Homogenised identityA curd festers on the top of a glass
Floating above the homogenised
Relative and pointing
At the curd
Relative to the curd
Fighting to sink
We Will All Know PovertyHearts fooled, fouled, full
Arteries throb, clogged with shadows
With truth, no room for the other
Who is demanding
Who is begging
The self, cut in two
The self can see
No more truth
Clogged with shadows
The good life
All needing now
Gorging on each other
Becoming the other
Poverty, the bifurcation of self
A well heart wealth
Under A Gibbous MoonIt was a dark evening, the light of a starkly gibbous moon shone ominously onto a lone Arkham building. A place rooted firmly into one of the more undesirable districts of that cursed city. The light trickled through into its Georgian interior, as if afraid of the dancing shadows it threw forward like devilish spectres. The pointed ears and peaked form of something alien to the world were cast darkly onto Howard Phillip Lovecraft by the softly tortured light. He sat reading the "The Cask of Amontillado", muttering to himself, strange musings punctuated by the curling of his lips. The cat's shadow disappeared and the scene seemed twisted for a moment, silent but for the screams of another world that could be heard echoing in the dark circuitous passageways of his mind.
Lovecraft stared stoically at the aged paper before him, pensive as he ignored this all too familiar experience. He closed the book, self indulgent self hatred and adoration of his erstwhile peer an
Misunderstanding AmbiguityColaba. Mumbai. India.
Tom & Tom step off of the pavement into the chaos of an Indian road. The smell of fried pakoda and diesel over-whelmed them to the point it no longer existed, denying contrast as they walked at equal pace across the street. An empty bottle thoughtlessly thrown was retrieved by a street child, who contemplated it thoughtfully. As Tom & Tom walked further away into doomed potential, a put-put narrowly missed their centre, the driver then having the gall to ask if they would like a ride, "Baba please. Why like this?".
Across Madam Cama Road sat the National Gallery of Modern Art, a pristinely alien aspect exuding false 'civilisation'. Tom looked towards Tom to affirm this was the place, although it was an educated guess inferred from a low quality image. They walked past the burning trash on the other side, passing the iron-fence leading to the entrance where a
Beauty in the contraryThere is beauty in the contrary.
The off beats of appreciation are not wanton
To those found wanting.
In the jazz of life,
They offer an escape from the machinations of our conducting oppressors.
A personal oppressor we all know well.
A violin that shrieks high and
Cuts at the beauty of melody,
Nothing but an escape from the prescient
Vision of pre-destiny. There is a remedy.
There is always a remedy. An escape
From the inevitable end we are
In the madness of the ecstatic heart heavy dance.
Release your burdens and see
What the enlightenment brings.
Whatever Happened to Forever?Whatever
Happened to Forever? Forever
A word moaned all to often.
By those who don't understand.
Forever? Two months. Less.
Instead say 'I cannot see greener grass at this point in time' or
'Insufficient data to compute new scenarios'.
Too many Tin men
With rusty hearts, not enough
A factor we avoid, but long for.
Do not ignore meaning, but
Subjective thoughts offer no comfort to a cog in the machine.
System error, fatal crash, error 113, reboot, reinstall.
One cog can break a machine, be that cog.
Not falling for foolish security.