Inferno

My love

Your face and your smile
Your melancholy and your twirl
Lift me out of my bed, my sunshine
My special someone

My star
You're distant and ethereal
Perfection like no other
That I could only gaze and yearn
And speak of to others

My lover
Is that you?
You're my lover?
I must be dreaming
It couldn't be true
Oh, but you're breathing

In front of me, there
Stay put and don't leave
Now I'm not very good
But I'll try and improve
Until it'll do

I tried and I craved
Of something even greater
I think there's confusion
I can be even better

Now, what is this thing
This thought, my obsession
You're good, said she
But I think not, my lady

He would never sleep
And later, wouldn't eat
What did he do then?
You're really good, said she

He still wouldn't settle
In the perfection of her ways
He smiled when she did
When she didn't, he'd rot

He rusted in the rain
Intermittent or persistent
He ruined himself
Every time they were distant

In the end
He was dull
He was dark, nothing else
He'd smile in his sickness
Which came over time
And took over all the rhymes

I have gone insane
Abnormal
Obnoxious
Depressed
Loserly
Sick
Demented
Dementia
Demented
I only wanted to see you happy
The once bright light
In your eyes and your ears
And your hair, everywhere
I killed it, a demon
That's me, a lizard
A lizard and a demon
Clinging and wet
And nothing good about me
I meant no harm
But my ways are pathetic
So go on
My love
My obsession
My bliss
You are a star
My days are over

A Walk Around Boston

                                             

 Day Dreams 

Not an Early Bird

50s and Overture

Copley Square

Yellow and Vintage

A Dramatic Turn

Out of the Woods

A Frozen Reverie

Snow and Spires

Dingy Passes

Crystal Lounge

Lacrosse in Early Spring

Lois Lone

7 A.M. Boston

One of them West Villages

2. Morose

Oh, look! It’s daytime. The birds are tweeting, the sun is upon us and the sky is a clear blue. We have a beach in town. Let’s go there, because the water is turquoise, the sand is not wet, visitors are scanty and we’ll have a private lair. We will be amorous; we will be cruel and come back as florid individuals. Behold! A docile cat. What are the chances? It makes a low sound, and asks me to adopt a less hurried approach. The inane creature had an oval face, radiant countenance, purred intermittently, swooshed, flinched, winced, ebbed and peered at me with a twisted yet ingratiating semblance. I pondered at its antics resentfully, which belied the impression it set out to make on a hypnotized, pitiful conversationalist. I am serenity.

The cat has been ridden. Il est bien fait! Monsieur Causeur. I strode decisively on the plain, lustrous road draped in my beige mackintosh. I felt the onset of slight fever, the popping of nerves somewhere around my cerebellum, the throes of a cynic forever hearkening the platitudinous ramble of an obtuse audience. M'épargner de cette fausseté, as I do not intend to humor your alacrity. Wither, come about, shudder, blink incessantly, bring me my coat. It may only be gray, beige; no, just black. I am Aisen Schuster – the intensifier.

Nightfall! The iridescence of sign boards up and about, of richly painted Vipers – cars and vipers; the plethora of plethora leaves me ruminating, whimsical - non-sense Causeur. I pulled over following the exit quite fascinated by the prospect of an uninhibited stroll (again), up the meek, yielding, patched hillside and down after; a privy with its shiny knobs, truckers engrossed in inconsequential blabbering, flagrant murderers with their furtive tones. Two eggs, tuna and beer – I am one of them. The murderer seated transverse to me is a blue-eyed haggard with the smell of a pink, pubescent urchin, a grotesquely isosceles nose placed above his lump of a fisted mouth. The deplorable setting, faint lighting, a detestable waitress in pink - it was an overall demure affair, and then she walks in. I am morose.

1. Revelation

I am shrouded in a dark sheet, my vision is blurred and my mind does not intend to wander beyond you. It stays put and a routine is gone over and over again. My paranoid mind hangs on to a position of solitude, etches a motif of subtle movements, whispers, delectable intertwining of our fingers and then puts you in my lap. Stay there! Do not move, and do not ask to be moved. Look straight like an innocent child, let me stare at you from the back, side and then deep into your brown eyes. You don't make me uncomfortable like other people do, even when our stares meet. I demand a utopia everyday, and everyday I want something more. I want to meet you, haunt you in your dreams and reveries, console you in real life after you present to me a less than vivid description of your subconscious - secretly gleeful about my presence in there. You are the thing I sniff from a sheet of paper, the thoughts that come after and the person who acts as my figurative mother in the afterglow. Everything is you!

I am inside you now, and you are the dark sheet presenting me comfort and character. I (Red) however, would rather be a cornice. A cornice! Do everything for me, do everything to me and come back in my lap. There is no point if I reveal myself to you, because I do that all the time, but you still understand my problem. I wonder if you will grow exhausted one day, as I am not that good. You are beautiful and unconventional, the kind of ineffable charm that doesn't come by often and possessed ever so rarely. I am not asked to change by you - the Scarlet - and a mere parity impresses you less. I am over you now, am I really? I won't tell. You are clearly loquacious, but I will be treated differently. I am special now, and you are Purple. I would dive into you, on the surface and deep. I would fly over you, low and distant. Come to me now, and turn me desperate. Turn around and walk back. I will not grant you space to breathe, so that you have to suck the air out of me. Do everything I want, the Scarlet.

A Long Wait

This boy I knew - Volodja - used to live around the corner. His house was just a few blocks away from mine; and more often than not, he'd be outside playing with a frisbee. Volodja loved that thing, perhaps he was obsessed with it and the quality that it could fly, if only momentarily. We happened to be friends for a brief period, and it was during the phase that we had lunch together one time - his girlfriend, him and I. We inhaled plenty of gum during the day, passed out on a deserted-factory floor and woke up feeling cold an hour or a couple later. Those were depressing times. I realize it only now that I look back upon it. Retrospection is not the only thing pushing me to admit, the prolonged nature and constant recurrence make me fully understand the somber nature of the situation. It of course is very convenient on my part to write about it secretly hoping for deliverance, for I even more stealthily despise the whole idea. The ambivalence isn’t even natural, it is the creation of an ever so petty thought hoping for a grandiose arrival – to whichever nook or cranny. To be perfectly clear, all of it makes no sense.

I listened intently whilst these words ushered from underneath the magnificent lips of Katya - “All good things to those who wait”.

Photo of the Day

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Shaking Off The Dust

Hey there!
I don't know why, but I always see you strolling around this garden. The recesses of my thought are all but filled with your odour, of jasmines and what not! I ponder over your ubiquity, and the ulterior motive of the Divines for making me so, self-righteous and what not! I fumble when I speak, and stumble when I walk; whispering to myself in the metaphorical caverns of poor thought. Some of them rhyme, and then there are those that stink, like the pungent smell of Sulfur. Have you ever had the chance of smelling Sulfur? Would you know if you did?

I look at all my books, obsessively kept in order, black after black, and thick before the thin ones. Then come the notes, of the realm of old. The servile flatterer on his knees, justifying his moniker and inherently ignorant, not to leave inept. I wish I am not one of them, living in my own dark corner.