Our life is like one long smooch
Finished over by the ages,
Kissed by many in the same way,
Thinking the same sweet nothings,
Trying to forget
The imminent drudgery
That were to follow;
And we
Like the aftertaste of the overrated hackneyed act
Observe with our sleepy eyes
Weary of witnessing the same things
Over and over again,
While our days pass by

Like the aftertaste.




The contumacious objector

All my words are of a rebel
All my aesthetic senses
Shriek against this preoccupied design;
All my poems with their
Mallarmean white spaces and line breaks
Nothing but nothing else,
Insurrection against
The prevarication of sense

I trudge through this zombie-land
The only sentient being
Looking down upon the
Blind and deaf
Throwing their lives at your feet
For you who do not be.

I am the Prometheus of this age
The last contumacious objector
Your shrine of love would never be built
With the rest of my remains.

The Abjuring

The nozzles shone
Under the first light of the day;
‘A fine day isn’t it’
Said the commissioner
With a chuckle hovering on his lips
I was not to smile back
But I did.

I was to make a speech,
Or perhaps shake with an unknown dread
The dread for unknown,
Or should I have sniveled
Praying for mercy and compassion
To the world, to lord almighty,
To fingers upon the triggers,
To all things above me?

‘Any last word’
The commissioner asked me
Before authorizing
The final command.
I stared back at him
Taking a long hard look
At the rifles pointed at me
Aimed at my heart
Ready to pierce me with
The minimal indication
Of a small nod.

“Yes,” I said, “I would like to sit.
Half lying position I would take
Leaning on a pillow
To face your wrath
’cause it’s not worth
Facing standing up.”

The Obdurate

I knew that at the end of days
I will be no more than dust and gravel
All day I listen to the music of bricks
Being layered over one another,
My vision obscure enough not to see the obvious
My thumping heart sounds strange
My hollow interior struggles to live the hours; but
My unforgiving memories unveils
The enigma that was hidden in the darkest corner
Called life….

I am to end under the slavery of solitude,
With my heart still pounding
For the reparation that is to receive
Which I shall realize by then will never come
So my obdurate self uttered the final fantasy
“Is it you,” the tired one said,
“Who still had the warmth left to lend?”