Future Poetry

In this life, there’s no time to regret
Time is going faster than ever
Victories turned inside out

Defeats made for modifying learning strategies
The beaten champions may be sobbing
But that’s not us, we have always
Been after something different
The divine adverb, the supernal noun

That’s not something most people can relate to
We fall in love to diagram the sentence
Of love stuck in the mouth of youth

That’s the feeling of being alive forever
It’s being part of a symbolic immortality
While tonight, no poetry can serve
The syntax of our new rendition
We’ll reincarnate a few times each decade

In order to keep up with the singularity
While words remain the primitive way
Organics communicate, there will be

A pure wilfulness of connection akin
To thought-information-light-speed
There poetry will be a dreaming of how
The common language once sounded like
A beautiful rich tone of slow motion existence.

Poetry is a mode of consciousness

Poetry is a mode of consciousness

If I were to tell you that
That no one could speak words
If it weren’t for language

Would you be grateful for the
Imperfect means of non-silence?
In the midst of living, we are
Trapped in death, it’s the isolation

Of not being able to communicate
Our authentic meaning
Technology only multiplies
This realization, if I were to tell you

That all others know of us
Are mere words, illusions, approximations
Would you understand
That poetry for me is my

Attempt, like an autistic means
To communicate with forever?
The tears float between us
But my feelings remain private

Wine shared still tastes stale
If I know the exotic flavour of my suffering
Is something you have never experienced?

So when we drink together
Do not imagine that we know how
To efficiently empathize
In an unfeeling universe.

Title Embedded Below

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

The ones worth suffering for

“Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: “What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .””
― C.S. Lewis

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-friendship-tale-116384835

i

It’s a long time since I haven’t
heard from you, old friend
though you like to live in my mind
and in those moments I imagine
you are thinking of me too

our time and place is gone
to erect for ourselves a lovers’
monument deep in the recess of our soul

ii

We give each slice to another man
another woman, but the truth is
few captivate our ideals, have values
in the likeness of our own
once we talked about who we would

be, and to speak about changes
was to speak about love,
the love we shared for our future

iii

When you wept because we had to part
did you know there was another
unlike me waiting for you?
It’s a long time since I haven’t
heard from you, I did not receive

even a little piece of paper
It’s not a lack of love
but a lack of friendship
which makes the missing stronger.

CARTOGRAPHIES OF LANGUAGE

A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love

A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals

A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy

At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness.