Devil's bane

The devil came to me last night and said that he'd lost his insight. 
"I can't see into the soul", he said, "anymore, there's just a hole."

I asked the devil whose inners he'd viewed, being delicate so not to be rude. 
He said, "I've seen them all. And the sight can only appall."

"In the grand scheme, I play a role. It is my lot to consume the soul. 
Now and then, a calamity I carve. But now what do I do? Starve?"

Our chat had got quite hot, you see his flames were leaping a lot. 
My cat was scared with hair on end. I had to calm this new-found friend.

And then the thought, to me, occurred - all of this is rather absurd. 
It's 3 a.m. and the devil's decided it's time that he, in me, confided.

I don't mind lending an ear to an acquaintance or a dear. 
But apart from a cosmic being of yore, I had never met this fellow before!

So, my privacy invaded; all of hell my bedroom pervaded, 
I had to soothe the devil's agitation - The world needs this whiny apparition.

"Let's analyse the situation", I said calmly and with conviction. 
"The world's folks have lost their souls and in their place are only holes".

"Yes yes!", the devil paced. His flames followed. My mind raced - 
which wasn't very easy for me: you see the time was five past three.

"Are you sure?", to ask I dared. In return, he only glared. 
"All right.", with resignation, I said, rather than with fear or dread.

I remembered my high-school physics - one law of thermodynamics. 
Energy can't be destroyed or created; the universe, whole, must be equated.

And so I decided to state this law to one who once, the Big Bang, saw. 
He slapped his hand to his head. "Oh bloody hell", he sighed & said.

"I can't explain how the cosmos works. Your ignorance really irks. 
The only thing I want to know is where the souls are. Where did they go?"

His single breath grew to flame as his demand, he did proclaim. 
"This world was made to hold them dear. How could they just disappear?"

And from his fiery eye did fall, a single tear that changed it all. 
He wiped it away beneath his hood and that is when I understood.

If the world had no soul it meant the devil, then, had no role. 
As it dawned on me, his flames died and the devil sat down by me and cried.

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.

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).

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?

An ode to a-muse.

Come visit me;

stay a while.

Come dance with me;

make me smile.

Hold my hand

and help me write.

It'll be grand:

all happy and bright.

Or perhaps

we'll find some beauty

in the gaps

of smiles and gaiety.

The depth and weight

of darkness, deep;

the surreal state

of unknown sleep.

Come, let's talk;

drink a while.

We'll take a walk,

maybe a mile.

Grasp my hand

and guide my style.

Each grain of sand

makes the pile.

Of things, we'll write,

both dark and light;

of knots tied tight;

of left and right.

Come be with me

and you will see,

solitary

I cannot be.

Silver sickle

Sickle moon outside my window, 

you're a flashlight on another world.

Crossing the cosmos, your beam will go

brushing past the soft and curled 

forms of people fast asleep. 

You're a night watchman, always there.

Dim and bright your light does sweep

so many worlds: Who knows where?

Sickle moon outside my window,

ball of silver up in the air.

Waxing and waning, your face will show

a bit of tarnish, but never a care

for who shall make use of light

shining through the midnight dark.

The night-watcher's everone's right:

ever present, strong and stark.

Words of a threader stuck together

Thoughts of packing a pair of socks and flying away in a little box!

I'll pack a pack of chips and dip, and a tiny flask for the hip.

No journey's safe without a drink, but it can be done with little think.

On sea of clouds, with a breeze of sun, I'll see the Wonders: every one.

I'll follow a sunbeam all the way and convince it, down here, to stay.

The beam will help me look around till what I seek, I have found.

(It's interesting to shunt between the posting face and tweeting scene.)

It is quite cool how a journey rocks with a pair of socks and a little box.

Ode to a small thing that grew in my bedroom through the volcanic process

A lim'rick's the latest thing

that I will write and sing.

Perhaps a grin

or a riotous din -

Who knows what it'll bring.

A one and two and three.

Another one-two-three.

A one and two

and one and two

and one, pause, two, pause, three.

An artist bunch were tense -

A dilemma, immense:

"We need to do

a piece, brand new.

Let's make it on nonsense!"

And so they sat to write,

a-callin' night as white.

From yawn to dusk;

from cake to rusk -

A nonsense writ, all right!

And things began to flow.

You should have seen them go.

Fact and fiction;

contradiction

mixed into the dough.

The piece began to rise

like bread before their eyes.

A bit of salt,

some candied malt,

and liquor for surprise.

The other side of town

sat many with a frown.

They made a choice

that screamed a voice

that drove a cat to drown.

But that's another tale -

another glass of ale.

The artist crew

now slowly drew

to tap the final nail.

So what was the result?

We ponder with tumult.

What did they write?

It must to light,

before we can exult.

Ah, but there's the catch.

We cannot simply snatch

an artist's due

for pieces, new.

It slowly must unlatch.

So sit with bubbly beer

or wine in crystal, clear;

await the age

when it will stage

and all shall stand and cheer.

No?

A thread is spun;

a broken one:

not the way it should have been.

Off-key song;

something's wrong:

not quite the way it had been seen.

Nothing's amiss,

yet something is:

what, exactly - can't put a finger.

Like a dish not ate

or a friend not met,

yet whose taste and thought still linger.

What was not

can't be forgot:

you just can't miss what never was.

An illusion,

or delusion:

how can effect be without cause?

Try

The crack of dawn and the sliver of light:

"Try me", says the sun to the dark, dark night.

Silence shattered by the koel's cry:

"Try me", says the bird to the empty sky.

Happiness breaking through the norms:

"Try me", says life to mundane forms.

A pace pushing through mild-heartedness:

"Try me", says the city of madness.

Nothing ventured means nothing to gain:

"Try me", says the gamble, "try me again."