Love Life

A lucrative future indeed! Descend from the plane now and step on the red mat, sir


P.S: Some of your thoughts and Viva's Haiku entries deserve the Red Mat Treatment

Ahhh, an ego boost, precisely the thing I needed. Thankee, good Sir

Honestly amaryn, you shouldnt be putting my name and Ola's in the same sentence. Im flattered though.

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

If I can think of something,
there will be a Google ad trying to sell it to me.

Bet google can't sell you Viva's likes.

Strong winds,
I hear you roaring
in the depths of what I call my life.

Strong winds,
my life is trembling,
in the depths of what I think is "I".

Strong winds,
what serenity
do you offer me beyond this storm?

Strong winds,
is it not so
that "I" will be no more once I am through?

This flower is not really a flower,
it is a stinging nettle in disguise.
It has orange petals
and a strong scent of devoted love.
It brings solace to many,
maybe as many as it stings.

Should I burn this stinging flower,
to save the saved souls
from a life in stupor's sweet relief?
Should I tear off its wishful petals
behind which the needles lay in wait?

I watch the people cherish
their sweet-scented burns of stinging love,
littered all around me
the many stung by love to nether realms.

I watch and wonder:
Should I burn this stinging flower,
rip apart a thousand thousand lives,
a hundred thousand million billion lies?

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

It brings solace to many,
maybe as many as it stings.

Maybe the beauty offered by this flower, the joy it imparts in seeing it, is reason enough to not kill it? Why pick a rose because it pricked you with its thorns when others might still be intoxiated by its smell?

Why do you lie,
why do you pretend I am not?

Why do you take the forever of now
and string it into a chain of remorse and fear,
of past pain and future terror,
is this a deal we made in a forgotten past
so I will survive?

Why would I accept
a plastic bag like you
thrown over the fullness of me?

Why would I accept to be forgotten
forever
and become a vast nothingness inside
a self-delusional
plastic bag?

Can I even ask?
Did you not hijack my thoughts as well,
squeezing the night sky into that tin can
you call "thought" and "language"?

Since I am lost inside you,
is this just you playing me?

I wake up.
It is Saturday morning.
Time to kill.

I draw my blade,
it is sharpened and ready for battle;
I am not.
But:

I blow my conch shell,
they come charging at me
from every direction.
My blade flashes,
heads roll off,
they splatter me with their blood -
my friends and my kinsmen.

Like zombies,
their headless bodies try to grab my ankles:
even in death,
they won't let me go.

I chop their arms off.

A Buddha grabs me from behind,
I feel steel wire around my neck;
without turning,
my left hand grabs my poisoned dagger,
thrusts it hard into him.

I hear the sickening thud.
I draw a quick breath,
my throat hurts.

My bow is up in an instant,
the needle-sharp arrows
tear into flesh and bone:
many more fall,
and the rivers run dark
across the vast Kurukshetra.

Finally my arrows are spent,
my sword dented
and my conch shell cloven in two;
the arrows come flying in,
like a swarm of raging desires,
I am pierced by seven thousand.

Darkness falls.




Someone wakes up.
It is Saturday morning.

Time to kill.

It's dark.
I feel like fireworks.

I grab an arrow,
life makes a good tip.

I take my bow.
I light the fuse.

Swish.

Kaboom!

Nice colours.

An exasecond passes.
I yawn.

Dark again.

Find your soulmate,
£12.95 a month.

We're sitting inside me
when one of us nails a thesis to the door:
"The greatest boon
is to never have been born."

To find out who did it,
we roll the die:
1 or 4, it was me
2 or 5, it was the madman
3 or 6, it was the philosopher.

The die says,
n times x to the power of y
where n = sadness
x = tears
and y = loneliness.

I lost it.
Darn - I got to be more mindful of where I put it.

Now, where could it be?
Just a couple of dusty wisps of despair under the sofa.

On the mantelpiece?
Nah, only a cracked hope or two.

I empty my coat pockets:
A dead desire and a few empty wish wrappers.

