Flame, Flies and Fecal Excrement.

Had I been more sparing in words and kind in language, I would have been mirrored in a flame’s sharp tongue and encapsulated in its trauma. Had I used the language more metaphorically - subtle yet intense, moving but precise – I would have been wearing the same pair of rotten slippers it used to.

I am aware; but I am not.

Its language less blunt but outspoken, creates a picturesque of sort and describes in vivid details the faces of a tireless denouement. Its treatment of language is impassioned, fashioned with swift melodic touches, so poignant, glad to hear but is never understood. Its verses are lucid and precise, as clear as the water flushing the human stool down the latrine.

Its metaphor breathes thirty-nine degrees of remorse, exculpating the cavity from the yellow-tarnished tooth; its imagery, a reiteration civility and civilization as superficial remainders extracted from bargaining but at the concealed nerve endings rest individual biases and prejudices. It holds a razor-sharp scalpel attacking the mundane to satisfy an unbridled self-conceit.

In the fields, the flies are swaying in ecstasy, nibbling on the decomposing fecal excrement, and prancing around it with delight. They indulge upon such a horrendous sight, but delectable to their senses; each one moving from point A to point B as if it was their last. But as the sun cools down, the foreboding darkness devilishly smirks at them, painstakingly waiting for its sweet opportunity to devour them. Finally, the flies bow down, hurl their last pirouette, and fall dead upon the bosom of the earth they had once condemned.

A flame I know speaks with subtlety, imagery and metaphor; criticizes the mundane and attacks censoriously; but never foresees equanimity and objectivity.

Drafting Water.

Water drafting, falling
From the tip of Everest

Briefly disturbing the outline
Of the sleek vertical horizon

Swift and gentle, it flows just
As his sweat travels along

The contour of his gym-fit physique
Down to his fuzzy navel

And right into your soul.
Radio’s playing at the

Tip of you sharp memory
Down to the caveats of

The mystified canyon, where
Lucid and pale water could

Have been lightly cascading
It was a betrothal of sort:

A confirmation of notes,
Forming tones, cultivating to rhythm

Sensibility forms music, just as
Water is formed by the bottle.

Drafting water, reaching the
Floor of the deep, calm river

Like it reaches the bottom
Of a playing orchestra

Embracing your forbidden thought,
Such lingering a desire.

The Charlatan.

disclaimer: the author and the speaker are not always one and the same.

You discovered yourself and
learned how beautiful you are -
heaven’s unlikely gift

You started to get vain and
flaunted to the rest of the world
flamboyant gaudiness

You got what you want, though
to discern whether you deserve
them is another question

You became somebody,
whilst you want some more:
fame, prestige & recognition

Incessant desires stimulate
your haughty pride to accumulate
some more, and more to come

Even in love, and lust perhaps,
you desire even the most elusive
of all

Your heart fell for someone, not
only once, but there is always an
empty conundrum to be filled

And like the restless bee,
you move from pollen to pollen
of different kinds and sorts

You were once proud in each affair
but come to resent it in time
so short a span

For you are a pusillanimous
charlatan - a wicked creature
who pretends to be somebody

You are incapable of manifesting
love, reduced by superficial vestiges
of society you try to cling to

But pushes you mindlessly away.
With the love you desire, your
emblazoned superficiality

And everything that comes
you’re fated to love the life
of Sysiphus, seems always at

Par with everything you yearn
but eventually left eroded
in time so short a span

Only there is certainty that
unlike him, you can never
ever be happy.

De-Metamorphosis.

In the middle of a night forlorn, a tiny seed struggled against itself wanting to break free from its deep and solitary imprisonment. It impatiently aspired to get a glimpse of the breaking daylight and have its first taste of the early morning dew.

Restive but determined, the tiny seed churned consistently until its cot broke apart, six inches below the anticipated plush terrain. The rupturing of its thick, dense wall, whether naturally caused or not, was less conceivable. Then it started to move out rapidly and find its way thru the tiny dark granules. Its overzealous excitement cannot be stopped. It resisted valiantly against the tightly compacted matter, moving upward the yet to be discovered surface.

And finally, it reached its so-long desired destination. The moment it was drawn closer to the fore of the emulsified topmost soil to accommodate its liberation is fleeting. Yet, it was decisive, for it shall determine the seed’s coming into being. At long last, the newly germinated seed, now a fledgling plant, set its eyes on what it excitedly willed to see.

First, there was a moment of resurgence, of trivial upturn and contemplation of what it expected. Reverberating tremendously was the sight of a sun-drenched firmament projecting a vast tranquil horizon, of lush and verdant greenery reflective of the soil’s fertility and of nature’s distinctive sound. It was a pleasant disturbance perplexing the senses.

It could have been so.

But it was different. It was deviance to the entire created image. The vibrant foresight was only a putrescent notion, a superficial embodiment that emanated from a very youthful glare. The sight was objectively tarnished, numbing the senses and deceiving its functions. The firmament was dark and overcast, sending an ominous message of melancholia. The field was barren and isolated. Creeping through its eerie atmosphere were screechy sounds barely audible. And drenched within the soil’s content were toxic and contaminated substances.

The seed, agitated by the stark reality, was once again perturbed. This time, it was ghastly. It was appalled more than disappointed. It was crammed with intense rancor and resentimént that it eventually wanted to stage both internal and external revulsion. It was revolting against itself for being ingrained there. Then, it let out a censorious attack, thinking it could beat the odds to transform the entirety – to what it want it to be. Yet, it remained superficial. For it did not know where it is coming from. For it lacked the indispensable understanding of why things appear as they are and not as it wanted them to be.

Now that it is surviving the most sordid place and thriving in such a rotten environment, it began to question the minutest detail. It demands the transformation of its surroundings without contemplating on what it had already done, on what it had contributed or on what perhaps it can do. Clearly, it speaks without substance. It demands without due cause.

But it was too late. The once tiny seed was now a budding tree. Its trunk, though weak, has already thickened. It has already increased tremendously both in width and length. Its leaves though were emaciated; and its twigs were slender and fragile, attesting the fact that it did not receive the vital amount of nutrients to supply its growth. It remains puzzling that despite of this, the seed grew and came into being.

The tiny seed has been tossed in the wrong spot. It cannot deny that it was a product of a surrounding so luridly despising, so viciously disdainful that had gradually usurped its vitality and incrementally obliterated its potentials. It is fated to live such eternal destiny.

Dialectic.

College days are almost over. Creeping right through my skin are the memories - the vestiges of a recent past that primordially molded my coming into being. The remnants of this past may fade but will always resurge.

The memory fading
away in shambles,
Gone through its
eternal crimson hue,
Flows from the
mantra of skepticism
The memory resonating
insouciantly beneath,
Down into the caveats
of eternal revulsion,
Hovers profusely over
the quintessential element
The memory lingering
veiled in a nascent notion,
Philanders the mind
with a surge of recurrence,
And over and over
It drifts always anew