Pic of the day

Pic of the day
Somehow, she's always the one up here.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Epic('s) secret

Through the torment of life and the fear of damnation
flows the invigorating blood of imagination.
The nectar of creativity, aliased inspiration,
flows down a thigh, to the mouth of a lover's perversion,
taking the form of a red burgundy wine
mirroring the fiery breath of lust, divine.

Life is in the senses - yet we meditate.
Death is inevitable - yet we procreate.
The senses entice, ensnare and enhance,
yet in introspection, we try to dance.

It is the quickening of the pulse of an ever-tiring heart
that sparks off the passion that rips decency apart.
To reach deep beyond its bosomed burial -
The passion to exhume is the epic trial.

The fire that lies buried beneath
is not an heirloom to bequeath.
It dies as quick as a whiff of breeze
and can be fanned with equal ease.

As the heaving of anticipating breath does rise,
and the depth and intensity of mascara-laced eyes
betray the desire, 
the lust and the fire,
comes a moment of clarity and realisation
that true vision lies in allowing intoxication.

To taste the sweetness of poetic form
is the purpose of lips - soft and warm.
For in that moment of diabolic contact
the universe ceases existential impact.

No burning stars or spinning moons;
no flooding waves or shifting dunes -
The moment of wanton elevation
is its own emancipation.

That sliver of clarity is what many a bard
have fought to seek so very hard.
Would it, so many past generations, soothe
to know that the answer is such a simple truth?

This isn't a tale for the faint; not a writ of morality;
not of love or life or death, but within each, the duality -
The blurred line that fails to divide the sensual from spirituality;
for in a moment of ecstatic joy lies the coveted immortality.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

If I die...

Maybe I'll see a bit of life,
if I die a little tonight.
Maybe there'll be a little less strife,
if I die a little tonight.
Perhaps the stars will conspire
if I die a little tonight
to give the blaze of a funeral pyre.
If I die a little tonight
it may be a loss for all of history.
If I die a little tonight
there may be ballads strung about me.

I wonder how many would take notice
if I die a little tonight.
They'd assign a detective, perhaps a novice
if I die a little tonight.
There'd be a fairly traditional mourn
if I die a little tonight.
A handful of people would be forlorn
if I die a little tonight.
There'd be sad things on facebook
if I die a little tonight.
But right now, no one would really look
if I die a little tonight.

If I die a little tonight
who would continue to write this blog?
If I die a little tonight
who would be the keystone cog?
If I die a little tonight
who would hold together this world?
If I die a little tonight
who would remember the meaning of "knurled"?

A candle would give itself to burn
if I die a little tonight.
This verse of mine, I would earn
if I die a little tonight.
They say an artist should be sacrificial.
If I die a little tonight
I think they'd think it artificial.
If I die a little tonight
perhaps it'll be a play one day.
If I die little tonight
(This line stays open for you to say).

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

If the past was penned with a blade of grass

Why couldn't the bible be written by John Lennon?
Why couldn't the quran be the work of Bob Dylan?
What if the scriptures were by the hand of Tagore -
forgetting rules and talking of ideas more?

Imagine if stories of the one
were written by ol' Jim Morrison.
If the rigour of rhythm and rhyme
were more important than sin or crime.

Words are at the root of our ideologies;
the very basis of our psychologies.
Why couldn't they be written
by someone who was smitten
by the love of life, instead of a cause? -
A writ of ideas, instead of laws?