On the outskirts of a sadness

otherworldly that casts one

into the mould of observer, 

a mere overseer of self

who's no longer tethered

to the entity observed, 

the very entity that can

no longer be embraced

as one and the same,

no matter how congenially

the arms are outrstretched. 

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Try to grasp at gardenias

and not at straws, 

imbue empiricism with

a splash of lyricism, 

let a leap of language

be a leap of faith

to ward off the wraith

of passivity, and maybe

welcome the sublimity

afforded by a truly 

Present Tense, one

that puts up a fight

against the callousness

of All-Taming Time...

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The painstaking pandering

to a 'needs must' philosophy,

following a catechism in complacency,

makes excuses the shirker's panacea,

allows balderdash to glow as bright ideas,

and though the culprits will be quick

to claim they were only forced 

to don the fright-wig,

the question is begged still:

just how many advocates more

does the devil really need?

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A medallion for the battalion

of disciples that dissemble

the blindness of their obedience, 

as they ride the high horses

of zealotry and expedience,

experts now in low blows, 

having extirpated any dissidence

innate, and learned instead

how themselves to best prostrate. 

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An incremental revelation

Of a reality of exactitude, 

No longer the spawn 

Of wishfulness, but prelude

To a piecemeal peacefulness, 

With secrets divulged

In order that the odyssey

Can be indulged 

And endured in dignity;

A salvation in installments 

Is certainly not in vain, 

For the war still

Has to be fought, even

If you chose not

Its terrain.

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Silence in the sarcophagus 

is pretty much a given, 

so tessellate this life

in a manner worthy 

of the rarity that 

it ever even happened, 

before a triumvirate 

decides it's time for

your mosaic to be riven, 

and even a skeleton key

fails to lead to 

some sylvan felicity...

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They set sail

For stranger climes, 

Hoping new stars

Would pierce

These other skies,

And that they'd shine

Without the need

To chide;

Who knows?

Perhaps even align, 

For them, the ones

That daylight denied...

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Robotic cues give

the order to spread

orthogonal views with

the intention we undulate

gently through our transition

from Prometheus to obsequious...

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Vicious circles bloom

inside the jaws 

of a vise, its grip

vies for wounds 

to inflict, flinches

at the mention

of redemption, flashes

its teeth, and in

dulcet tones reassures

that a cyclical motion

is the sole notion

that can provide

a semblance of sense 

for one who fails 

to countenance surrender

to a better, potentially

sympathetic resonance...

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A golden age for easy rage,

little-substantiated claims, 

sacrificing dissenters 

to the Fates, clamouring

for superiority by standing

on the crenels 

of towers of ivory

that only astound 

by concealing the sand 

they possess as ground...

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All the yesterdays

Of the reveller, 

Flecked with that 

Fin-de-siècle decadence, 

Still won't suffice 

To dissuade the

Great scythed leveller.

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Sharpen the stake

to bruise the earth 

that you forsake;

seven hills for

seven sins, as

gratitude and dread

share quarters

that get ever

so close, and 

Zephyr forgets how

to whirl, whilst

the past calcifies

on your bones.

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It must be 

a fatal flaw

to eschew delight

just because you

find it ensconced

in the midst

of terrors, tangible

or conjured, and

thus injure your

ability to trumpet

those tiny triumphs

of existence, glimmers

of luminescence that

interrupt the dark, 

reserved solely for

eyes willing to 

alight on wonder, 

near, or yonder. 

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The trunks of trees, 

Pneumatic tubes

Dispatching sorrows

That fertilized the soil, 

So that leaves get to hear

Of all the human toil

Expended in vain, 

In a monotone

Repetitive refrain. 

But the willow, 

Wind-whipped though

It may be, to also

Eavesdrop it persists 

On all those wishes

Saturating the air,

The midnight confidences

Of the nearly-b...

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In the futile attempt

to interpret and decipher

befogged divine wills,

might the mere flight

of a bird's wing

signify triumph

or portend defeat?

A fool's errand,

today we may scoff,

but a populace entire 

would hang all hope

on words of prognostication;

would the semantics 

foretell elevation, 

or abject castigation?

So, Tiresias the blind

...

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A paroxysm of hopefulness

In the midst of meaninglessness,

The bailiwick of a universe 

That casts us as dramatis personae

In its theatre of the abusrd. 

A tragicomedy of trials

And errors, a cyclical obsession;

But even in this losing

Struggle of Sisyphean repetition,

Simply doing battle

Can be the benediction. 

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A whirlpool of 

Tyrian purple

adds flair 

to the descent

into the lair

of unintended

consequence. 

A diadem adorns 

the head, whilst

a requiem rises

from the riverbed. 

But so long as

the flow of nectar

stays steadfast,

you won't, of course,

inveigh; you'll

simply have to be

an iconoclast

some other day...

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Adventure means you venture

To tread beyond 

The trodden ground, 

To seek the bloom

Instead of doom,

And mock the king you crowned. 

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Name on an ostracon. 

The reckoning decrees 

That one is to be

Exiled to the marginalia

Of life, sans regalia

Of former glory, no

Laurels to rest weary on--

But perhaps the chance

To recommence at

The foothills, on a far

Sturdier footing, might

Suffice as recompense?

