poms r my favrit

i wantd 2 jump ovr
the scond story of our comp lab
bldng. cz she brke my hart
n it hrts lik no1s biz.
thnk gawd fr the hiphop of
potry tho. othrwis, id
proly jst be lik guppy
widout hr bol.
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driving past the shadow flutter of butterflies

my lumbering white chariot

of locomotion sped past blurs;

colored incarnations of faces,

grayed out shutters, protruding

trees and the faint reflection

of automated inattention.

lugging an adopted

prosopagnosia, i stumble at

speed past wisps; now merely

the unclaimed souls of

the change i have bought

around me.

i whip my silent, sleek chariot

forward. under the shade

of tunnels, over the spread of

civilization, around mona lisa-ed

walls, past the shadow dance

of fleeing butterflies.

on a path as capricious as

the gadgets on it, around it,

i ride myself into the future;

clueless of where i am going

to end up. i may have an

address but no destination.

Airport Emotions

There is something
devious at arrival
lounges; the way
people hang their
hearts out on sleeves
on recognition
of a familiar face.
It is the combustion
of recall, memory,
even love; welded
in an embrace; public
happy, teeth. A threat
to outdo love even.
And so it begins the
dominoes of feigning,
the war of love, as
one display
outdoes another.

Airports should be
heaven. They facilitate
the emotional capitalism
of humanity, of bonds.
Alas, ephemeral creatures
create fleeting images
of themselves; to serve
selfish, runaway impulses.
That is why heaven hides
well the differences we
choose to ignore. The
ones, stepping out of
heaven, expose.
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The Philosophy of Busy

Tiredness is not
the signature of
a life. It is merely
the illusion that
something is
being done to
justify existence.
Productivity
is the measure
of work; it is
not, as we believe
in the afterglow
of reward and
achievement, the
path fulfilling life.
It is the deadening
of soul; the
numbness of
imagination as it
drunkenly smacks
against its own
mirrored reflection.
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A Note

Five years and nine days ago, I started this blog in order to access my inner child. This inner child, of course, I believed to be a bastard of Lord Byron himself. I thought, through public scrutiny (which, thankfully, dithered down to almost nothing) would force me to expend words, to weave them in webs connecting haphazardly the three and a half sides of my head. Of course time has been witness to my spectacular failure in rousing myself to the inspiration of words. Time has seen me run, stop, stand, stumble and eventually lay prone in my quest for literary discovery.

Life has blurred past me in the last five years; testament to a laziness of will which has delivered me to a rather uninspired present. A present, where I merely soldier on. Living by the day. I have felt the cobwebs of my brain hold back trains of thought; those express locomotives carrying the seeds of poetry. It has been a constant nagging, ungraspably frustrating experience. One, I continue to live even as I type this.

Five years and nine days, I have intermittently forced myself to write, to scribble, to put down words for the sake of words on this blog. I continue to suffer from a lack of patience; from a cowardly impulse to run away from all that is good (for me and the world).

On this unevenly numbered anniversary though, I promise patience. Nothing else. No grandiose plans of writing, no promises of words finding residence on this blog. Merely patience.

Blockbuster Life

They used to hark

from beyond our imaginations;

on television screens hooked

to the VCR - bombs, rubble

and the specter of death

callously strewn

on unfamiliar streets.

Innocent past-times

rolling out imagined pain

stripped out, off reality.

Not anymore.

Not when we can play

televised Nero dancing

to the haunting sight

of blockbuster

imaginations

coming home.

Frauds

Some reality is stranger
than fiction. So disappointed
writers wrap their short
stories of tragedy in
the tight, gauze of
imaginative creation.
Rendezvous', brief chapters
of possibilities, the
subtlety of glances all
baked into machinations
so far removed from truth.
Yet, readers wade in
with knowledge that they
are dipping into themselves,
into their dalliances, into
the recesses of their hearts
where secrets squirm,
reinventing themselves
into pretenses.

A world that prides itself
on the virtues of truth and
honesty is irrevocably knitted
into a conspiracy, self-aware.

Public Writing

Writing has been
dubbed the activity of
loneliness. Words composed
in the absence of the world
depicting humanity.

Which is probably why
I write in public. In
the centre of human chaos;
voices, words, gestures
tripping over themselves
in a rat-race to feel
important. Lights, sounds
all vying for sight;
for what is anything if
it is not acknowledged.
I may have company
but disconnect lingers;
a gnawing reminder that
I remain Khalil's island.

The world around me revolves
in centripetal ubiquity; faces
composed of blurred squares,
conversations garbled and a
sense of superficial collectivity;
all collapsing outside the
walls of my solitude.

I write hence, in the silence
of noise, words describing
the whir of the world.