“If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing.” (Pascal’s Wager)

 If you could toss
The ceaseless dross
Of smooth & secure
For rugged allure
Of frail certainties,
How much you would
Allow yourself to bleed
In the revealed
Realm of pestilent blows
As the gloom flows
Over your hopeful wrists?
Please, fill my fists
With thorns of "no".
Am not unworthy soul,
I'll take it whole
With dignified grace
And ensanguined gratitude.
Don't fill my eyes
With poisonous cries
Of ignored plea.
I'll not forgive thee,
But willingly forget
Till no dust is left
Of the cranky spell
Cast upon myself
By an eager fit
Of own delirious pith.
If you later dare
To remotely care,
When later is too late,
Better inscribe on a slate
Of godly faith
A taintless "adieu", don't break
The serenity of missed fate.

The photo’s source

There is plaguing gravity…

There is no glamour
In living perched above
The rabid clamour
Of sneering mob,
"Such lunatic,
Chimeric dreamer!"
As you flick
Their dire reamer
Which hums
Trying to reach and drill
Your porous lungs
Of hopeful will
With resignation,
You can't evade
Or lightly jade
A grim sensation
Of loss and futility.
How long the wait
Before it's too late?
There is plaguing gravity
In waiting up.
Often, many a cup
Of poisonous juice
Squeezed of gory bearing,
You must empty till sparing
And redemptive truce
Is finally made
Between your straight faith
And your tortuous fate…

The photo’s source

Mere, ataraxic & veridical assumptions


i. The worst thing you can create for an inapt other is a self-belittling precedent.                                                                                                                                                
ii. The best thing you can erase is a rooted in turbid condescension story.

iii. The worst thing you can gain from an injustice is a smothering taste of malice.

iv. The best thing you can lose is soothing energy to a tormented soul.

v. The worst thing you can do is to wreck your unsteady ship of abiding beliefs in pursuit of perishable dreams on a barren terrain.

vi. The best thing you can undo is a madly woven mesh of illusory expectations which entangle the actual truth of nothingness, marring it with promissory doubt.

vii. The worst thing you can intuit or dread can almost never prove to be(come) the best thing on which your soul to spill its sheer rays and also be fed.


The photo’s source


It began after I had removed my pinafore dress, 
At the end of my gardening hour.
Bare and cleansed after shower, 
I had grabbed the secateurs to remove a wilted flower 
On my favourite periwinkle. 
As I cut it, a slight tremor charged my fingers
And a gentle rush, perceptible yet subtle, pushed my blood. 
Slowly, it progressed into this encircling sensation.

I am warming up little by little, my days dilate under the force of
An undiagnosed yet affliction.
Their pestering advices singe me even more, my only eviction
Is given by ice baths, fleeting recesses out of this sly conviction.
Lately, I hallucinate, there are instants when
I could swear I see cranes with clippers growing
On their wings, impeding their soaring, and hearts leaking
In dried branches of everlasting trees.

When I fall asleep, exhausted in my soaked
White lingerie, while this fleshy frame of codified secrets attempts
To cast away the damaging heat,
I get trapped in same reverie: an empty-eyed chatelaine stares at me 
And murmurs in the rhythm of her waist dangling key
In a vanished idiom, before I find myself audaciously
Bargaining over a red banger decorated with four-leaf clover.
Awoken, I cry over my knees and long for a coolness
To whom I once belonged, and judder at the thought of 
This mysterious foe that keeps me in this mood of not lethal
(specialists assessed), but consuming state of being.

I feel as if I were dragged and abandoned on 
A battlement, pores wholly opened to 
A haemorrhage of unfiltered rays.
Inevitable, besetting and fierier than impulses of erotic fays
In lovers embarked on intimate explorations above rocky bays.
I am a searing firework rising from the lava of
My thawed bearability. 
If I could only spark without going off after!

