Misdiagnosis

006_postgrad_cover

The loneliest night was spent in insomnia
After a visit to a psychiatrist
Who told me that I was schizophrenic.

How the egg and chicken situation
Eats me alive, how can my genes by so corrupt
As I look at my scrambled mind
Holding the mirror at so many angles

And yet how beautiful to see the psychosis
You don’t have, refracted from so many angles
And I sitting on the floor, distanced by reason.

Now, look at me, stranger than folly
Trying to defrazzle from the ghostly labyrinths around me

How endearing is it to be clinically sane
And yet, possess the genetics of a madman
And be like a lighthouse, with rust
In her metal pieces, bearing a flickering light

And that vision, doctors call delusional,
Has been my panacea, of curing a disease I don’t
Have with pills of expression.
Schizophrenia gave me the voice of the poem.

How dreadful to live inside a bubble
Of a lie belonging to a billion people.

How barbaric for a lie to rape the truth.

Masturbating in 2013

SInk

You give in to the memory
Of the memory. How when we didn’t have playboy or porn
Back in 1996, we had our memory to replay
The woman at the British Council Library
Who in that curvy green dress, stormed
My senses, never to let go.

She made the grass on the third eye
Turn into a fiery wildfire. How beautiful
When your memories molest you, letting your instinct take over,
Gazing at that selfie-stick that lengthens,
To keep that smile, afloat, like flotsam, that keeps you going.
There’s nothing remotely Botox about
The feel of your fingers on a selfie stick.

And that recording device still keeps
Track of so many memories of a graceful gender
Gracing the tips of my desire-brimmed wonderland,
As I gaze through the porthole of yesteryear
To disembark to the sheer spontaneity of a smile
That can never bloom in pretense or depreciation.

The most-natural selfies of men unstifled in smile,
Aren’t they clicked in front of the bathroom sink?

Bull’s Eye Pregnant

Pregnancy

Have you seen how eggs
Are arranged in a fridge?

It’s always in two lines when the one closest
Is sucked in by your fimbriae like fingers
And dropped on the frying pan.

And as the egg breaks
You see the white spreading
Like an amniotic ocean
And the golden yolk,
Afloat on top like a moon island
Squirming of life.

God Days

 

Depression 2

You’re tired to the brink, to the collar bone
Sedimenting on beds and reclining chairs.
The long plod of life
As hostile as a mammoth scorpion
Reversing for a fight.

These are the days you remember God
When that stubborn strain of weariness
Regulates your movements
You’re like a potato, the couch kind,
Still the TV is too loud for you.

And those days shit happens
All you can do is to flush it all down
To the awaiting amnesia

Of a black hole God.

Moratorium 2

Camera Type Writer

Few will ever fight the system. Period.

Have you seen a mercenary?
Rugged backpack on the shoulder, a gun on the belt
Sports shoes on, travelling the valley
Of the lexicon, walking slowly
Learning not just the art of mere survival,
But the tricks of the trade.

Look how that soldier of fortune
With no support from any man or beast
Shifts his imagination through paradigms
In quantum leaps, throwing out
Traps to catch doves, hares and squirrels
To cook them on a camp fire

And when he is weary from the long walk,
Feeling lifeless and crumpled, all he asks
Is a little helping of manna,
To format the heart and begin another day
Of not knowing what is in store.

How beautiful is living for the day,
By a water bottle, aluminum cup and plastic plate.

Oh the simple needs of a poet.
To serenade words, metaphors and similes

To where solitude mixes them up
In to the outreach of a poem.

Moratorium

I KNOW MOST OF YOU CONDITIONALLY SUPPORT MY POETRY. (What I mean is the gossip or noise on me at that point in time will regulate your actions). I only know how to rebel against the liberal establishment that has taken away my most fundamental human rights.

Be yourself 2

1976, Asilomar comes to mind
Here when a moratorium was entered
By scientists to curb the inflammation
Of rogue scientists, making GM organisms.

Banished is just the way of the rebel.
And the rebel is found in those too comfortable
In their own shoes, and give scant respect
To the ways of the world. These lifeforms are so inimitable
Their genes are almost extraterrestrial
So alienated from the sheer boredom
Of queues of cattle lines.

And in that metamorphosis
Of purr to bark, meek to brave, you will only find a beautiful
Strain of an outlived dream, and an epitaph
That needs no flowers at the toe
Of the tombstone.

The bloom of wild flowers would do.

Translation

Dreaming

Messenger RNA to protein
Is a translation by a biological apparatus
Called the ribosome. We call this mechanism 
A dogma central to molecular biology.
We translate a sentence into meaning
Or a theory into functional practices.
We translate a book from first print
To translation, we draw metaphors
From living things and inanimate objects,
We glorify realities, fantasize the fairy tale.
We translate percussion to sound
Plucked string to strings of melodies
Stentorian voices to recordings
And laughter to a contagion.

We translate sunlight to a reservoir of vitamin D
Which in turn fortifies our teeth
And gives steel to our bones. We see
The first cherry blossom, the lonely tulip
When spring wakes from her slumber.
We translate pick-up lines into one night stands
Mozzarella cheese into toppings on pizzas,
Fine wheat flour into Battenberg cake,
Orange peel to bitter marmalade.
We countdown calendars, turning today
Into yesterday’s memory.

Our flesh translates 206 bones, 33 vertebra
And enumerable muscles and tendons into
Love machines. We pump from a maddening heart
Sending cascades down dilated arteries
And life blood to our combustion centers.
And we carry the pathology
Of our cataract eyes to our bedrooms
To translate a volume of Braille in embossed flesh,
Into longhand; to archive.