A song about somebody else

A song about somebody else

A song about somebody else

Epiphanies of a marauder

Blood crusted fingers

Truth laden bones

I say if you look closely

You’ll see the little carvings

The little dug graves

Within skin pores

Within that that pearly face

Little etched scars left by the stars

A character

A story

A brazen heart

Don’t look in the mirror

You don’t want to see it

Not this one pearly face

Not this master of horrors

Not this piece of fiction

Not this construction of foretelling and tales

Not this sepulchre of events

Not these frames holds of bizarre fancies

Not this one


Palpable but Hidden Aches

Transcending alliances

Of the angels retreat

The gathering winds

Placed below and underneath

And the failing abyss

Of strange foretellings

All the broken toys you used

To put up the best of shows

Straying far and wide

With wind and tide

The raging, frantic ocean

That misses you when it’s still

The blistering night of heated deserts

That’ll someday lie cold and dead

The changing world and its horizons

And the sifting shadows of thought and process

The central origins of malformed beasts

The filtered ray of the apocalyptic sun

Your fellows and fiends

And my martyrs and their white steeds

All creatures of shallow hearth

All became palpable but hidden aches

Hidden aches the only your touch unearths

Your Dress of Pearly White

I’ll lure you in.

Spin you around

and catch you in a turn.

I’ll make my mark, leaving no scars behind.

I’ll settle in your soul,

making a home.

Yours and mine.

I shall engulf all of your epiphanies

until there are no thoughts, no regrets.

Just you and me.

We’ll stray far and wide,

take the world in our stride.

And in my moments, I’ll taste a sweet madness.

Not tainted with sorrow.

The winds will sway,

your dress of pearly white.

And I swear, this time

I won’t be so far behind.

Sell our souls to the highest bidder

Take it away. All of it.

Instead let’s go rogue.

Let us play with our lives,

let’s drink from the bottomless chasm of sin and deceit.

Let us paint ourselves red with blood and gore.

Let us damn ourselves and this world in the process.

Let us build castles in hell, the gargoyles bearing our vile deeds.

Let us drown ourselves in the breathtaking limitless realm of nothingness.

Let us ride with the demented, the soulless,  the abandoned, the ridiculed.

Let us make absolute spectacles of ourselves,

making play of our lives,

Let us forget good and goodness,

embrace the dark as it stands on our threshold.

Let us build castles in hell.

Let us sell our souls to the highest bidder.

The Rager from Hell

The Rager from Hell

Bending lights, shaded faces

Masked silhouettes

And several thousand secrets

The party is a rager

And the heart is dead

We were on a mission

A group of foes and friends

Misfits and miss pretend

Daggers in disguise

Dreadfully wise

Bending to our will

Our demons came to kill

Dancing bodies

Death like grips

Dark isn’t just a side

You see, this dark is our hide

Morphed into miscreants

And so descended the defiant hellions

Pray for your souls

And pray for the dead

Pray for the departed

Because we’ve just started.

Daggers in disguise

Dreadfully wise

We’ve come to kill

Make you bend to our will

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Attempting to Re-define (and failing)

Precise determinations of centuries are at best foggy and opaque through the eye of a beholder.

Time is a river of circular origins but not the way you’d think. Time was not a river of one life but many lives entwined within a multitude of one great life; one great existence.

And the beholder knows all of this. Time itself is irrelevant, the past is very much the present and the future is the whispering wind on the precipices which knocks and corners and writes and bleeds and makes cryptic comments.

For centuries, humans have been blessed with the future, its implications, and its mysteries. So completely obsessed that future has become a monstrous thing to behold.

But what of the beholder? How does he see this great mystery?

Atlast it’s not the future, it is the past that holds a magnificent fascination for the beholder. Fascination perhaps but the grip is from the other side. The past itself. The past grips the beholder in a stranglehold and lays out a canvas of unblinking realities.

Mathematicians, logical analysts,  philosophers, painters and  dreamers, all have been greatly involved in the breaking down the conundrum of time and space. Some sought to nullify it, make its existence surreal, an imagined phenomenon. Some created it and created the ideas enfolding it.

But what is time?

It is all the same. Made of little bits of reality and largely the haunting of the past and the monstrosity that is the future.

But what of these monsters?

If the future was the monstrosity, then the past was the nightmare lurking under your bed on a cold winter’s night.

There you go, I have written a bit of the past and the future and time and conundrums, not making a spit of sense. But I have written something.

Something of who I am.

Who am I, you ask? Human of course.

But what does that mean anyway? To be human?

For centuries all that man has been taught is that we are human and that is the sum total of it. What you make of it is what will become of you. That is what will become of our humanity.

Once upon a time that humanity was described by the greatness of adventurers who discovered distant lands, of the philosophers who spun ideas out of thin air and learned to define and explore and re-define and debate. And the architects with their giant sculptures of art and symmetry, of perfection and practicality, of beauty and monstrosity.

There was a time when humanity was defined by riches, based on wealth and power and monopolies and leaders.

Oh and what of that time when humanity was nothing but a succession of wars and weapons and guns and bombs and basically humanity was the name given to the eradication of the humanity.

Perhaps it’s the same as power and riches and monstrosity.

All his self acclaimed notion of humanity and nobody ever found out the actual defining nature of it.

Except a select few. The beholders. With time in their grasp of understanding, and they themselves in the grasp of time.

Well there I go rambling on about humanity now.

I was beginning on the vast concept of me.

But I can’t do that now can I? Not without sounding conceited.

After all who am I to put the entire definition of humanity within one lowly body, within one moderate creature, within a single existence? Who am I to self contain the great idea of humanity, the idea that we have spent centuries defining and redefining?