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Hey,
when the old road is flooded too deep
and the things that you could see before, seem a little lost,
like sudden pages in a stolen book,
I guess it’s all right
to come home.

 

 

-Shakya

Wind in a bottle

Lately, I have been craving company.
But when it is near, I question it, and walk away.
Or simply tire it.
Maybe it’s not near at all.
I am short sighted.
I think I have been seeking sex in little violet alleys.
But then, mostly, I just fall asleep
and wake up wanting to be alone
and blue.
I can only see colour on Sundays.
There’s no unhappiness,
not much.
It’s a luxury for good times.
But the jar is empty.
Winds in a bottle don’t blow.

 

 

-Shakya

No one

I don’t want anyone else to look like me.
I don’t want anyone to be as disgusting and as odd,
Yet beautiful,
Like me,
On some days and nights, before falling asleep.
I do not want anyone else to have felt like a little girl,
Sleeping in his lover’s arms,
Being kissed on button noses, licked like mushrooms.
I want no one else to have felt like a boy, looking at his feet in a professor’s room,
Wishing for rest, and a womanly warmth,
That has been missing from her chest.
Feeling like an unfinished portrait on summer mornings,
An unique failure, after afternoon siestas.
I am not an individual;
I don’t claim that myth.
The mythical one, walking through legions of stories,
Being didactic and true.
I think I am one of many,
A tiny story
Where I am all the characters and none,
All the time and never.
I am just me
And no one else is.
That’s all.

 

-Shakya

Summer afternoons

What dreams may come of afternoon naps
rolled in balls of fat and sweat,
altogether much too disgusting, for anyone but myself.
Bringing together broken lips
and lisping pictures drawn in music
all through rainy days with a bright sun, shining golden and dead.
The sun on one’s back in little drops,
old and older memories, spilled on the page
as some forgotten story roams around in picture books
that are copied, verbatim, from the head.
See, I only draw in the past, and write about it now.
And later, I search for all the nows going away to distant places, where my lost pictures wait
in diligent silence.
I have lost so many poems to that place.
So many pictures and afternoon regrets.

 

-Shakya

Good and bad days

I hate Fridays.
They always bring the anticipation of the weekend
and the dread of the Monday together.
The Friday nights in bed, or elsewhere,
are a little dead and gone.
The alcohol goes up and down in instants,
and conversations drain towards losses and laziness.

I like Mondays.
They stink of work and thought
and make tomorrow and tomorrow better.
They make me want to leave home with a packet of cigarettes
and a circus in my pockets
in a two man band with an old lover,
rolling through a made up world of beautiful and polite people….

 

-Shakya

Summer

.
It begins after the stop.
Dead-heat-summer-crazy-world,
Unprovoked and unmentionable blackness in a country of perpetual summer,
Forgive Forgive Forgive.
Forget.
Forget all and all
The summer sun the deaths of dark girls the sun shining
Harder.
Punishing Punishing Punishing.
Forget futile life on the street
Melting and muted under
Sunshine.
With a tincture of flesh and soft blood
Like black death on a white
White
Night.
The moon is love in the land of the sun.
Sun shining bright, like death out of sight.
Good night.
And it ends without
Ever
Stopping

 

-Shakya

Mayflower

Look at the evening falling off ladders all over the world.
Have you seen the little stars, dropping off the sky, on new moon nights?
We are spilling secrets now, inside our minds
with new old friends sitting by our side.
I like you, little friend born in the heat of May,
but a little white, and a lot of night, inside your head.
From faces, born little stories, that go on and on inside caves
away from the city,
where you sit opposite me
and we
share the stories of our loves and lotteries.

 

-Shakya

Home

Hey,
when the old road is flooded too deep
and the things that you could see before, seem a little lost,
like sudden pages in a stolen book,
I guess it’s all right
to come home.

 

 

-Shakya

Ends, and other things

Before all of us die,
Come, fall in love with me one last time.
Not me, but us.
The things we are or were,
Or won’t be.
The things that happened, because other things didn’t.
The endings make sense only in retrospect.
Before it ends;
Before we die,
Or live,
(however things end now)
Let us fall in love again.
Love like very old people,
Slow, meticulous, silent
And thoughtful.
Love like wine, and moonlight, and old coins
Buried in the garden.
What if you loved only once, and never come back?
So the time I spent, dreaming,
Would be lost?
Would it?
What if we die unclaimed, waiting for the fulfilment of youth,
That never will be again?
Waiting for the return of nineteen year old sex…
But what if not?
The new sex is old bed sheets,
Stained and misunderstood,
But comfortable.
Still,
Fall in love with me once again,
Before it ends;
As it ends.

 

 

-Shakya

To Wes Anderson

 

Wes Anderson’s characters smoke their cigarettes like I do, holding them at the edge of their lips and failing to look cool.
I didn’t learn it from them. They didn’t learn it from me.
Wes and I have never met. I wonder why that is.
I think we are both ugly in the same ways, and have little obsessions bridging us.
I like how the colours bloom in his films, as if out of a radio play where the red is as red as red is supposed to be.
It’s never the yellowish tinge of an upset television set.
I don’t like hats, but I think Wes does,
and I think he has an affinity for asymmetrical faces and symmetrical lines.
Most of what he says is gibberish, so I think he makes the most sense out of all.
I am not sure how that works, but neither is he, I am sure.
I like how red the red is, in most of his films.
I like his red films, most of all.
I thought this was going to be funny, but it’s not.
I thought this was going to be like one of his movies as a poem.
But everything’s going haywire, and symmetry has taken a holiday
and I think, the red in my poem is just a bit too much like fake blood.
His characters don’t change clothes, and neither do I.
Unfortunately, his characters don’t smell like I do after a couple of days of ceaseless contemplation.
On certain nights, everyone wants to be an orphan.
I think I will send Wes love over the telephone one day.
I think;
I think,
I think
he will find that hilarious.
Who knows?
Wes is quirky, that way.

 

 

-Shakya