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Climb the lattice of vices

To look above the parapet,

Towards hope-laced vistas,

Daring to learn the alphabet

Anew, neutralizing the venom

That one tends to catapult

Against their mirrored

Counterpart, murmuring 

Instead, a rare canticle

Of conciliation, 

Not retaliation. 

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We tried our luck

At the labyrinth 

Of life, with that

Deluded persistence

Of pickpockets, wishing

To pilfer just 

A sliver of sky. 

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A duel within, 

The schism of 

Warring wills, 

Factions that still

Salute the same

Flag, but are

Now poised for 

A conflagration, 

Should they not

Succeed at 

Persuasion...

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A collage of snippets,

curated by Bliss, 

a policy of appeasement

you offer the Abyss;

an attempt to soothe

the pinpricks of impertinence

ceaselessy supplied

by all-powerful Impermanence.

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A roll call 

Of lost souls, 

Hiding in foxholes,

In absentia from

Their own destiny,

Engulfed in a digression, 

Far from the main idea,

Where mirrors inspire enmity,

The futility of futurity

Feels more than real,

And healthy skepticism

Becomes stealthy cynicism, 

Without the bridle on, 

Under the graceless tutelage

Of all those doubting Thomases

Who rea...

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Will his Myrmidons, 

his very own ant-men,

make him immortal, and

have Armageddon delayed

just one more day?

Will they provide 

the impenetrable, blessed

shield that transcends

the fatal, accursed

flaw of the heel?

For a moment, perhaps

their phalanx can

render him invincible;

but, alas, not

from first principles. 

For there are always

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A moment that turns 

Into a turning-point, 

Or point-of-no-return,

A Rubicon-crossing

That bears no stamp

Of approval, merely

A refusal to see

Choice as boon,

Instead of bane,

As you embrace

The bruise bestowed

By Fate, in all its 

Uninterrupted glory, 

Handing it the reins

Of the story, so 

That to its decree

You acquiesce; but

Then again, you

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Flakes of paint

float in the air

of remembrance,

from past to

present, vying

for prominence, 

as they aim 

to be subtly

re-arranged 

into a more

palatable fresco

that honours 

the original 

palette, but

also protects 

from the searing

ache of the 

plans that 

never did find

the glade,

the clearing. 

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White around the gills,

but still chasing windmills,

searching for terra incognita,

a prophet's mute 'eureka',

trying to avoid the ancestral

temptation of a centripetal

existence on the scaffolding 

of solipsism, whilst grappling

with the invitation to profess,

without ever daring to confess. 

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A halo of Furies, 

diligent as fruit flies, 

to adorn a head full

of doubts and regrets, 

as judge, jury, and

executioner all decide

your fate in a mêlée,

the verdict to be 

delivered in the middle

of a Sphinx-like riddle. 

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Uncomfortable in Euclidean space,

Encountering skin you'd rather

Crawl out of, left to wonder

How some, fortunate perhaps,

Find sustenance in a steady

Diet of sedation and ignorance,

Both blissful and willful,

Always armed with a lantern

That lights the pattern 

Of their thinking, best

Described as wishful?

Read and leave comments (2)

Will sunflowers still

know who to search for, 

if the tanks march in?

They have a covenant with 

the sky, but their roots

are in the land, and

there's no guarantee 

they get to keep 

that title deed. 

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The sunset of a selfhood

that no longer serves;

who you used to be, and 

who you're supposed 

to be: a blurring,

sun meeting sea. 

The hues of fire govern

the metamorphosis,

set the fictions 

of convenience

ablaze, so that

the ashes of

the perfunctory

may give rise 

to the manna

of discovery.

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A crinkled fountain, 

Every ripple a wish

Just floating to meet

Its very next of kin;

Because won't there be

A reign of similarity

In this aquatic

Tapestry of humanity?

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A college of cardinals

that brims with cardinal

sins, a conclave of

mysticism manufactured, 

enclave of a complacency

so rarely fractured; 

a hub of pomp and

circumstance, harbouring

a pretense of the 

apostolic, enough to

conceal the vitriolic. 

Fumata nera, or bianca?

No one worthy of the stigmata. 

And the epoch's achromatopsia

ensures that the ver...

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The phonograph feigns interest 

In the nets of narrative

Woven in the third person

To catch the tales 

Of a semi-reliable narrator,

Curator of once melodious

Motifs, morphed now into

A diaspora of discordant 

Echoes, which the stylus

Stern but righteous, 

Delivers as it pierces

A lifetime's past tense. 

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Reprising roles

In a comedy farcical

But never radical,

Beginning-middle-end

Stale, nothing to upend,

Left with little more

Than the repeat comfort

Of having to contend

With devils you know,

Who will always betray

But shall warn you so, 

In a well-worn script,

Its pitied pages frayed. 

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The fabricated timelines

that govern our lives:

torture chambers we

saunter into, fooled

by those ingratiating

signs on the door, 

the sinister singsong

at first far too

faint to discern,

but soon enough,

the encomium to

convention begins 

to sound a lot 

like a requiem

without redemption.

