Incoherent

I am almost always angry these days, a

failed whatever it was that I was. I wake up early

in the mornings, before the sun, and

go collecting pebbles. Desiderata, of grand lives

stuff left over while constructing roads.

You know, it is difficult to keep track of

things when you are drunk, an alcoholic. Disintegration

is a beautiful word. Do you see

your idols crumbling in front of your eyes? So many

truths turning into lies? I will be

There for you.

 When did you last see me? Was it before or after

they pronounced my soul dead? I cannot

remember, so they must have been right, but I

still collect pebbles, desiderata of grand lifes. What you and I

could have been.

Such an attractive phrase. So much disappointment there.

Like a road that leads nowhere. You. I.

Bracketed by unfulfilled promises.

Instapoem

The loss of your love has crippled me.

I remember those moonlit walks, those

tragically brilliantly lit evenings when the sky was

a tapestry of colours I did not know the names of, those

silent nights when all that could be heard

were our sighs. I miss you and so, every night

I try to forget myself, getting drunk

with a grim determination.

And writing instant poetry, seventeen lines

that describe my grief, three outlining the joy we never had, two

longing for what could have been; eleven the tragic

after effects and one reserved for the future. Your love

made me into a poet. And now, all I have is

characterless poems.

On Happiness

Do you hear me, sometime? When I

cry out in the middle of the night, somewhere

do you also wake up with cold sweat on your palms? Do you

remember me, and have your sleep disturbed with

dreams of me?

It is not a happy state, I have a crowd of bottles, each

clamoring to testify in favor of my love, there is

an alcohol-sodden revolution waiting in my kitchen, waiting

to erupt in my support, a whole nation suppurating with

guilt and too much drink.

Tomorrow, you will probably not know me and there will be

shadows

who will ask you what to make of us. You will

probably say nothing, maintain that dignified silence which

is another way of admitting defeat. I will not. I will

wait in the silent café by the seaside, willing

you to come inside, unburdened by my loss, complete

with a radiant smile, that tells the world

that there are different kinds of happiness. And

one is more than most people get.

All Things Remaining The Same

From the window of the café, I can

see the airplanes taking off, hanging there

in the air, almost as if they are going to fall, before

turning, and flying away. And the sea. The waves

that break into nothingness, and my face

in the slowly darkening windowpanes as the airplanes

slowly turn into winking lights-here now, and gone;

so much like love.

 

Hunched over my beer, I am waiting

for someone, anyone to arrive- enter through that

door which faces me six tables away, someone

who does not look like he is wrapped in failure, someone

who enters this den of vice with a smile. The jukebox

plays a song from the nineties, some hyperemotional

thing I would never relate to when sober. Someone

to walk through the door who is not carrying

all of my defeats and theirs’ and those of

the rest of this world

on their shoulders.

Someone is playing seventies rock on the jukebox now. Part

of me wants to tell them to shut up: we were the generation

who drank ‘On The Road is evil’ with our bournvita. But I cannot

help it. There is a promise of rebellion and a new future. And I

know now, five beers in, that there will be no one entering those doors

who will be worth the waiting. I watch some more lights, as they

hang in the sky, promise to fall, and turn away. And then I order

my sixth beer. Tonight’s dinner, I will eat alone.

Ambiguity

I feel ashamed, sometimes, that I

have loved. I feel ashamed that I have been

an intemperate fool, when speaking or silent, I

realize now that all those hours I spent

silently looking at your were just folly, now. I

now know I was perhaps wrong.

I wasted my life, chasing the

things I, perhaps, did not want; or, perhaps; I

did and am lying to myself. There is no answer. I saw

you in my arms in a dream and was lost

for ever. Was that a lie? That is a question you

answer. And lie, or truth, how much of

it?