His Violet .

(a bunch of cliches that stares at me from my journal)

He will shift his place.
my sticky notes at his table will go .
the books I gifted would be at the back of his shelf .
My hyacinths at his window
will be her violets at his door
the side seat in his car will feel like her
He would crib about her dirty feet
and remember my sweaty palms
he will look at his clock and wonder
how time has flown past .
then he will think of me
and how we couldn't last .

  Mad Paintings of the Mind

I want to grind an axe through my brain
and blood should splash on walls around.
The swish should be like that of a wand
Magical... Black magical in fact.

And the world will smile at all of it,
Most peacefully.. Quietly...Calmly...
And people will step over my corpse
with their cheap brains in rich portmanteaus
and they will sell it too until they bleed

like a river ,or a tornado or a squished mosquito
and some might be lucky enough to stain a wall or two
so that their rotting blood makes art that can be sold
even when their bodies are bluntly,blandly turning cold.

And when I am finally a ghost,
I'll scream through your empty minds too:
throwing glass jars from corners into your hall
For the axe was yours.
For the wall also was yours 

Don't forget your Banana Peel.



















Don't forget your banana peel.
the person you opened it for
is going to slip it under your feet.
after they all have devoured you,
this is the only valid deal.
the banana peel.

you cherish the tongue on you
until you are famished with emotions
and you rot in those appetites which now
reply only in burps and slow motions.
you can painfully walk out of that system
which now tries to undress a stupid plum.

so you stripped for the guy who said
"you must be beautiful inside" huh?
now cry at your forgotten peel
or walk naked like a rebellious queen
until you slip and fall again.
at least now they cant say,
 "you must be beautiful inside."

Green Grasshopper

Green grasshopper,
you hop through this rotten world
like an angel .
you are the only thing that matters.
fuck another grasshopper.
that is all that matters!
jump! fly through this dirt
like a man!
men cant fly you know,
they think they can.

you, creature,
creep the whole world
with your thinking eyes.
eating what you get,
mating what you get,
living life until you are
eaten, or beaten by the sunset.

 You amuse a woman
like no man ever could.
confidence and charm
bustling through your freshness.
I could eat you , you know
like I would a vegetable.
but I will spare you,
for I love you,
not like a woman loves a man,
but like a man loves a woman.
I mean, if you battle your eyelids
and if it disgusts me by any chance,
I shall leave you without a second glance.

but look! look how it trots away
as if I were a fool!
look , I am huge, and could crush you!

It flied! damn! it flied!
for a while,
maybe I though I could too :/

let it linger around for a while.

Speak!

Speak!
You cry
a spicy tournament
wet with emotional gibberish.
I taste of genuine word
that burns your tongue
soaked in tears.
And yet
Alone
you cry.






The Rain

In the sweat from the vulgar embrace

 of the tight grey air

And a melting earth,

(wet with footprints

 of men who drain out

 their sinking desirous fire)

Bacteria mate,

Sigh in pleasure,

But more in mockery

Of a man and woman

wondering if they should kiss.

Frogs  impatient ,screech through

a million waiting minds,

growing lustful in the wait until

it rains-

An orgasmic illusion

Which glides them to a morbid sleep.

And when they awoke,

The wait was more intoxicating than the lust

And again

Frogs screeched and groaned

through their freaking minds.

You become the wetness of the soaking earth

As the lovers drops drop like spears through you

 you are impregnated ,with a dead child

Whose cries will haunt your womb,

when you know the commotion at your genitals

was the puddles overflowing,

Just so that you are drained tomorrow noon

So that he can come again soon

And torment and love and cry with you.