

But to understand is more or less a folly, since the word itself
is more or less a time constraint of necessity, not of comprehension.
But less of that; poetry doesn’t need to be understood to be good
I would take it over meditation: an empty mind sounds like hell to me.

Whether poetry could teach me things I didn’t know like non fiction
Or involve me in grand tales of lands I will only see in my mind,
poetry is a feeling more than anything else, constrained only by emotion.
So before I attempt sleep, I will know perfection can last in the words of the poets.

Poem — Generation

It is better to think that my generation
would be better off without the thought of a future
Or the humanity of failure constantly at our minds

We were told we were fucked from the start
bitterness was our default position
our anger caused from the old worlds ashes

Or perhaps its because of our lack of sleep
Or that we cared too much perhaps
of things we could not control

We were born knowing that we were different
That the possibility of change was within us
But then we left high school and were told otherwise

Perhaps it all started when the housing bubble burst
Or when we first saw the tallest buildings tumble in fire
either way, it had made us older than we seemed

It was good that many of us gave up booze
And looked away from its awful, zealous troubles
It was enough,it had done nothing to our much sadder parents

Though perhaps, I might be missing the point
the worth of my generation never lied with what it pretended to be
It was desperate to understand what little answers there were

From trigonometry to even more simpler economics
we were provided with answers that made little sense
it was our problem, of course, we would learn wouldn’t we?


Poem — Thunder and Dreams

Dirty words are that title of merit
When you send one word to next

A slight spark can send one shiver
it was worth saving your words darling

Im used to waiting until they would matter
But when they did, it only happened quicker

It was worth the taste of ash
and the crack of war’s whip

We were taught this for a long while
As children we saw towers topple

And ever since we turned on the news
Something bad was sure to happen ever since

Now as we scroll on the internet
we laugh at first, then we snicker

then what was left of laughter turns
into the bitter sorrow of youth

Humankind has done worser things
to deserve such misery and horror

It never lost its vile magic over blood
nor its burning desire to see it spill

The death of children is enough
to make one scream into your pillow

A war may start over that thought
It has happened before, it is a constant

Lets hope we don’t see death
become the only reason for living or killing

We may lose this one yet
but the thunder of war will never leave

We have nothing to gain but everything to lose
But at last, thats never been far from human thought


Poem — Houses of the Mad

Living in the houses of the mad
One would ask: when the bells strike three
Would the roof of this circus kindly,
in the loyal spirit of sir Galahad
Burn quietly from the hands of bourgeoisie;
Those that we no longer follow blindly?

Comforts lie in ruins at our feet
The horrors of capital gain linger
Yet Marx and Luxemburg could not attain;
For the sins of the Mass’s heat
Would lead to humanity’s whimper
So soon, and bleeding from its jugular vein.

Many were warned, perhaps too early
Of the acidity of the situation
There is no lie greater than the personal
Dwindling thoughts that act upon controversy
That led to a thoughts stagnation
That found Democracy more purposeful

In great truths lie the political
Even when humanity may ramble
Too lost in its burnable places
It will be impossible to remain uncritical
When even a roman candle
Can cover humanity’s traces.

Society started with patients
Not with doctors of learning
Or with a dogs whimper
It was general hallucinations
That kept human fear performing
Never the warmth of the freethinker

The death of Socrates led us to believe
That it mattered what one could never see
And that the afterlife was worth the trouble
Belief, they would say, was to preconceive
Belief, they said, was key
And since then , wisdom has always had to stumble

Poem — A Lost Voice

A gun and a television screen, the machine and its noise
The children screaming, all for ratings and losing the fight
Only after the deaths may we say, that these kids have a voice
It comes to the point, where it becomes a bad joke

When Valentines day becomes another massacre day
Here we are, yet again, deaths next mad master stroke
Or a boy, led to hate is calm while he shoots never reluctantly,
Perhaps led to believe, that love will come to him in TV lights

In calm voices our children are told what is safest never was
Nor what was beloved was never protected nor the safest
When it comes to one another, God, or Democracy
It will not matter, when our friends and loves are dead.

Although maybe it was so that children become beasts
Under the law of the land or the violent rites of the hateful
Whether hereditary or even consequently we learned to hate
Or taught fearful moods because of the nightmares we are fed

It did not matter that one another called the other mad
What we are taught to fear comes to us naturally at an early age
Oracles of the past, whether right or wrong
Seem to be a better compass than the centre stage

History is no morality tale; it is written by only the future
A future that learns its morals from the past, as well as its follies
So tell us then, what may we learn when we see the screen
What may we think of the past, will that become our sage?

Poem – You Can Smell Fire

You can smell fire, even from here
It even can be smelt on the other side of the bay.
While dreams and homes are burnt to smouldering rest
All hopes and well wishes, even the best, will be ashes too.

The fires that stain and burden the heavy air
Are results of an abhorrent sun and destitute care;
Only the people left will keep to the land, even as it abandons them.

Hills are always charcoaled when kept this way
The land itself knows the fierce winds and the suns ways
The stench of flames are always here
A reminder of what cannot be saved

Once we saw a koala, its skin barely held
Together by the crumbs of skin still left
its fur all lost to heat and natures theft.
We laid a bucket next to its head
Where it drank from its watery top
In the last moments of its life, it could drink what it could

Although koalas are not seen to drink
Nor notice a humans hand
It seemed to thank us, in its unnatural embarrassment
Then died when the smell came back.