Eyes open
Upon the silent abode
Marvel at me
The heavens echoed

Predicaments dissolve into the trivial
The mind is spotless
You forget the greed, the hate
You remember only the love which intoxicates

Their watchful eyes
Shining upon us since antiquity
Embedded into the skies
An ever lasting source of serenity

Their melody decipherable to wanderers
Providing solace to the adrift
A message from our ancestors
Whispering that clear will be the mist

The light dims, the night darkens
Hardly anyone's on the streets now
We are sitting back, our bellies full
Barely a thing left to talk about
A comfortable silence forbids our
Tongues from wagging with their
Usual tenacity. Your eyelids droop
With sleep. The stars and moon can
Be seen 'cause only the street lights
Are on. The music is the only
Decipherable sound in our vicinity.
We'd get up to say our goodbyes
But we're too comfortable to even
Think about moving. The glowing embers
remain. The fire died a long time ago.

I am a simple bystander.

Upon my slightly rough surface rests libations
Libations sometimes full of color
and others devoid of any light

Along for the ride one minute he or she is calm or quiet
Quiet, and the next moody
Moody or wildly mad with passion
Passion for words sometimes strung in nonsensical or hardly decipherable sentences
Sentences forming the harmonious song of social interaction

In this I delight.

On my course surface games are made,
Challenges are placed,
Games and challenges are played, and it all ends with uproarious laughter.

On my grainy surface words are sometimes written
Written along with shapes and symbols
Symbols which for reasons unknown increase my value ten fold

In the morning I am desired and required
Desired and required I am sought
In the morning I am loved.

I am a simple bystander,
In this I delight.

it’s morning
groggy-eyed, zombie-like,
stubbled, disheveled,
he rises.

Outside is the gleam of dew,
the scent of fresh bloom,
the chatter of birds and squirrels.
Not for him, though,
the brilliant hues of early dawn,
the bustle and cheer of the day just born.

Tarry he cant, mustn’t
shouldn’t, oughtn’t
for he has work to do.

And so he scurries about,
not much unlike a rat-at-night.
scratching the stubble out,
shocking the slumber out,
with a splash of rusty water
and scented alcohol

glassy-eyed on the clammy-cold seat,
with the daily in hand,
he lets in garbage as he lets it out.
(let’s see: “six killed, talks fail,
girl *****, man robbed,
chain snatched, stocks down, jobs lost…)

but no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t.
for he has work to do.

Not for him
to reminisce and wonder
at bright-eyed kids straining at their yokes
to remember that kind teacher
who patted his cheek
and held him to her smock
smelling strangely of
freshly ironed starch.

Nor must he think
of  progress cards and golden stars
and hobbies learnt at leisure,
of cycling in the rain,
and endless hours spent
under the mango trees
waiting for heaven’s manna,
of books devoured, adventures vicariously lived
in strange English lands
where they breakfasted on
bread and poached eggs and bacon.

Nay, tarry he cant, mustnt,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t..
for hasn’t he got work to do?

‘ Tis his lot to weave
his own web of chaos
as the road turns a
tangled mess of trails
darting here and braking there
in feverish, frenetic fits
of stopping and going
and spewing
clouds of carbon and venom
and especial epithets

no, no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t,
for he has work to do.

So what if he didn’t see
--just ahead of him on the bike,
the baby’s pink,delicate,
fingers as she clutched
her mamma tight?
--the shriveled, outstretched,
hand that cried for a morsel of mercy
since even the cataracted eye
was drained of hope?
--the strange aromas of
fresh coffee, incense, cigarettes
and some open sewer?
--the signals that said “relax,
you’ve 68,67,66” seconds to go?

Not for him to tarry—he cant,
he mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t, god forbid!
He has work to do!

Quotations to send
calls to attend, meetings to sit in,
sipping soulless coffee,
nitpicking.
accounts to tally,
targets to meet;
better still, exceed,
‘in’ trays to empty,
‘out’ trays to fill,
reports to make,
power points to present,
all before lunch
and, strangely, until after
until, outside the prison,
life has , once again, ebbed away.
one more sun has died,
or so cries the muezzin,
some distant bells pealing
in doleful agreement.
oh where has the day gone?

