Prime time sherry

There must be something to write about?
There are itches that crawl around my body
Trying to find a spot to settle in.
Try as it may, the itch couldn’t rest.
Lest it be lost
It roams,
Like a spider looking for a prey-
Spinning web after web,
And unknowingly
Strangling my consciousness!
I see time being bound like a criminal
Imprisoned under the webs of conscientious laws..
And I see myself being stirred free from the confines of taboo…
And beyond that, there’s freedom…
There are eyes and ears and severed heads, lying in perfect symphony..
Torn apart-
Yet more alive than the forgery that is life,
On a monday listless monday morning;
On the bus, the metro, the street, the office;
The heavenly heavens of primetime television..
Even the melodrama of unreal reality is dull!
The colours are not bright and morbid
The violent sindoor imprisons the characters!
The machismo of beards dissolves in drunken glasses of fake sherry…
I have never felt the taste…
The tiredness of the charade
Is appalling…
How does one get tired of loud, violent melodrama?
Of burnt dialogues?
How does one get tired of the alive jerks of the bus?
And the frantic rush?
Where is the last pouch of gatorade hidden?
Why do i have to escape to morbid dreams to find life in oxymorons?
Why don’t i see the souls beneath the sinewy masses of tired sweating muscles?
Sing me a lullaby…
Lest my soul dissolves in the freshly poured glass.

– Goth Sunflower


Not there

Tell me I am not there.

I am not there
In the humid cloud soaked morning sun, the clock striking four.

I am not there
With the banal bermudas walking the morning .

I am not there
In the pot bellies Swaying with beer.

I am not there
In Anachronistic tee shirts wet with Mid life exhaustion.

I am not there
In tandem with ordinary morning gossip.

I am not there
in domestic alleys and taunting field games.

I am not there
On that colourblind park bench.

I am not there
In earfuls of private symphony.

I am not there
In a youth of whispered regret.

I am not there
In this city and her pot holed dreams.

I am not there
In this city, and her pot holed dreams.

But tell me,
She will be there in death!

– Goth Sunflower