A better man

Meet me in my dreams, pretty girl.

Or in life, see me at my best atleast.

Forget all that I wrote to you

I was 18 and it was corny,

See me now.

See me go at the old machine gun

But don't hang on to every word that I say!

focus on the quality of thought instead.

See my heart and how I walk,

laden

with three empty suitacases, a bad kidney and expectations

for three hours

with four bucks in my pocket.

One dirty street after other

crumbling under my jaunty boots.

Look at my face glow

and my specks slide and my body shine

Here's a man who works hard, you'd say!

But you're worried instead that I'm Muslim

So watch the intensity

With which I chase my cup of wine.

It'd make your hair stand!

See how nonchalantly I beat

these loud mouthed assholes

in their own stupid drinking games..

Ah, but I know.

I know that whoever you end up with

I'm sure that he would

"be a better man than I am

gunga din...!"

Writing,
is death by pen.
And I like very much
To be butchered with a blunt axe
Than to drown in globs of sweet.

I like it when the toothless axe
hits my collar bone.
Breaks it
and peels skin.
every sound
every shriek
every red drop
and every sloppy detail
of the process,
I soak in.
A tiny glimpse of the glorious sun before dying
is all that I care about.

But some writers
and a lot of poets,
humans trained and untrained to kill with pain
kill instead
with honey.
It's a more horrific kind of death.
A dumb death
gulping down every sweet sentence
until your throat clogs
and you can't speak
you can't scream.
It pours out of your eyes,
and your ears
and it clogs up the brain,
the sweet wax.
So you cant think.
It's a dull, sugary death
where you don't bleed...