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A cityscape littered

With the guilty spires

Of eras bygone, ones

That never did sire

The outcomes foretold.

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In a score-settling mood

With the way things go, 

Though the point might be moot,

If life's sine qua non

Is the precariousness of it all. 

Indeed, yesterday's feast

Could be tomorrow's defeat;

But what of today?

It could be the olive branch

Extended in exchange.

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A polyglot fluent

In too many of

Pain's iterations, and

Evergreen reverberations. 

Born in porphyry, 

The purple of victory, 

But one they called Pyrrhic,

With a tinge of the satiric.

Does the trophy even matter

If they'll make you dress

In the Shirt of Nessus next?

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Recklessly thought it

yet another squabble, 

only to then rummage

through the rubble, 

trying to salvage 

morsels of a past

that's already

cracking in a 

looking glass. 

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Could the license to live

be resurrected from 

the embers of a

borrowed breath, as

the vespers sigh

a solemn request, 

hoping the worshiper

meets the listener

who reassures that

it is not in vain 

all that one endures?

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The confines of a definition, 

Prison of one's own volition;

A marionette enacting

A puppet play of discontent,

Like the renegade once

Fond of derring-dos,

Now marooned sans

A good excuse, pleading

For the autogenous

Warfare of attrition

To, at least, ordain

A sea-change of vision. 

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Transfixed by the trappings

of a purposeless sentience

that kindly aim to mask

an existential reticence;

to lull the din of all

the humdrum, and blur

the stalactites that lurk

in the freeze frame 

of a life sublet. 

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Is there a beguiling

allure to being a 

visionary on a quest,

never at the behest 

of anyone but the 

breeze, letting 

Zephyrus set 

the course, for

both the rise, 

and the fall?

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Marveling at the mileage

That make-believe 

Can cover, to give

Scorched earth a tinge

Of the ethereal, amidst

A hesitant penumbra,

One that complements

A silence sepulchral.

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Bet-hedging at the headquarters

of a blinkered vision, trying 

to avoid the collision 

that would make an exodus

the only option decorous,

as you ignore shadows

that lengthen, and favour

fallacies that strengthen. 

Read and leave comments (1)

Life fails to provide

a dress rehearsal, hence

the stage fright remains

all too real throughout

the play, never knowing

what act you're in, 

which scene is coming up, 

or whether the prompter

will be on duty to

save the day, as the 

voice trembles beneath

the spotlights of truth,

while it searches for 

the next line that 

doesn't break character

and fav...

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A vigil for the temporally bound,

Deafened by the bodeful ticking

Of a grinning grandfather clock,

Retinas scratched by grains of sand

Lurking in inverted glass, 

Hermetically sealed to conceal

That all constructs are makeshift.

Try to outrun the analog hands 

That slice like scimitars;

Reside in realms that protect 

From the arbiters of neglect

Who relish chr...

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The paradox of puppetry

With all our chosen strings

Performing the part of analgesic

That allays the pain of picking,

Assails the liberty that looms

An idea too large, and dooms

Us into an epigram of Sartre. 

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Could the sounds of summer

be the tuning fork to which

melancholy sets its pitch?

While the well-adjusted revel

in the crash of the surf, 

and the breath of a breeze, 

others, sickened by the cicada,

resort to a simple wish:

that another bright day

goes by, and they have still

to crawl out of their skin. 

Read and leave comments (2)

A leading question for

one begging to be led, 

to be fed the answer

like manna from 

a benevolent sky, 

one that never lies, 

yet chooses to divide

truths in halves;

and so caters to 

both the picturesque,

as well as the grotesque,

depending on one's 

vantage, and the 

day's selected adage.

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An air-raid siren,

Rhythmic harbinger of war

Ordering a sing-along,

Ready to give right of way

To the jackboot with sway;

To drown out the fifer, and

Awaken the huntsman in Orion. 

The siren cares not

That the daisies 

Are in bloom, or

That the children ought

To be in school, and

That there's no 

Such thing as

An exit wound. 

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The accident of birth

favours and anoints, 

and rushes to appoint

a destiny to match

mercurial georgraphies, 

as well as your branch

on that grand common tree

of our cosmic family. 

Read and leave comments (2)

Trying to build a bridge

from one end of the abyss 

to the other, just to 

have it suffer the very

same lot as the 

Bridge of Arta, built 

by daylight, crumbling

by nightfall. 

Another immurement to 

end the curse and 

save the day, just like

at Arta? And how much

more blood to be claimed

by the mortar?

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Reams of dialogue 

and a newfound love

for the polysyllabic

exalt prevarication, 

the elevation of evasion

into the day's art;

a transparent attempt 

to wrap an end

in leaves of gold, 

instead of a forthright

admission that the time

for curtain-drawing is nigh. 

Yet, an end does not

negate the old beginning,

or the middle; it may

even be the herald...

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A barbershop quartet 

invited to lament

the unalloyed solipsism

symptomatic of a

monochromatic way

of being.

An a cappella rendition

of a pellucid vision,

in which the self

drowns out the rest. 

But the harmony is close,

to the point of suffocation,

and the melody of escape

demands a major change

in octave to avoid

a looming decimation. 