The photos’ source

Swore by the river Styx

Remove your clothes, quickly do it, is the time. 
Put this veil scrawled with gold threads on, rapidly, is no time
To discard. The grotto is briefly wide open, 
As your mother’s spread out legs at your eruption;
Blood splashed and mingled with clear fluids and ache,
Counted in trickling drops of toil and spasms
Of tormented pushing.
Step, step ahead, is the exact juncture for ‘on the hoof’ acts.
There is no arbiter to weight down your vacillations,
The balance is on glitch, 
Don’t evaluate yourself in hesitations.
The boat is pharaonic, titanium hammered in its gunwale.
Do not stumble on its enclosing roses, the thorns 
Have not been removed, the clotted gore is spurted poison 
From the reckless ones.
Maintain your virtuous perspective.
Open your mouth, the garland of pinpricks is bittersweet as
A medicine, swallow it as if nondescript potion.
You do need it, is the precondition to resist the apostasy.
We can’t afford a friable imprimatur, you are in whole
Or hollow out. No middle ground.
The bedraggled gargoyles are here 
To frighten off the weak ones, to lacerate their bosoms apart. 
Currents of corruptible quintessence, do not pay them tributes
Of scrutiny and panic. Just stare beyond the gate. 
Did I mention? 
The water is filled with lethal detritus, do not drink it
No matter how hard the thirst pummels your guts;
They will push down inside you
Laparoscopes made of divine leeches and chthonic eels
If you cede, it would be a retributive salvation, 
Do refrain from collapse.
The most important thing: ignore the protruding tendrils of testiness,
Only through stoicism and compliance
You will be proffered their infrangible edict.
No fear, it is not toothed, is genteel and aesthetic. It is all 
You desired and prayed for, isn’t it?
Swore by the river Styx: the sceptre of abiding gist 
Poured in your mawkish and lamentable,
At long last venerated poems.

The photo’s source: John Roddam Spencer Stanhope [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Only the marble keeps…

I dreamt the delicate feet
Of a graceful and celebrated ballerina.
They seemed strong,
Burdened with tiredness of repetition
And emerging blisters professionally plastered.
Yet, their splendour was incontestable:
Powdered in a lovely concealing white
And beautifully traversed with bluish veins;
Elastic and vulnerable streams
Nurturing the 3-layered spheres
That kept her in place.

I have awoken with my hair wet
And my bare shoulders draped
In a thin scarf of warm and itchy sweat.
After an icy shower,
A stabbing hint of recognition
Encircled my skull as a halo of déjà vu:
Of course, it was sensuous Camille
Claudel’s cinematic gift meant to impress
The morose bearded Rodin; predictably
The professed piece of art was a sole sole,
Singularity which defined her late torturous fate.

I tremble at the thought of
Insupportably wondrous Isabelle Adjani’s feet:
Unfairly besieged maybe now by
Worn and torn scars the passing’s cruelty
Weaves in our delicacy.
Only the marble, chiselled
With sheer determination
And unparalleled vision, keeps unaffected
The perfection of a nude limb;
Destiny of dragging perfectly contained in
A chalky reverie of tracks exhibited in museums.

The photo’s source


“…think I’m losing myself but know I’m safe with you and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don’t deserve any less…” (Crave, Sarah Kane)

Laid bare on the soft blanket concealed within
The deserted hayloft, I hearken to the belled warping
Unleashing its music on your now arrived skiff.

Is stupendous the precision of the swallows’ tiff
Above, so perfectly coordinated with the imperious
First touch of your reassuring palms on my cold feet,
Thoughts crushing again onto this efflorescence.

The asphodel you ooze, charged with night scent
And cordiality, from your tongue in my lambasting mouth,
Is an insufferable tipi that keeps warm and tense,
As a quaint vignette, the sense of you on me.

And is eldritch and fulminant this illness that, as
Surreal hints of Docetism, envelops our clenched bodies
In the dawn’s laving halo; amenable drivel
Of re-born, re-lost, and re-found.

Consumed in the sheer addendum of sinful redemption
That infiltrates my vessels, my nerves and my marrow,
I will amputate again the callus grown out of the day’s
Apprehension; unfathomable thread of imminent dread.

Awfully crushable atrium of caustic intimacy,
As the unfastened folds of the broken, gory ticker
That I unceasingly mend with you and despair.

The photo’s source