I am a staunch weirdo. I say what I feel.
Are you the weirdo you should be?
I show what I do and I do what others don't show.
I am right at your face all the time
and I represent those who are indifferent to themselves
and awkwardly different for your normalcy,
and I am prepared to love the battle or love yours produce.
Two pure sanities can rarely accept
each other in this world
as one does see the vast stretch of unclaimed land
but one is never happily ready to give up,
or even to share his own land.
I am always the unchanged and non-hypocritical 'nude guy'
in your wildest dreams and your worst nightmares.
But I am still a failed poet of my own poetry.
I am the failed poet who lives it all
and still succumbs to death twice a day,
one by his own hand, one by the futility of the day.
I keep telling you I am weird as I too turn cunning
at hideous dawn and hideous dusks.
I try to show I am in the middle of extremities
and I fear my potential of swinging both ways.
Borders are the most effected, borders are the most hated,
borders are the most desired.
I am the failed poet who watches birth,
growth, desire, love, explorations,
sex and death rather than seeking it.
I am the failed poet who likes to view frames
as they are presented as who has seen
the soul, who has seen the air without feeling it.
And feelings are again skin centric
as that which touches the mind has its passage through the skin.
As for seeking, I seek what birth has in it
that makes it mature enough to lose out of desire,
shatter out of love, scatter to explore in an earthen mating
where one fuses with many either producing none
or ignoring everyone.
I like blowing my brain out with my own bullets.
I like blowing theirs if they want.
I kill them who are happy to be killed.
I empty my cartridge not to refill with faces but cartridges.
I keep faces as happy targets, happily and sadly repeated.
I wonder how many of you blow even with those of others
as I have always seen contractual shooters,
life soldiers, hunters.
I have rarely seen fused happiness with least explosions,
I have rarely witnessed saints shooting saints,
killing with a smile, looking at the kill that smiles.
I am the failed poet who has never thought beyond
the little folded baby-child growing in its home under a bigger home.
And the child has failed to remain a baby under an injected tendency.
A failed poet, keeping his child bold, growing
questioning and rebellious, claiming a new wild home.
Am I not supposed to? Am I not supposed to explode myself
into pieces of ‘me’ and call it absolutely normal?
Is the one who's a traveller assigned a single destination?
Does the resort, only knowing how to shelter, shelter only one?
The folded child has been quiet, restless, mischievous, arrogant,
all in calling the home dark, the wild home dark
as darkness is nothing but an excuse to explore.
I have been a failed poet as I have tried to know all and adamantly link all.
But I have seen them deny, the homes deny as they always have
A few children are always dead before they can even stay
and a few agreed to accept but only the face of a child,
they could never give away.
And then, I have seen the wild home getting weirder at my face,
as it did know how to fail and still flutter open,
how to reject and still make believe the cosiness
and even how to accept two or three at a time
and thus, I have mated as friendly brothers, twins, duplets and triplets
in a wildly, wordy and worldly home of the same.
I am the failed poet who thinks he has won
when you fail in having constant moods,
when you fail in lodging a curiosity for an identity,
when you fail in believing your home can never be looted.
Children are only naughty but oppositions make him bad.
I am a failed poet as I am a weirdo.
I am a weirdo as I am beyond the murderer and the murdered.
Ejaculation was always on your attractive face
without love or remorse
though the wannabe followers have chosen safer dumping zones.
The failed poet has failed both in wins and failures
to collect rawness from sane heaven and hell.
The weirdo has always won picturising greater extremities
out of the extremes.
You can never figure me out as I am happy being both
and you have never cared to see beyond a cloth
and that appearances always attract moths.
Do you still believe those embedded beauties make you beautiful?
I have been a combined failure as I have always believed,
“Sexual attractiveness is the sanest human charity
done to an odd lump of flesh”
Or do you still boast of a soul,
diplomatically invisible and free of wearing a cloth.
I have been a weirdo, a failed poet, a folded child of combined failure
when it comes to describing you as a home, the other side,
as my weirdness, as my failed poetry, as my poetry which will someday fail,
as the more gifted tragedy they call ‘woman’.
I have never known and will never know how to praise you.
I am wild enough in all forms to butcher you into two halves.
The one which I will savour will be the day.