the heart of life (artwork)

and this, my friend, is the heart of life...

shirt

buttons on with hair on them,

and a girl that once

grew with my sleeve;

a bag of straps that overflow

to hammer-heart in elastic breeze

the only thing felt odd about

is to elbow through

an elbow pleat;

and embarrassment to live without,

hence clinging to the column spree

Could be the most personal bunch of lines I’ve ever written. Dan Dunn wears one too (many, actually) and so does Anthony Montana. I wear a shirt and I like wearing it: Kind of not entirely one for ‘slipping it on’.

Read this if you like your shirt. Like this if you’re wearing one.

fashionista (the lyric)

ocean’s in at Eleven, Sunday,

it’s wild tonight

when watching the fading rain;

there’s never a name

of all the likes of a fashion statement,

ritual dances for the sake of the game,

and woebegone

is the word I was looking for

bleak in her gown

here for the show when they’ve all gone,

the bones behind are all she’d count;

but she can count

the worlds that’ve barely missed her;

yeah, she can count,

miss underdone fashionista…

boredom splits and Velcro tears,

adulthood blimps,

yet she’s never there on your line

of “oh darling you’re all mine…”

but look at her go

just a stone on the floor,

watching in from outside your door;

in the crookedness

where she stands her day,

masochism as a state of play

she’s all around

in this world that won’t lift her,

she’s all around,

little miss underdone Fashionista

half a life in chaos dreamt,

dressed down citing innocence,

how bad can it be…?

and the rest of it, a bargain earned

of petrol drops that refused to burn,

and a heart that still believes…

it’s just the heart that still believes.

ten-second thought between skirts that get chased, and I'm not putting this in any way I'm not supposed to be putting this in. I don't want her to build my house: She's better than brick or cement.

I only wrote this to feel better. Nice reminder, though - a tilt-back of head and a whirl of thought and I'd be glad I have my feet on the ground. Wish my dad would read this.

summons

Another paranoid piece of messed-up fiction that I came up with. Messed up because it's half untrue. And don't even ask me about the other half, okay?

not another word that fails

to get my mind a mind divide;

like dirt upon a standard spade

that digs out everything I find

in my hand this diamond held,

sparkling in the night that shines

the air around, of shoeshine self,

in a winter that it left behind

so wind it up, I need the hour

of water cans in garden ride;

you know I’d use it, and use it good,

if you could get back to my life

'Little Rhymes'? Oh, I don't care where this goes. I just wanted it outside my head so I could see it new; see you new and find something out of that. Let me not state the obvious (unless you'd guess it anyway).

tomorrow

Guess I didn’t quite ask myself the obvious, but why is this an important thing to have written about? And for once, you know, I guess I could answer that. Because there’s this feeling of being too much in a dream that one forgets to be real? No it’s not an ‘Inception’ thing, I’m not one for it, but it’s just… everything happens in a dream, everything’s within reach that the fight of reality almost turns absurd and postponing becomes the thing to do.

tomorrow

crossroads up a road ahead,

count of miles tonight in bed;

a shorter foot and two a pace,

I’d get there even at half the rate

farther with the fight of fog,

frozen to the closest spot;

peeking through the ice around,

with warmth I sent to sit it out

same about the state of her,

half my thoughts, digested words;

struggle spent to make the plane,

and steal a smile and know her name

staring at the mountain wrought,

digging in and digging round;

a minute off my mind, withdrawn,

from the song called ‘do it now’

gutter stench on surface felt,

on every moment passing by;

I take today to wish me well,

tomorrow’s when I live my life

yesterday

yesterday I found this thought,

to write it in, to write it out;

reminded me of fallen stars,

of folded papers, golden clouds

I stand myself in the thick of rain,

hope to find you there again;

in water with my mind awash,

I close my eyes, and that is all.

I might frown at the finale, I’m getting too obsessed, kind of. Maybe that’s wrong, but I don’t know, maybe that’s exactly what’s right about me? But I hate this, you know. Not how I sometimes defy it, but I hate how I live exactly what I write at times, and how they’re almost always exactly traumatic. And the strangest, yet most obvious thing is that I’d never want to do anything about it. To ‘YOU’.

MOONBEAM

like how I need her night

to light up my day;

like how she’d need a while,

she won’t come this way

why don’t you see her out?

there’s no fashion in disgrace;

cashing in

on the fall within,

on everything sustained

it’s better to be than not to be…

what’s with the white

when it’s time and only time?

what would this given do

if I can’t live my line?

and what’s her moonbeam

but a comfort to the eye?

a blessing in disguise,

when I’d rather see her naked;

her naked love tonight…

For all intents and purposes, this could be my experiment, which in itself gives it the innate value that it's one of my best ever. Not saying that as a flash of ego, it's just that it's something of a kind that I've wanted to write for so long, you know, like the 'starting in the middle' or the absence of relevance of any sort. And yeah, I know this is proving to be too much of pathos, but I don't know... I am what I am, and that's like 'everyone else' minus the pretence.

'Battle Studies' belongs to the Mayer lot. I guess that's how this belongs to my 'Book of Rhymes'. Tenth in line.

miss B

Well, I actually began this to be something else which I wouldn’t reveal at this point of time (mainly because there’s no real suspense as such) but then again, I just went where my drowsiness took me, and it was almost 2 am and ‘Back to You’ and stuff.

Calories to cook this up,

a night of her to burn it all;

wonder where the hell she is,

the morning finds her

good and gone

and you wanted me

to show my hand,

to twist it up, to sniff her out;

breaking down a pot of plant

to find the seed,

to shine your sun

Well, what if she’s too good for that,

what if there’s no candle-stain?

What if she’s not fussed enough

to prove her mettle, write her name?

Call the thief

and catch her too,

frame the suspect from the start;

call her cheeky,

call her brutal,

call her rude, but you know what?

You never had a shred of her,

you’d never find you never did;

a window at a solid turn,

its glasses painted, the world unlit

and looking out on towns so strange,

fast, polluted, river-made;

you bind the cord that ties your tongue,

doing things you’ve never done…

Yet, you try to work this out,

you gave a duck, she made an owl;

sitting with a point to prove,

to harness every hearty hoot.

I don’t know if this is a ‘Little Rhyme’. Perhaps it’s a little more substantial at a personal level than one, having been honest to this sleepy digression of mine. Long time, you know. And I don’t know if it was a ‘wait’ to think if this was worth it. To ‘YOU’, almost obviously.