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A rather pedestrian setting

For the ethereal bloodletting

Required to catch a muse, 

Or at the very least,

Catch her in a decent mood. 

But what will it be today?

Thalia's ivy wreath, or 

The knife of Melpoméne?

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The script of one's life

written in Braille. 

The future artfully

rendered in grisaille.

At the rendezvous of

fate and personal 

agency, which wins

and which bestows

clemency?

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A sea shanty or a siren song?

A smile that had to be stitched on?

Always on the cusp of a golden age

That waits in the wings, yet

Refuses to take centre-stage.

A universally accusatory 'why'

Permanently rolling off the tongue,

For isn't it far smoother than

An apologia for ignorance?

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Stare at the dotted line

Till it blurs,

As it attempts

To confer a choice. 

But are you willing 

To bleed on it, 

As it morphs into

A ligature that

Connects the shaky

Hand to that

Precarious equilibrium

Of safety and liberty,

With a signature that

Threatens to turn life

Into a caricature?

Read and leave comments (2)

The glittering lake

beckons a face to 

find the forbidden 

reflection, the one

heretofore hidden for

his own protection; so,

Narcissus, convinced

that who he sees is

other than himself, 

becomes enamoured of

the hydrous wonder, 

yet no amount of

genuflection ever moves

the inimical reflection,

and the youth, spurned, 

dies of a broken heart;

an artfu...

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Truths twisting tongues

into silent submission.

A spiteful song emerges

in place of contrition.

The eyes seem mesmerized

by the sudden ultimatum,

but won't ever blink

to grant the imprimatur. 

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A music box ballerina

trapped in an on-demand

universe of dance.

A dervish who never 

gets to cherish

the fruit of the twirl.

A pearl doomed 

to be entombed

forever in its shell.

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Utterances never to be made,

devoured by the quicksand 

of a mind stuck on the refrain

of dementia, lucidity 

in absentia; and though

the wheels of cognition

on occasion seem to spin, 

the will to endeavour speech

fades with facility, just

to hammer home the fragility

of an orchestra whose conductor

fails to be the anchor 

required to prevent discordant

notes...

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Running through a tunnel,

But you're on a treadmill.

Panting for the exit,

But you're only guessing. 

Looking over your shoulder

For the Fury on pursuit,

But you're just ruminating

While the Jury she recruits. 

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Clinging to ill-fitting goals

Is to accept being addressed

With a borrowed sobriquet, 

To expect protection 

From a bedevilled amulet,

To forage for an entheogen

And end up with a pathogen,

To pray for a philosopher king

But be gifted a profligate régime. 

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Forced to extract subtext

from  threadbare sentences

spoken with a Spatrtan

disposition, not out

of reverence for the

laconic, but rather

a fear that honest

exposition might 

lead to a shift

tectonic, where

proper explication

banishes prevarication, 

yet opens the door

to the realm of

irreparable fission.

Read and leave comments (2)

Hope persists like

barnacles on a boat, 

even as said boat 

sinks, and nobody

proves invulnerable;

because even Thetis

couldn't guard her 

son from menace:

she dipped him

in the river Styx,

but left his heel

ground for a mortal

wound, portal to

the land of those

who perish in the

flux of a different

river, the one

of Heraclitus.  

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Dreams coagulate on a

horizon never to be

reached.

The wire behind which

they lurk is barbed,

and more than willing

to draw blood. 

But perhaps it's in

the reaching that 

the meaning lies, 

that a saving

grace resides?

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Irises dipped in fury.

A confession through coercion;

A lullaby off-key;

A laurel wreath veiling fangs,

All as fatuous as basking

In reflected glory, with

A Jolly Roger on the mast. 

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In medias res of the cataclysm,

Trying to trace the commencement

Back to a Pandora's box that

Looked like treasure galore, 

Failing to understand that

The cornucopia also fostered 

The dystopia, as divine

Temper tantrums disturb

The fulcrum on which

Humanity swivels as it

Dithers over good and evil.

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A counterfeit complacency

to ease the bane of being.

Why aim for the firmament when

you've read the fine print?

Inscribed in small type

is the loss that won't be

quantifiable, yet readily

identifiable. 

So you lower the sails

in shame, before the

voyage even gets

its say. 

Read and leave comments (2)

A master weaver unwittingly

Challenges the divine

To duel, eluding humility,

Ensnared in the lair of pride. 

Arachne declares her skill

Superior to Athena's,

Forgets that her gift 

Flows from the goddess

And that it would behoove her

To be grateful and modest. 

Athena in old lady garb

Appears before Arachne

With but a single chance

For the mortal to...

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The Andromeda galaxy, 

principal dancer in a 

patient collision ballet

choreographed by a universe

and its benign indifference;

a galactic pas de deux 

to span the ages, until

prima ballerina and Milky Way 

merge to commence

new dawns and fables...

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Train the eye

To find the miracle

Prior to sanction

From an oracle. 

Cast the die. 

Don't deliberate 

In the purgatory 

Of the dilatory. 

Meet the tide

As if facing

The elements' whims

Was a life's calling. 

