I

Trapped in a black hole,

a music hurting the ears;

no hint of escape.

A recurrent dream

of a burnt out face

beyond recognition;

leftovers of a sharpened pencil.

Lying in a dingy hotel room

trying to enjoy the blowjob

another obscure whore.

The mind fluttering all the while,

like a piece of plastic

on a long busy highway,

struck by flying cars:

one after one after one.

Eating, drinking, smoking

beautifully in a Limbo.

II

Finishing in seconds,

but still unstoppable.

Wanting and wanting the unending.

A zombie like hunger

for dirt and decadence.

Trying to control instincts,

and erections from infinite failings.

From hopelessness

of a postmodern definition.

Infatuations running the show,

trying to taste the roundness

of saddened women

and tired woes.

Stealing of springs,

and murder of kings,

poisoned to grow.

Some came, saw and conquered

rounds of diabolical lusts.

III

Like a whole chicken,

or a steak

of some unfortunate animal

with dependent families

and children under care.

Dying.

Juices dripping,

and curries being slurred.

Countless bones broken

in an endless array of restraints.

And one day eating into a strong wood

unstoppable, hungry termites.

The home falls, fails

as if from the lightning struck skies.

While someone shows

fear in a handful of dust.

Oh! Help

Big eyes, and a long tongue.

Gluttony.

IV

But, I want more

some murky Goosebumps off music.

Unknown, un-understood,

still tightened to a Banyan

red threads of forgotten prayers

and fictions of helplessness.

Corruption eating through

and Absalom dying by a brother.

What is needed?

Or wanted of importance?

Doesn’t matter.

Assassinations of presidents

in power, in cars and in theatres.

Historically metamorphosising

of course

justifications of endless wars

both good and bad.

Greed takes over.

V

Mobs shouting in vengeance

punishments for force,

of rapes, heinous to lurch.

Another Hulk like repetition

of roars and bashings.

For spilt milk and

broken kites and

madness.

Only existing feelings

trying to drown insights

in an alcohol induced stupor.

Unable to recognize

prescriptions in a flow of ecstasy:

drugged all night

to psychedelic involvements of fun

and sleep.

What is and shall be

contained in Rage.

VI

Brand new suitcases,

filled with dying faiths.

What matters?

But nothing,

maybe a human stage.

Reading aloud Shakespeare

or some other play:

of known and unknown

and another Johnson, another Yeats.

Shoes getting torn,

While Sinatras shouting,

of importance and walking.

Chemically structured bags

taking over the everyday.

In hands and under eyes.

While several Godots

mark the arena

of much desired defiance

and Heresy.

VII

Wars taking over,

definitions and vivifications

of brilliance and poems.

A switched on mobile charger

humming the high pitch

of unconnected chords and race.

Dangling hands.

Eyeless heads.

Suicides from bombings.

Reading Poe’s raven

in a self explanatory combat.

While hordes of mice

cooked alive in Auschwitz

and mountains giving way.

Least said, in darkness abound.

Taking over all

Ragged institutions of violence.

VIII

Lying to selves,

but the basis for life.

What is left but sanity

drying up in worn out semen

and torn hymens

of wasted madness.

Eighty year long cheatings,

gathering money

off useless protests

and communist revolutions.

Truth, it is there

delineating worries of

car thefts, destitution and dope.

Viva la treachery

and offspring of fraud. 

IX

This is all there is.

Lost in translations,

of metaphors and

heaps of broken images.

Repeating words

and unending lines,

capturing penniless forms

of some authority.

What is understood

is but a deception of,

escaping verses

and meta-meta tries.

Here is another I,

lying in search

for its Inferno.