A time for you.

yoko

There will be a time, when you’re not alone at 3:47 am in the night. There will be a time when you’ll kiss with open eyes.  And a time for dreams to come true, and eyes to light up when you speak. There will be a time my friend, for love and victory. A time for friends with easy hearts, and teachers with sound minds. A time to fill endless nights with the songs you wrote in the endless nights. There will be a time for dark circles to fill up with light and stretch marks to go climbing mountains. A time for a long swim in the cool arms of an unending ocean. There will be a time to create, and a time to create something truly extraordinary. There will be a time for brilliance, and then some time for exhilaration. Then there will be a time, for the time. And in that time, time will cease to exist. And then you’d open your eyes and realise, there was a time for you. And there will be, a time.


For the photograph, see Fukase’s “The art of losing love.” For the inspiration behind this piece, read The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

A hard day’s wanderin’

For those of you haven’t read the poems of Henri Michaux, I recommend getting to it right away. The man has destroyed all notions of poetry I ever had. His works are like hallucinatory experiences-and after reading them you will not remain the same. This little poem I had written out of extreme frustration after reading a lot of his poetry that has deeply influenced me. Sometimes something that inspires you too much also pushes you into a writer’s block. And then slowly you make your way back with the Simones and the Murakamis..

 

“A hard day’s wanderin’ “

I haven’t written anything in a while and maybe

it’s because sugarman told me to look for god in the sewers

or the spit of an old girlfriend stuck to my beard,

when she found me wandering as

the gutter rats were reading me poems from the underground

I felt inconsequential like a black dwarf but

rats have been known to do that to wanderers,

 so I stole the cigarettes stuck to the lips of my passed out friends

and I stole their acid stories

And I stole the angry messages of my woman

but I woke up in a painting, coloured the bluest blue blue’s ever seen

and everything i’d stolen seemed colourless,

 and then i took some photographs of this dead night

before the long walk to the coffee shop,

where the rats said god used to work before recession struck,

I called some deadbeat friends and we talked

about our plans and good sex and this year’s winter,

and when they blasted Simone at midnight,

I knew I’d met her before, maybe in the sewers, so

I swayed too, in between

the bottles of gin, whisky, cheap rum, sweet soda, bleeding feet,

dry lips and sticky hair, till we found a place to rest our heads,

slowly making our way

back to the seedy bar before the seedy bar,

when Murakami taught me how to think again.

I haven’t written anything in a while but before sunrise

after a hard day’s wandering

I’ve been known to quit smoking, find love

and write a book or two.

Image

(Above is an Abstract blue painting by Ad Reinhardt)