Stray thoughts appear
like lights switched on-
thoughts of children, wife,
neighbour
thoughts that convince
that here, indeed, is a person
with kith and kin and others to love.
But no, they must perish—the thoughts—
he must instead focus on the task at hand.

of  first weaving through
the now dark chaos
of blinding headlights
and urgent horns, darting bikes,
neon fireflies
and reaching ‘home’ where
the ***** is busy cooking
and the cubs scampering…
“hi dad ”says the kid
as he mindlessly waves
his soul numbed by
the monotony of the day just gone
and the tv that’s ever on—
and already on the report for the morrow

can he afford to tarry awhile?
to hug, hold, talk?
to share with him
a childhood anecdote?
horrors! he cant, he mustn’t,
absolutely shouldn’t oughtn’t!
for he has work to do!

And so the bedroom light’s on
until long after she’s embraced
by slumber, deep slumber—
her eyes closed
in childlike innocence.
can he watch the slow rhythm of her *****?
the languid curves?
the cozy bed
with its promise of warmth?
on the screen , scowling,
is the clutter of data
that must be processed
into bite-sized bits of
decipherable hieroglyphics—
now, not later!

Its so dark, so  still,
even the stray dog has stopped
howling its pitiful howl
one more cigarette
burnt at the altar of work
one more hour burnt at the stake
he simply cant tarry,
mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t…
he has work to do.

It’s morning.

The Internet, for a good helping
of the American demographic,
is the highest-rated of sanctuaries.

I use "sanctuary"
in a filthy and blatantly pornographic manner,

for every time
we post on our nicotine-scented Facebooks
that we're "so ******* bored" we "could die,"
there's at least one other
hand snaking you along
those fetishes you stash beneath your sleeve
like black silk underwear;

and no matter what you do,
nothing will explain away
those two consecutive Youtube videos:
"Black muscle man in blue thong"
followed spontaneously by
"12 year old boy sings Judy Garland!",
each, to the innocent bystander,
juxtaposed like two opposing ******
in one ****** up candy shop.

The grotesque meat show,
always the same introduction,
always right on time with the
churn churn churning of his
loneliness his rage his silence
onto those sheets
with no regard for the family
and friends of fibers.

It used to be hilarious,
perfect lunch table standup,
but once you learn
that with ***, there might be
signs of love in the decipherable thrusting,
that a plot is swimming helplessly
in the oceanic camouflage of loveless living,
sticky hands can really start to sting.

Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,

And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,

Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,

Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.

A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the  bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.

But a poet,  a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt

To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.


And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,

Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile

Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet,  a poet will spend lifetimes trying

To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.

And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others  
That the poet will feel only rage,

And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,

For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.

You wrote in Braille upon my heart
  tattoo'd  black etchings darkly lit
echoes of what was once impressionist art
     vanquish'd with a glance of thy sword
words not decipherable in the name of love
  inscribed delectation's sans an endorse'd mark
vintage designs deleted of scroll'd scriptures expression
   signature'd confessions bestowed within crimson's pen  
hush'd in unsettling breathless interpretations,
     blindly I followed til you resonate'd in barely touch

"preyed upon by
a decipherable
stranger,
mapped in
déjà vu. a
prophetic bang
of sublime
yesterday's
& objects in
mirror are
closer than
they appear.“
|| shoo.shu ||

Nothing nears perfection like your smile; it is believed to be the make- up worn by angels,
Your face; ethereally lovely; perpetually graced with the touches of angels.

Your breath- taking beauty walled the template of my thought; enough not to forget how Heaven glows in your radiance,
Life in its erratic form makes perfect sense in the ambiance of your presence.

You are such that the planet is created around your meticulous tenderness,
Waxing strong at your ambiance; such to believe in its ineffable gift of weakness.

When you talk, no bird sings in the planet; every living entity stops to pay attention,
The earth rotates in congruence to the luxuriant wave of your voice; dancing to its sublime perfection.

Your laughter reverberate in such a melodic tune that the angels dance to its rhythm,
Joyfully bonded in congruence with its flow; adoring every tune of its appealing beat like the psalmist hymn.

Your lips deposits sweetness like pollen on stamens and pistils of my lips,
Enough sweetness to inundate my worries and fears at a glimpse.

You look at me with your serene but yet decipherable eyes and mitigates the stillness of loneliness in my opaque heart,
As a lady, you are an ideal sample of perfection; as a human, you are the integral part of Gods finest art.