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If cannons shot out 

crayons and we made

canon the common

picture children

painted, might there

be a chance for an

innocence revival

to ostracize the

ouroboros of 

incursion and

reprisal?

Read and leave comments (1)

A nighttime pantomime through

weeping windscreens, a 

different shadow play

in every car, gestures

that run the gamut

of emotions, humanity

in silhouette form, 

mini-dramas in

proportion, soon

to be carried away

by an asphalt 

reminder of 

the fixity of

transience. 

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The human nuisance of being

An amphibious dweller,

A hell and heaven lodger,

Amity and anomie

Within a single psyche;

An asset, this biformity?

Or redolent, rather, 

Of fated deformity?

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Hindsight marches in, nonchalant,

And makes one a revisionist historian:

Dilemmas resolved but deleterious

Once again promise to turn mysterious. 

So the agony of crossroads past

Is sculpted in high-relief,

While erstwhile echoes

Taunt in high-fidelity. 

The farce is interactive

And the thespian exceedingly demanding:

Exhumes storylines thought inert,

Han...

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A roman-à-clef with

real-life theft

flying off the page.

The triumphs and travails

of personages writ large

instantly all the rage. 

Will the requisite anagnorisis

ensue, or will the protagonists

hide under fiction's guise

and eschew the humiliation

involved in avowing that

they, too, are flawed?

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Beware the glad-handing, 

there's a flicker of

schadenfreude in those

beady eyes, like the

fleeting glimmer of 

a switchblade

interrupting the 

crepuscular before

it goes for the

jugular...

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Scheherazade devises a plan

To wear tales like jewels

And use them as munition

On her ever noble mission

To assuage a sultan's wrath,

Till he simply has to know

Of all fresh follies

In strangers' stories,

And is thus safely enrapt. 

So to spin a good yarn

May transcend the realm of art;

It can be the armament you need

To resist tyrannical caprice. 

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The glass of hours

salivates and devours

the moment too long

it took to forgo

the role the force

of habit assigned, 

rendering you thus

yet another conscript 

in its granular

army of sand. 

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A vernacular from the bowels

of the ancestral tapestry

that seeks to preserve

the familial alchemy,

a saw-toothed serenade for

the generations' cavalcade;

but if self-begetting

is the goal, is it not

high time you maimed

that mould?

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Lethal combat before

A Theban wailing wall.

Brother versus brother.

Polynices and his six

Against usurping Eteocles. 

A double fratricide. 

Not even zero-sum.

Mutual assured destruction

No longer a safety valve, 

But a cold, blooded fact.

The jigsaw of hubris

Won't be complete

Until noble Antigone

Clashes with the crown

Of Creon, and marches

To her...

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The endoscopy provides a verdict:

Cause of the potentates' malaise

Is the footrpint of a pharisaic

Adherence to norms prosaic,

That aim solely to maintain

The appearance of beatitude

And conceal a kleptocratic attitude,

While the clamorous miscreants

Inhale plumes of smoke to be spewed,

And trail shattered mirrors to produce

A tale of funhouse phantasmagoria

To dis...

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Stuck on the wrong side

of Kafka's bespoke door, 

professed gateway to the law, 

with a lock and key made to fit, 

and a gatekeeper quite akin

to the dreaded hound of Hades. 

To plead, cajole and bribe

adds only irony to the plight,

for Cerberus cares not

for the tremulous who fawn. 

Action sans sapience, 

sure-fire path to stasis;

yet the psychomachy ...

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A leopard's leap of faith

For the ability to claim

A primordial goodness

In the collective nous,

When the cable ties of comfort

Dictate the deleterious refrain,

Whereby a barrage of bullets

Signals one is thrice betrayed

Right before the rooster.

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Is there a sentinel

on life's citadel

who has a view

panoramic and true, 

who can sound 

the foghorn when

it's time to eschew

the bane of knowledge

from the bosom

of an apple tree,

and choose to let in

particles of light

that alight on souls

weary from crosses

cumbersome yet trite?

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Play snakes and ladders

With the night sky,

Spot the Seven Sisters

With the naked eye,

Pontificate on the chasm

Between tactile and phantasm,

Take umbrage at the adage 

That time is the master-healer,

For Atlas still carries the heavens,

And Chronos plays the hand-wringer. 

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The sky brims

with umbrellas

for a rain that

never comes;

the other shoe

suspended

in mid-air,

as crows

terrorize 

the doves.

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Life dressed in riddles

And speaking in synecdoches,

As angels and demons

Tap-dance on the spokes

Of a Hephaestus-forged

Wheel of fortune,

The whims of which

Seem to narcotize

Clarity out of its wits,

Just to crystallize

The notion that devotion

To a destiny definitive

Will forever be laughed off

By the empyrean

As the arrogance of

Anthropocentricity...

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Consult the almanac.

Perform a litmus test. 

Check the astral alignment. 

Find faces and facades

In soggy leaves of tea;

Anything really, to avert

The momentum of an impulse,

Safeguarding thus, sans reversal,

The title of loyal dweller 

In the stronghold of inertia.  

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Lies reeking of pathology,

Omissions pseudo-sanitized

By good intentions, as they

Venture linguistic crimes

With a con artist's pride. 