Damn.

I call the police,
they'll send a search party - if I pay.

Fvck.
Not worth it, I decide,
and roll over.

I have problems accessing my brains.
I am not sure they are still there.

With a chainsaw,
I make a neat incision and lift the lid.

I poke around,
bits go 'zing' and 'blip'.
I cut off a few chunks,
it is like pinching myself
to see if this is just a dream.

This feels lucid. I can make things go every way.
Mum and dad keep popping up,
I go snip, snip everytime I see them.
It feels exhilerating that they are just wet cauliflower chunks.

To fix the disconnection,
I pull out the medulla.
It does a much better job connecting my soul.
I never saw the point with those fleshy bits anyway.

Finally I is gone,
the lips smile for a job well done.

Don't forget the lid.

Hey beautiful soul,
I see you're lonely.
Me, too.
I can't pretend I love you,
I'm just an orchestra someone forgot to play.
I bang a bit of drums when I'm frustrated,
my violins tear some dust off the moon every now and then,
the dust clouds almost feel like company.

You know, beautiful soul,
maybe you could pop in my concert hall
for the tiniest concerto?
I might be able to persuade my piccolo
to massage your loneliness for a fleeting moment,
maybe my oboe would join in, too;
he's shy but you're his type.

I like your kind best without clothes,
but if you need some - just let me know;
I'll weave you a dress of melancholic D minors,
I'll knit you a scarf out of half-forgotten tunes
and if you need something to cover your heart with,
well,
I have this little red adagio,
he likes hearts like yours.

I see you cry, beautiful soul,
I'm good at that - here, let me show you:
I have a very gentle B minor, it only complains a little.
You kiss it here, and it squeaks a bit,
like a tired old cloud, too dry to rain.

It's on the moon I live,
beautiful soul,
it's a good place to be lonely:
no one to disturb your sadness.
There's plenty of room here,
plenty of dryness for tears to fall on,
plenty of spots for forgotten orchestras
to play subdued tones of weary acquiescence.

Poetry doesn't help you make sense of the incomprehensible,
but it helps you forget it doesn't.

I am doing something wrong.
There is smoke and an acrid smell.

I sniff at my armpits,
and fail to solve the riddle.
There are no other armpits to smell.

I check the wishwasher:
my sins are dripping wet,
none of them look black to me.

I pull the deus ex his machina,
I demand to know what is wrong.
A finger points at a sign pointing at the moon,
the moon laughs at me and says,
"you forgot your life in the microwave!"

I pull it out,
I drop it in my Blendtec hi-speed blender.
I add a fortune cookie,
the paper inside says "Give me a friend".

Will it blend?





(For reference - the Will It Blend campaign)

There is a prize I need to win,
so much money, I could pay almost ten percent of my debts.
I lock the door and roll up the sleeves of my laptop.

After many pages of white on white,
I decide I need music, and flip on November rain.
The rain washes off everything I wrote,
leaving only white trails behind.

Desperate,
I e-mail god@heaven.com and ask for an emergency loan:
I must have a new laptop.

I receive a reply,
pixelated white on white,
trailing off the deep end of my broken laptop.

There are two children playing,
I recognise them.
One I picked off the floor where her howling mother flung her,
the other I caught in our bath and handed to her loving mother.
Their eyes are blue and hazel oceans,
I drown.
They stretch their longing arms towards my image,
their fingers scratch the laptop screen.
I remember fields of green grass,
nights with two hundred and seventy-eight hours of duty,
long walks on a beach with a cocoon on my belly,
another on my back.
I remember someone...
It seems he lived inside me,
I think they remember him, too.
I wave.
They run off.

I said "I don't know" today, too.

There's a self-delusional cynic
inside every idealist.

I
Poets make lousy saints.



II
Poets' innards are a quagmire
understood,
least of all,
by themselves.



III
A poet can be a good fling
if mental BDSM
is your thing.



IV
Beware sober poets,
they say things they mean.



V
Dating a poet,
you never know
next to whom you will wake up.