unbrushed teeth

to wake up to a day
when the coldness seems to be swiped
and the windows making sounds like traveling cars

i lie under a whitened ceiling
next to a dog-eared book
wondering to myself

if there were to be certain things in life
they should be here
here, next to the staring ghosts and motionless light

---

here, where my little plant does not wave no more
green it looks, a bit saddened still
to drink three day old water
from the mug i feed myself with

to wake up to a day
when i lie untouched
unfed and understood
by every lie my dog-eared book told me

under the whitened ceiling
next to the roaring windows
a bit saddened
even a tad green may be

there was a sense of direction to this destruction

to swim out through a haze of delusion
sodden in seeded decadence

to stand on the banks of a dry river
crouching, holding the weakening knees

to make two worded sentences
parting the misty air around the impaled lips

now you stand

to make sense
make sense of this destruction

gold teeth and the curse for this town..

new slang, the shins.

i deCided to give up caPitalizing in a biD to free w0rds of nEedLess vanitY

i try.

sometimes, there is a feeling that lingers in empty beds and crowded buses that vacuous packets of reveries are being distributed to sullen and dimensionless entities that run around in chilly sunlight wearing half naked skins of mondew. for perfectly constructed words of wisdom are like serene sounds of snoring from the invisible life next door. harmonic yet calmly disgruntling.

and then there is this thing i wanted to say, mostly coz i am half asleep on this saturday afternoon and partly coz of the way we are - you and me. such and such. haffe! in a view much deconstructed, there is a sense of unprevailed delusion which hops around in otiose alleys of emptiness, that there is much being said and heard with either much or no alcohol. under lined-up round lights, on wooden benches, with people singing songs of unknown origin and dancing with no shoes on.. as a lil yellow half eaten moon hangs in the eastern skies watching a kid on his pogo stick pop out towards it. but that is not important.

sometimes, all you need to do.. is write. let it rip, jo'

i am the walrus.