Second-guessing shall become

Second-nature, as you learn

To trust solely in fitfuls,

Because you can still smell

The burning flesh from that

Last time defenses were lax

And trust was considered apt.

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A psalm to act as balm.

A canticle to chronicle

the fall.

The howl of humanity

that laces the humdrum. 

The cartography of an apocalypse

as mandatory manacles strive

to burst into marigolds. 

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No matter the thalassic antics,

there's always a glow soterial

without motives ulterior, 

to soothe the seafarer's blues;

a little magnetic comfort

from the sky's anchor:

Polaris to the rescue, 

a benediction uttered in

silent resplendent diction.

An invitation of friendship

from the firmament

to the Magi of the sea,

a little something fixed

amidst the w...

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Your wings are made of wax.

They make a foe out of the sun. 

But each piece of them that drips

Proudly declares that you've lived. 

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Grandmother. 

A rocking chair.

A back and forth. 

From present to past,

Past to present, as

Future rests uncertain.

Myriad tales to be told,

As the phantoms of yore

Loom more real than

The aims of today. 

An anticlockwise choreography 

Needs seatbelts fastened,

The fireplace crackling, as

Lanes traversed are interspersed

With paths forsaken. 

...

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Every court needs its jester,

Every king his truth-teller,

A daring gadfly to pester,

To challenge myth and legend,

To render reality in the demotic,

Before the realm turns despotic. 

So don't look down on the fool,

He's there for a reason:

To see beyond the pomp and crown,

With a bout of Socratic inquisition. 

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Life at a standstill.

At the crossroads of Hercules,

Vice and Virtue battle it out:

At once, Vice tries to entice,

But Virtue knows patience,

So her time she bides. 

Arresting presentations ensue,

As each of them previews

A simulacrum of what could be,

Murmurs of a life he might lead. 

There's kaleidoscopic excitement

With casual ethics on offer,

Or a ...

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To exist as an emotional

contortionist means learning

to perform at will

the mind's matchless

circus tricks.

It means the ability 

to enter a room, 

speedily gauge moods, 

and adjust demeanour 

to appease, though

there's no guarantee

you'll escape the

charge of sin. 

Of course, breathing out

is not an option,

as you prepare for

the next con...

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A torchlight procession. 

A search party for what's lost.

Screaming their names in a forest:

Meaning, Purpose, and Control.

The screams are primal

And tainted with despair,

For there's no talisman to rival

The booted march of time,

No sign compellingly apotropaic

To make a dent in history's mosaic. 

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The mantlepiece memorabilia

stand at attention, salute

and await marching orders 

from the commandant of memory, 

ready to parade gauzed-over 

truths, a panoply of sibilant

echoes, from times jubilant

or dreadful, like a 

mischievous missive from

all that's missing... 

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A performance review

of the repartee

finds it subpar,

the mot juste,

the witty remark

never uttered 

when it mattered 

during the

aforementioned badinage. 

The gibe meant to

jolt the combative

interlocutor might

have been pithy, 

but it got carried

away by Lethe. 

Still, no need to brood,

"verba volant" holds true

at any rate, so 

nex...

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A career politician, 

or dastardly magician?

A portfolio of expediency

and a finger glued to the wind

for the Machiavellian tactician. 

It's all sleight of hand

as coins disappear,

and rabbits out of a hat

only as he electioneers. 

The act is cheap and on repeat,

but somehow it never ends,

different costumes, different props,

an audience ever read...

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We stumble along in semidark,

a patchwork of epiphanies,

an amalgam of antipathies,

with a celestial chaperone,

or maybe freer yet more

alone, armed with half

a Rosetta stone, trying

to transliterate hieroglyphs 

into an alphabet of runes, but

crude metaphrasts that we are,

we never seem to land

on a lingua franca,

one that might afford us

a common place in t...

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In the dominion of madness,

Without hope as a harness,

Lurks a game of roulette;

Russian to be exact, where

The cylinder of a revolver

Traps a bullet carved, to

Spell 'Character Assassination'

In lieu of 'Resignation'.

But this is Chekhov's gun,

And all you need to do

Is keep it off the stage,

So there's no trigger to

Be pulled by the third act

For the s...

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The notorious tend to pen

a memoir that reads more

like a grimoire, brimming

with tales of spells cast

on unsuspecting sycophants,

as the cast of heroes and

villains gets re-arranged

to play the narrator's 

revisionist redaction game. 

But one may yet unveil 

the farce: all it really

takes is to parse

the pretension pleading 

to be housed in the pantheon

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Carry your contradictions

like precious cargo.

Embrace the adventure

and join Jason's Argo.

Set sail for Colchis

to retrieve the Golden Fleece. 

Know that Hera has your back,

but courage is yours to pluck up.

The journey won't be without loss, 

but you'll defeat the Clashing Rocks. 

A white dove shall see you through,

thanks to the counsel of Phineus. 

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Moods on a merry-go-round

That spins archaic sorrows

Into the freshest battleground.

A round of Cluedo

To pass the baton of blame, 

Point fingers at the culprit,

Condemn them from a pulpit,

Make a skin-of-teeth escape

Yourself, win another day

To placate the carousel. 

