Wednesday, January 25, 2012


This tawdry life is a chore
but you my friend,
whose renegade ways
and light-winged mind
flit through as if a butterfly,
you ease this embalming bore.

It does not matter if half in love
I skitter the edges of madness,
just so I could be amused
tossed away and abused
for I'd rather be seduced,
my idle vigour educed.

These lines are mirthless
if you care to ponder,
just so for I am listless
with naught to bother.
So carry on dancing
leave me be, espying.

Note: I shouldn't allow myself to draw parallels between fantasy & reality. These two do not mix. Alas my muse care not for such trivialities. Everything blends into a hue of otherliness. I ought to stop caring.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Loyal Heart

I don't trust my thoughts,
not when it concerns yours.
Whatever glints of your mind,
I dare not deduce them as glimpses.
          One's inner-workings is what it is,

Forgive me when you ask
"What do you think?" and I,
 answer with the lowering of my gaze.
I will not subject myself to you.
           It's cruel when you prey on me,
           walk through me, as if a maze.

You must know when you say "Tell me more"
it whips my pride but I suppose you do know
since my musings to you, I cannot hide.
It is unfortunate that I am loyal
             to you, as if you're royalty.
             Tis my enemy, my frailty.

Dear friend, say no more
Your words are poison to me.
I am but an addict being played
by your endlessly attractive axioms.
              I am but a starved romantic
              who thrives on your virgin tragedy.

Note: I must say I don't think the last stanza presents my wishes well. I'll fix it later, somehow.
Always, unrelated images of my silliness is caught in the dragnet of musings caused by beauties decidedly separate. Yes, how cryptic I am but then again how shall I survive if all is transparent and laid to see so completely and utterly? As if all that isn't already a stick I'm bending to it's utmost limits. To the very limits my capabilities allow me at least.

Monday, January 9, 2012


The dark may consume my mind
yet I shall not fear
emptiness may hollow my world
yet I shall not fear.
The conscience is a muted voice
that can't be extinguished.
It will never abandon you.

If you can find in your heart
the fire that burns your wick
and greet death in your thoughts,
you shall be fearless.
In your untainted and unrelenting
fear for God,
you are fearless.

Thursday, January 5, 2012


I sought to breach the echelons of loneliness
hoping to emerge wisened if not enlightened.
All I ever achieved though is solitude
which I vaunt of its bleakness – 
                     my broken heart in multitudes.

The wound in my mind is a haloed hole.
Like ravaged old Russia and her banished kulaks
I am vast, barren, blood-stained & cold.
Alas I have no paladins to champion me – 
                             my ambitions are mere larks.

I have given up trying to be worldly
This putsch against the seeds of my soul
I have halted for it has lost its fealty.
My love for my vozhd' futile – 
                             my hopes dying in a howl.


Titled 'Matroyshka' because: The "matryoshka principle" is also an example of Mise-en-abyme.
                                                                                      (Source: from wiki page on Matroyshka dolls )
[exceprt from Mise-en-abyme.]
Mise en abyme (French pronunciation: [miz‿ɑ̃n‿abim]; also mise en abîme) is a term originally from the French and means "placed into abyss".
The commonplace usage of this phrase is describing the visual experience of standing between two mirrors, seeing an infinite reproduction of one's image, but it has several other meanings in the realm of the creative arts and literary theory.

I'm not sure why I wish to elaborate on this. Not that it matters but what does matter is that you were my personal 'Russian Revolution'. My 'Red October' which occured in the month of June of which I was not aware of until much later. All this purging is all that inspires me these days or if I care to be brutally honest with myself, all this purging is precisely all that inspires me period.

Monday, January 2, 2012

"No one will read what I write here..."

No one will read what I write here, no one will come to help me. If people were assigned the task of helping me, all the doors of all the houses would remain closed, all the windows would be shut, they would all lie in bed, with sheets thrown over their heads, the entire earth would be a hostel for the night. And that makes good sense, for no one knows of me, and if he did, he would have no idea of where I was staying, and if he knew that, he would still not know how to keep me there, and so he would not know how to help me. The thought of wanting to help me is a sickness and has to be cured with bed rest.

I know that, and so I do not cry out to summon help, even if at moments—as I have no self-control, for example, right now—I do think about that very seriously. But to get rid of such ideas I need only look around and recall where I am and where—and this I can assert with full confidence—I have lived for centuries…

I have no intentions… I am here. I don’t know any more than that. There’s nothing more I can do. My boat is without a helm—it journeys with the wind which blows in the deepest regions of death.

— Franz Kafka, The Hunger Gracchus, 1917