A straight road of chaos
winding through the insides of her
Burning down the highway
Let’s ride it together
Brave it with acid in our heads
I always felt that Whispers of A Blue Moon was always too poetry/prose-oriented. I couldn’t seem to post anything that does not feel remotely like a poem or a short story. And if I want to pen down my own thoughts, there was always this pressing need to hide the prosaic with a poetic touch, rendering it unreadable to all except the literally-inclined (yes it’s literally literally).Moreover, art seems to alienate the commonfolk nowadays rather than getting in touch with their sensiblities. People drop in and if they do not understand a particular poem, I think they would just skip to the next blog (I still cannot get over calling a blog a blog, I prefer tomes). And owing to the plentiful supply of blogs out there, it’s a wonder mine gets read at all.
Come to think of it, does readership matter that much to me? Maybe it does, deep down in my subconsciousness. Or maybe it doesn’t, since I’m writing poetry and not those mundane days of my life. You know, the ones that go, “I woke up at 10am today…la dee daa.”
Yes those blogs.
Am I sounding like one of them now? Haahaa, I suppose so then. It would be best to cut down on what I have to say, won’t I? But then, this is only a test post that I’m trying out. So there.
At least, WordPress gives me categories to put my posts in so I don’t mess them up.
In the midst of writing another short story, while reading 2 novels (Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse and James Joyce A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man) while holding one more novel to be read (Joseph Heller’s Catch-22) is going to signify the start of another week. It’s not going to be a pretty week.
As the music recedes so do my feelings
Rush like a waterfall down to its snowy depths
Plunging deep deep inside the unconscious
The last shred of my humanity plundered, fluttering in the lonely wind
Like the last man standing on a battlefield won, a Pyrrhic victory
Circling the skies above a hawk spies
In search of its food to delay starvation perhaps
Or to feed its young in that eyrie way up high
As it is always, to deny something, to allow something
By the force of our seeking
Searching I am too for that ultimate bliss
Like the hawk in the sky, eyes scan the world below me
Looking and looking for that sparkle who would bring me
Down back to terra firma where I would plant my two feet
I am searching yes, searching for you
The you in the shadows who I cannot see
The you that is the Other of me
The incomplete you for the incomplete me
That double of me both joy and of terror in my dreams