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The human fascination with

pattern-seeking, and the

comfort afforded by said

patterns' supposed meaning,

can hone one's affinity

for the artifice

of synchronicity. 

As randomness and chaos loom

ever so large, to believe 

life mates with geometry

may satiate the wish

to envision that 

everything does

happen for 

a reason.

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The unexamined life might

not be worth all that much,

but what if you get trapped

in the purgatory of memory,

no moratorium on melancholy?

That's where rumination reigns

supreme, and the brain succumbs 

to bribery, falling prey

to fake advertising

of a score-settling splash,

an ersatz denouement. 

So commences the dissection

of thoughts, utterances, de...

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An unelected commentariat,

consistent in the role 

it never auditioned for:

fervid leader of the Chorus,

sounding the clarion call

for initiation into the cult

of Conformity, where uniformity

is lauded and applauded, there

lies a bounty of laurel-resting

and sufficient ego-nesting,

all while hidden codicils

wink and threaten

a withdrawal of goodwill

for whome...

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All the Bethlehems in the world

couldn't grant you that re-birth,

the one you crave and need

to defeat the grinning labyrinth. 

The corridors are contaminated

with seedlings of doubt, 

inklings of dread, yet

you still unspool the thread

Ariadne gave you, and

pray it's no jest. 

After all, what's a maze for,

without its roaming Minotaur?

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They plucked the feathers

Of the white dove,

Smothered them in tar,

Took pliers to its nails, 

Scissors to its tongue;

Then cried when creation 

Eerily laughed back...

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You'll most likely need a sherpa

for the foray into that

mountainous terrain known

as the Land of Disillusion. 

When there, make certain

you sidestep the cadavers 

of notions once fondly

regurgitated because innocent

brains were indoctrinated. 

Disclaimer: there may be no elixir

to bring back like in every 

decent hero's journey, other

than a clarity y...

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Shackled to a duty to worry

prior to any fact, sparring

with scenarios remote and macabre;

your very own soothsayer 

who never soothes--

--and all this done

in the foolish hope that

the suffering endured in advance

might act as prophylactic,

a universe propitiation tactic.

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Spanning the spectrum

from Pollyanna to pessimism

within a given day:

so it's dawn with Pangloss 

and dusk with Schopenhauer 

et al.

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A will-o'-the-wisp wields

too much power, phosphorescent

as it is evanescent, invites

the traveler to mistake 

the swamp for ground

to exalt. 

But the ignis fatuus caresses

those weary irises for

moments of reprieve, then

proves just as vacuous

as a midsummer night's

reverie...

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Alcyone and Ceyx, queen and king,

stepping on the toes of deities, 

thinking it all a little game

to call each other an Olympian name. 

But Hera and Zeus don't find it much fun

and, quite gleeful to unleash their wrath,

they feel that Ceyx deserves a gift:

yes, a thunderbolt on his ship.

A metamorphosis then for Morpheus,

god of dreams, turns him into Ceyx,

...

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A Doomsday Clock ticks

while hope is on hiatus.

To relinquish control: a feat

of herculean proportions.

How long before a knuckle-duster knock

forces you to timidly open the door

to whatever checkmate now has

your king decidedly under siege?

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This pain is protean.

It was born to shapeshift.

It morphs from bitterness

to fear, frustration

to regret, and

the tracer fire you deploy

as you traverse war zones

in a past tense, illumines

nothing more than a child

trapped in thought,

made to believe that

existence sans achievement

never belonged in the 

worthy's lexicon. 

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Names carved on weathered bark

With a futile conviction of forever.

They've seen the seasons change, sighed

The occasional 'O tempora, o mores!',

Pled guilty to the charge of hoping too much

That a forgiving breeze could still

Dress their wounds, shush their shoulds,

Then erase every trace from the bark...

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Cassandra in a coal mine:

A canary meant to reign

Over the genus of the accursed,

Destined to be burnt

At stakes not invented yet.

Why does every age crave

Its dose of witch-hunts?

Always ready to indulge 

In a delirium of scapegoats

Skinned and lashed?

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On a scavenger hunt for Excaliburs

to marvel at but abandon in stone;

the lofty goal carefully selected

to grant the mirage of aspiration,

assuage mundanity's machinations,

plant cobblestones on unbeaten paths,

all the while knowing that

the final wave of triumph

must come from Fate's false flag.

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Who truly gets to spin

the wheel of destiny?

Is it a prime mover with a grudge?

Or man, according to his

rarely compos mentis plan?

Perhaps it's a universe

with shoulders that shrug

whenever we play with knives

in our neighbour's backyard...

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Ripples of fear soar

to form rogue waves.

Cells leak uncertainty.

Cue the short circuit.

The chaos gives cover 

to the cronies of Time.

So they coalesce 

to resurrect every 

fleeting thought of Death,

as they compose

their master's magnum opus:

a cheap pastiche

of a prince's 

"To be, or not to be"...

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Delilah speaks scandals sotto voce,

Delights in sealing Samson's fate,

A temptress of such calibre and skill,

A taunting tyrant welcomed in.