I just can’t get enough of you; your love blooms with such sweetness like a long fermented wine,
I can drink and drown in its taste of breathtaking sweetness; get tipsy and still feel absolutely fine.

Your allure is offbeat; as indefinable as the coefficient of your inexhaustible beauty,
You are attention calling, extremely attractive to the dense bones of my cardiac cavity.

I love you and every unspoken word that you’ve ever thought of and every inch of flesh that is yours,
Your kiss is life to my cells; no such lips multiply cells in a single touch like yours.

My love for you is as indefinite as the sea; as vast as the galaxy of existence,
My love for you continues to grow just like root of plant grows beneath the soil with sublime resilience.

Like a Heron on fire; like a creeping mountain magma; my love blaze with such realness and sincerity,
And can never seize to end; be conquered by life’s challenges or drown in the depth of eternity.

Am stuck on you forever; forever bonded and inseparable like the Siamese twin for real,
Because baby; my love is forever; always have; and always will be.

I write poetry
Because it is easy
Mix metaphors
With simple similes
An awesome analogy
Don't let the diction get too decipherable
Don't let the fiction get too ****** up
We all know how a story should work
Make me emotional
Make me feel something
So I can feel human
Because I'm a lazy
Emotionally repressed
Kid with a shoulder full of chips
And a mouth full of ******* jokes
So make me whole
Mr poet
While I fantasize
About all the ways
You could die

When the faucet breaks
And the head is in the whirls
Your eyes are red from the cold
Slices of orange and pearls

Not in this am I holy
Nor in the street outside the window
Where thought is fast
And people many
No one has time for each other

Can I see through the walls of it?
Are they glass?
Am I here?
Is there simply not enough time for any of it?

How sorrowful a burden
To be plagued
With the need of proof of
A good, long life.

How short we come to where
We think we should be and
Where we actually
End Up

The cream is in the bottom of
The cup masked in sugar, in
Hard pressed facts as is the
News of the world that spins
Like an echo within a cave

Vaguely decipherable but still
A mystery still
Uncertainty

Has the feeling ever hit
You
When you see yourself in the
Mirror
And see who you really are?

The one you should be

Can be

Want to be

And the only act that disturbs
This moment
Is a footstep out of yourself

The magic in the world is
Cloaked in the infinity of
Sunlight shining on streets that
Were once dirt and dirt that was
Once covered in snow flaked grass

Soon to recover if we
Should ever choose
To abandon this place
For something better

Though talking through
These facets of formulaic
Fantasy make for dull Spring afternoons
Make for strolls through the questioning phase
Allows the mind to drift and wander when
Life itself is to drab to engage in

Silence with noise

Repetition without monotony

Heart break with heart

Tears without sobs

Death with life and life
Without
Death

The meaning of the Universe
Is Love's Philosophy
Decipherable to astute hearts
That strive for harmony

My words are so maniacal
My phrases so decipherable
The places and the races
Are spaces you and I should go
But then am i reliable
If you and i should die before
We return to an ever resideable
Earth thats so excitable
Tripping over syllables
Will i find the will to do
What it is that needs to be done
I don't know if I can go and
Try to be responsible
When we're dancing on the sun

Found; a dying *****,
Plays an off-key tune,
It's muscles are all torn or missing,
Has a hole the size of the Moon,

It's tubes are shredded and ******,
Has no Rythm to it's pounds,
Just lays on the floor barely moving,
Unsafe and structurally unsound,

There's evidence of attempted repair work,
Covered in stiches and staples that ooze,
Patches and droplets of salt crust,
As well as the faint reek of *****,

There also seems to be a label,
That someone has recently tried to remove,
Appears to not be surgical precision,
But that fact still has to be proved,

What is decipherable reads as,
"Please call if found"
I tried, dial tone, "number disconnected",
Seems no one wants it around,

Was left this way before Tuesday,
In the skip of apartment block 4/2,
No one has noticed it's missing,
There is nothing more that I can do,
(12/03/15)

Found; a dying *****,
Left alone, not wanted around,
Desperately needing stiches,
In hands where none can be found,
(15/03/15)

Lost; a dying *****,
I stopped trying to help it survive,
It's been a while, and no one has claimed it,
Now it belongs in another life,
(10/06/15)

Lost and Found; a dying *****,
A vital one so it now seems,
Went back to the skips yesterday,
Found; a dead girl, late teens,

Found;  a dying *****,
Singing an off key tune,
Her muscles are all torn; One's missing,
Left a hole the size of the moon,
(27/07/15).

