first hit me in the garb of an
early morning fart from
father and shot me out of bed
unawake, snatching at residues of
7 a.m. half dreams.
was another hatechain.
i wrote hatepoems inside my head
for someone, a chance break for mother,
(and guess what day it is)
and laughed at his childishness later,
hating myself for smiling about
people i choose to hate.
i discovered a bald patch and
wished all todays would do me a
favour and end,
but not yesterdays nor the idea of tommorows
i lied about God and wrote him
a note saying: "Dear God,
i don't think i would've liked you much if
you did exist."
i washed the heat off
and felt my wet hair drip
on my bare back
for a little longer than
a prostitute can
afford an orgasm.
i didnt nap for i was
afraid i'd cry
pools in my dream i'd
cry pools i thought silly me.
hasn't ended yet
i felt like an old man without his grand-daughter
though I'm still a teenager with
a need for brassieres , and have never wanted
a child of my own.
i realized that i've grown up a little
due to this city with its share
of madwomen at bus stands,
and lack of starlight or clarity.
making sense was never this easy
i didn't fall in love
was an empty box of crayons,
or an empty bowl of soup i
sat picking at the insides of, with nothing but digestive tablets
to indulge in, but after a while
i felt some greys crawl under my nails.
its never truely colour, or complete lack of it
greys always crawl in much closer.
i wished the sky would unhinge itself and
blow me a kiss or blow a spine into me or just simply
i wrote another note
this one said: "Dear God,
i don't think
you would've liked me much if
and hoped he cant read
thought-notes in this language.
i laughed at myself and refused to admit
that this shell is safer than not-quite-rights, for
i just made up stories or spat out strings of hackneyed
words trying to make up for the
waste it was, and look
this wound up as a waste too
is not an end either.