Saturday, August 29, 2015

A Failed Writer’s Anatomy

Your brain is a jumble of unwritten words
Your head is as bald as the Avonian bard’s
Your teeth are chipped, those that exist are sallow
Your eyes are jaundiced and are turning yellow.

Too many hours have you spent reading
Other’s words that you have tried correcting.
Your hands are calloused from too much writing
Your skin is like parchment with no sunning.

Sitting too many hours has added to your girth
I say you must stand up and write, forthwith.
Your heart’s irregular, yes, you can feel its beat
You can sense it to be your greatest defeat.

Your stomach bulges with excessive beer
Will it hold? You live in constant fear
Your chest has sunk into your rib cage
Your collar bones fight a losing scrimmage.

Your phallus droops like a lifeless exclamation
Your balls have run dry from too much fornication
Your legs are weak you can’t stand straight
They can’t bear your body’s hulking weight.

It’s only fair that you abandon your writing
Take up copy writing or letter drafting
Or, be a critic who wantonly demolishes books

And, the tender egos of those pompous crooks.

Wednesday, August 05, 2015


You reach out to people in anger
But they don’t let you touch
Contact with you is dangerous.
You babble; you waffle for help
But they don’t hear anything.
You are afraid of falling again
You pause on the brink
You dance to a rhythm, lacking harmony.
You know what you desire
You think it’s so near
But you can’t have it.
You know money’s the problem
You know you can’t steal it
Have it; spend it;
Trash it; earn it.

Because you are addicted,
Because you aren’t yet de-addicted,
Because they lost hope, now you can’t be treated.

So, you teeter on the edge
Stumble on the ledge
Careen on the slender scarcement
Hold on to your perch
Scared you will lose hold
And come crashing down the embankment.
They are waiting for you to fall
They enjoy seeing people plunge
And crumble into blood and broken bones.

Because you know you are addicted
Because you are delimited
Because, too late, you cannot be adjusted.

There are no heights you haven’t scaled
No depths you haven’t dived
You step into home and say “Sorry Mom, Dad,”
They know there will be no return
There can’t be any compromise.
You wish you had better parents
You wish you lived in another age
On a mount called Cumbala Hill
On a street named Nepean Sea Road
In a city risen from the sea of Arabia
Smelling of dried fish and sea weed.

Because you know you are addicted
Because of what uncles and aunts predicted
Because of the way you conducted.

You are alone, always lonely
You stare into space, silent
Every time you sit down
You gravitate to that familiar space
That hides a leashed beast inside
Nerves tingling, hands shaking.
Withdrawal visits in a moment too soon
You curl like a fetus
You roar like an animal
You scream and moan like a canine.

Because you are addicted
As they had predicted
Once they have stealthily detected
Your mock cremation has been conducted.