Then again, Samson chooses the fool's fetters,

Relishes his time spent in tethers,

Surrenders vigilance for pleasure's sake,

And so: misses the gleaming of her blade. 

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Would we be better off

If life had a blueprint?

A cipher for the pitfalls,

For the obstacles a rubric?

But wouldn't that drain 

Discovery of its delight?

Who wants the poetry of dreams

To turn prosaic at the seams?

Fortune's quicksilver acrobatics

Might draw out a gasp,

But grace is only forged in fire,

With a pirouette on high wire...

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Pronouncements made with an air

Of that 'je ne sais quoi'

And a dose of Delphic grandeur,

Harbouring the same obscurantism

That served the Pythia so well.

So our demand to have a prophecy substantiated

Gets scrapped, lest the mysticism be vitiated,

And we're left scratching our heads,

Wondering whether there was indeed

A special something in those oracular leaves!

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Lost in a crescendo of lament

while the crows of terror portend:

you're the hostage they needn't perfect:

sightless in a shrinking universe of self.

Soon a micrography will suffice

to render the demise,

as you play the lead

in Vishnu's vaudeville. 

Yes, the drowning is violent

in this reality distilled,

and Galileo hasn't yet

with a dethronement intervene...

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Will the family tree forever forbid

the construction of a hamlet of hope,

insisting instead on a Potemkin village

primed for sardonic remembrance to pillage,

with all those anachronistic injections 

of melancholy and ire and rejection?

Perhaps the bloodline is too boisterous,

the pedigree far too traitorous...

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The stamped envelope is self-addressed,

the poison pen letter it protects

knows to hurl the vitriol

where it lands best,

where caveats are ignored,

paralysis cajoled. 

The recipient shall hardly flinch

at the abuse, won't dare 

regard it as libel or slander,

for, after all, when has ink

on paper spilled ever blazed

more alive, more convincing?

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A panopticon is not a panaceia. 

It does not preclude the optical illusion,

Nor the potential for delusion.

The scale on the map does matter;

For this is not the Lilliput royal court,

But a court of public opinion enthralled

With deciding the song and dance du jour,

Dispensing the diktat of the zeitgeist,

And though the suitors swarm the palace,

Telemachus is bitter and ...

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When the posturing is potent enough,

the hologram of holiness

may be mistaken for the original. 

When the memory is fervent enough,

the reticence of reality

could prove parochial, and dull.

When the aphorism absolves one enough,

the poltergeist of guilt

knows to retreat,

for forty winks, at least...

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Orestes, by Erinyes hounded

For the hubris that amounted

To child morphing into murderer,

Acting on Apollonian advice;

And what could go wrong

With a god on your side?

Now the Furies won't forget

To exact their pound of flesh.

So what if it's sins of the father

That spark the spiral of doom?

It's Iphigenia, Electra and Orestes

Always draped in funeral festoons...

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They hold you by the hand

All primed, proper, and prim,

Your excuses clad in egoism

Like children made to grin,

Your bondsmen of bail

When the mess turns byzantine.

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The chorus chants approval

As you dance your demise;

The erosion of insignia

Inevitable,

Regalia, suddenly alien, sold

For pennies on the dollar.

Frayed corners and sepia

Might seem like comfort now,

But as it seeps into the 

Bloodstream,

Remember: there's a bite 

To nostalgia... 

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The thunderbolt of Zeus

incinerates the Titans

and the soot gives rise

to the sin we've called

mankind.

But what do you expect,

being birthed blind

as a votary,

from the post-mortem

of a Titanomachy?

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There's that sadistic soundtrack

From your strange feedback loop:

It's your aria of errors,

Artfully woven by woes

Into a tapestry of terrors.

You can plug your ears all you want,

Scream 'La la la' like you're 5 years old,

The voices with few choices

Must now uncrown clarity;

It's the shadow self extorting parity.

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The art in a covenant of hearts is

to break that treaty first,

gather belongings and 

memories of yore, and

from safety lament a

Rome burnt...

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The skies are full of pies

For the dreamers who dare not

See that the cynic they condemn

Used to be one of them

Till the moon gave him a glimpse

Of the dark side of idealism,

Where the quixotic isn't merely hypnotic,

But more akin to kismet's Ponzi scheme.

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There's a pretender vying for the throne:

He's raised the drawbridge from self to sanity,

And schadenfreude will stain his lips 

As you struggle in the moat;

But perhaps there's fortitude enough

In a herald of arms who's learned

That bells shall sooner ring in plangency

For one who chooses virtue over pageantry...

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Have we not been sufficiently drenched

in the acid rain that is pseudo-politesse?

Can you not hear the crunching

of eggshells under the soles of our shoes?

Are we no longer entitled to honesty,

and satire, and sharp wits?

But be warned: sharp wits demand sharp tongues,

and your obsession with offence stains

the canvas of intellectual largesse. 

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Marching on with a soul that sighs,

Grabbing grace from within,

Confronting confession with a grin,

Tittering at the indulgence and the tithe

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Does each sip aim at sanctity?

As in, In Vino Veritas?

But why would liquid courage 

be required to express solid convictions?

Sure, Dionysus winks and grins,

but Apollo whispers: Aequanimitas...

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