I look at the massacre around me
and see.
I see battalions of men and women fighting.
I see the corpses of the defeated
with the memory of blades on them
and the gratification of the victors
with their bloodstained swords in hand.
I see friends and family weep for the fallen
and swear to avenge them.
I see mothers hold onto the cold bodies of their sons
and fathers getting ready to bury their daughters.
I see orphans too young and innocent
to fully comprehend what is happening.

Some fight out of anger and spite
and others out of pride and duty.
Some say it is for their kings and religions
others, for their honour and blood.
On either sides, pain and grief
outshine triumph and satisfaction.

Amongst the combatants,
A man sits on his brown horse
watching the massacre unfold.
Hair and beard like flames,
scars on his face
and eyes the color of the blood being shed before us,
he stares straight at me
as a man is stabbed in the back right in front of us.

His face is expressionless,
almost like a mask,
and the only decipherable emotion
is the burning rage dripping from his gaze.

What could this mean?
What could it be...?

Could* I be interested?

Not entirely likely…

Maybe a little orderly bee could tell me,
inform mee of what places to put my ***,
or what organizations I should reject.

Like anyone knows for themselves…

An opinion removes itself.

How insufferable.

How decipherable.

How it comes from a disciple...

Shows you up.

Shoes you wrong...

Puts a word to another song,
but for how long…?

Until the cricket croaks?
Until the cheep chokes?

In notes...
nine to say the least;
she tells me of a beast.

How wonderful she is,
I can’t deny,
but still that little voice—

*HAS TO DIE.

Do it now
Keep going
Never stop (repeat)

**** the consequences
Don’t slow down
Live fully in every minute
Expect everyone else to
Hold them to impossible standards

So much to do
So many ideas
No time
Who sleeps anyways?

This energy builds and destructs
Explodes into my life in a rash of impulses and hurt feelings
My mouth ****** off more people
Get kicked out of another bar
Alienate another friend
Write more checks that bounce before the ink is dry

I am stuck in a prison of abstract ideas,
And overpowering emotions.
A random coagulation of quickly scrawled,
Half formed ideas
Spewing from unimaginable imaginary conversations
With people that never existed
Scribbled incoherently with no regard for structure or form.
Then reedit, again and again,
Until the nonsense is decipherable to normal people.

I am afraid of stopping
Of being too slow
Terrified of complacency

Get happy
Sad
Angry
Don’t give anyone a second to catch up
Moods change with each tick of the clock

ADHD…Nah.
I can focus
Hyper-focus, intently
So much so that I forget to eat, sleep, breathe
Forget that time and the world exists

Was this what Picasso was like
As he obsessed over a canvas
Or ******* as he whipped paint across the floor
Chain smoking his life through his fingertips
Casting the spent matches into the paint

I can’t stop once the adrenaline starts
My head is a toxic chemical soup
The only antidote is a massive rush of endorphins
If you catch what I mean

Here’s all this information
I’m going to keep bombarding you with it
Make something out of it
If I’m satisfied
Maybe I’ll stop
(I won’t)

when the mind becomes numb

a skull can be dissected to show its cavities

cavities are the orbit of the eyes

an old Indian saying?


I noticed you really just want to annihilate me

not comfort you.

There is a blood meal in me
ready to explode  

a tombed implosion

an imprisoned womb.


But it's too late for that

time is personal

and lately, voices.

I fear the indecipherable is now decipherable

I see in Moriah, Jonah, and Tyler, incredible nations

Cree, why didn't you listen to me!

can you ******* saliva?
get over it!

you know
the skull was dissected to show the cavities of the orbit of the suns.

I yearn only to be
understood,
each action
decipherable,
each sentiment
understandable.
I do not yearn to be loved,
just understood.

I fumbled through a description of what I was feeling, with little to no decipherable plot and/or chronology of the events that had happened to me. I picked through the memories and seasons of on and off depression as a child picks through blades of grass absent-mindedly, abstaining from truly feeling and connecting. I was afraid. She knew it. I knew it. My body knew it, and spoke in silent volumes to convey that it did not want to be there. How powerful the human consciousness must be then to override the desire to bolt, finding purpose in the unknown - or perhaps, how invertedly weak to find danger in fifty minutes of in depth conversation.