Er/ *ata

Devour me with your kisses, my dry lips have touched no stone for erosion – ill-gotten fate. My heart is fire. My tree of leaves hugs the Earth.

Even fish swim toward the light epicentre; the journey of rays tells the tale of echoes whose ripples play a note so smooth it flows.

Aha! A comedian. Suited. Booted. A tale of politics riddled by jeering and the heaving of words flanked by an artifice of applause. She makes them laugh. She can never make herself laugh. Sad.

A joker’s flaw…

Now Faust is walking through the a hot patch. Somehow he ended up in an entangled web of fates that in great exclaim minuses his inner proclaim. “I am the beast that howls the moon. I am the man that never was!” Thus he said, and then his demons appear: first Mephistopheles. Here, a remarkably handsome man approaches, tatted and graced well, indeed. “I think I’m done for a day but will you come?”

…As though it were for naught.

“Nay; I already have!”

Above Uranus, say, there’s in fact a part whereof we think little of but know it’s there, but see little of. The rings, and the sounds! Whistle my name, so that I can never hear it again! Who made it? Who sang my radio till no frequency arise?

Faust. Fish. Fate. Appear.

These are the Universes that I have created. Here, I examine all that is, and analyse all that shall be. But I do no good nor bad in intervening. Like a drop in once is ‘nough, their excess leads a flood. Degreeing all measure that all creations shun, but is simply too lax in wit and sharp in thought. Then they come up with images of heaven and hell, and say we ought to be like this, like that, like so, here; there; no; yes. But I never gave such answers, nor did I ever raise such questions. My creased being is that of non-being, and I failed in bringing non-being to the state of my being. Even the softest mink can still cry to shed its fur.

Such errata is at hand any day, but I fear my will is got; I am but a mirror. I am the product of everything else. Whose science am I is yet to prove. Whose religion I am is yet I am.

The scoundrel weeps, ’tis you Faust. I have seen all you do, and trust now you know better. That girl wasn’t worth your effort; nor was a tower of babel virtualised in pendulum with the spheres you bear. The clucking stops eventually.

I do find that little I say is but marred in oil and barbed in plastic. You, too, are victim of world mused in the artefacts of glory of one I tasked. Though no fault your own, you did well to seek the light; ‘las, it was but net that got you.

Fate. Why so sombre? You only walk yet what you cannot sing. Nor dance, nor deliver in pamphlets and propaganda except envisioned in the conscious of those who believe in you. I swore an oath to distance in Fate, but now we no longer talk. I can never predict you for I am unaccountable to you, as you would conversely agree.

Let be. We walk and somehow find our way again. Most things just are as much an aberration, but we deliver no tongue nor ear to qualify them; and then, we discipline ourselves.

Seeking you

Every star, a story untold,
Hermes sought a light now gone,
Limp is he, but whose stand is fraught,
As breeched his air now casts a dew,
Breathe a light so my life is so!
Rumi, give me the darkest depths of light,
Hafez, alight mine eyes on God’s dark iris’,
A Milton speaks here, so give Maker my life
In Ire, nor ere more greater words we wrote.
Shakespeare chant, and now is being non-being,
Negative as I seem, nor cynical as I optimise,
Seal my trust of breath this happiness lasts,
I seek the dark, so do You. Reader, seek, seek!
Money and charm, fame and breadth the world deny,
From Kilimanjaro, Everest. Oh, Chimborazo! Deny!
Now I see a moon, a star, more stars, a dark.
A past I forsook, even Cleopatra is her snake relayed.

Bring all venom from whose deny,
Give breadth mine art this solo,
Breath the wine that breathes a lie,
I play the tune that fills with sorrow,
Oh, it is now my crease from whose awry,
Now sings songs of hapless woe backward.

* AWAY *

I was born with initials scarred on me,
My eyes were browned by blood congealed,
All the horror I see is a horror I am,
No sound of music can wash a breath away,
If no sun can light every road so gold,
Then I shall carve gold out of thin air,
Let me construct the path I ought to walk,
Now I see a way, but I turn away. I know.
It was a silly idea, but I learnt and I went,
Now the cheeks of clouds pour forth their load,
No one is there to say I’m sorry, nor to gloat,
Now the angels weep. Now the demons awake.
Bring me to the palace of diamonds and dark,
Now construct a face I can never afford. It’s me.
I’ll dance when everyone else is danced out.
I’ll breathe when I’m this much a lasting one.
Now I am walking towards a sudden lapse of life,
One I cannot deny, so much a tree gives leaves,
Soon I find myself in the greatest crossroads here,
Some say it’s a trap, but here, it’s a life so near.

When Descends

Now descends is Atlas whom Zeus appointed,
“Now shall You I curse this world to bear,
Whom no greater pains but lasting fates
Shall crease thy criminal birth in folds
Of two. One for each hand; I give and grow.
Did I not give you the hands to make work?
Did I then not smite the hand that holds?
Or when Hera whispered in mine ear your cry,
But this will not serve, all must hear it;
Thy hold of my world is now my hold over you.”
So Atlas stood, descending from above on high,
Descending lower, and lower till all is come:
Is this the world I ought to bear, it is come.
Of this mighty weight, the rivers and trees. Come.
The mountains and oceans I bear. It is come.
Do I not add so much weight, if twice my sorrow? Come.
When I shall stand, nor leave my legs to crouch. Come.
And all the trees bristle with fleeting wind to come,
And noon is shone by a single light mine eyes are blind,
Nor grieve a single tear that rises the oceans more,
Nor rain can dispel the mute of space from dark mine face,
Here less I stood, and soon my legs stoned in shock,
Think less of what then, who cannot befriend nor mate,
Who could never see his face again, but stare by side below.
I am the slave that weighs the world by the zero-sum;
So Hail the Zeus that casts such a misery upon me,
Do I not hold a world that could never hold me?
So ends the sad tale of great Atlas, here and there;
Here and there he crouched with full weight and mused:
The Spheres of Mars and Saturn, so vanquish peril,
So cast away, and look yond the Sun that orbits,
To the North we see his tears vaporised to clouds above,
To the South his dark and shady figure comes aged and cold,
So come what may, whether be or not, ere set nor dawn spread,
The charms once leaked, so his shadow forms the space,
Till, flesh on flesh, blood on blood, eyes and heart depart,
The breathing yet lifeless figure dusts into the nether dark,
His flesh: the moons; his tears: the stars,
Till one day wonder a people sired this realm so dark,
Then ponder why and how such things were made,
Though never witness its Maker till Judgement,
Nor remember the origins of rain, cloud, wind;
Nor breathe another air mixed in pain,
So poor Atlas fades in mem’ry.,
And all flows and fires away.