Because Winning is Everything

Maybe it was your lack of skill

Or simply lack of will for kill,

You may have crumpled all your dreams

“Ah, it’s so good to just flow with the stream” –

But in the dark basement of your head,

The place where angels tremble in dread,

Neatly stacked and stinking fresh,

Lie your dreams with wounded flesh;

And each little cut of past defeat,

Refusing to soothe with false sweet

Balms of lying quack Philosophy,

And lotion of human brotherhood rosy.

You wanna walk a life in his golden shoe

And you wanna have his golden-skinned wife too,

If the grass seems greener on the other side

The only real way is to take it, your own besides.

And though you may think death is sweet,

But each new hammered nail of defeat

Makes the cross groan as pathetic as ever;

Because winning is everything, now and forever

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Embedded

In the spikes of her unruly hair

In the brown warmth of her eyes

In the glint of her wicked smile

In the love softness of her skin

In the proud swell of her curves

In the sunlight of her soul,

He found himself.

And finding him empty, nothing,

She left him –

And within every tiny fiber of herself,

She found him.

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The Leaf

Tender it sprouted,

Green and clean,

Swaying with the breeze

Or was calm in the still;

Bearing the sun,

Long as it could,

Till yellowed and shriveled

It fell from the sky;

Never hearing the call

Silent and far

From its guiding star.

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Lost

​Why does it pain so

Now that it’s lost?

It was so empty and meaningless

And its promises so vague

As the reason scoffed at,

And the world looked at it

As an amusing toy

To be given away in a garage sale.

And now it feels like

The end of eternity,

And I have no corner

Of refuge from the world.

For how can I fly

When my little piece of sky

Is lost forever?

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Wrongs

Why should I blame you for my hurts?

Is the Sun responsible for the loss of sight

When one gazes too fondly on its light?

Is the Moon to be charged with crime

If for it in sad song the nightingale pine?

Life has a contract to extract the rent of death

So will I return its joys when its lease endeth?

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Pack Light, Darling

​Pack light, darling.

The deep green of the leaves,

And the deep darkness they hold,

The crispness of the sunlight

(Without which it’s like limp dog-hairs),

The black bitterness of coffee,

The haunting of old Bollywood songs,

The spirit of the blood wine,

The vitality of lethal cigarette puffs,

The intensity of wasted moments,

The colors of my eyes,

The unbearable softness of my touch,

The calm of the snarling world –

Why pack all these things with you,

Whenever you go away from me?

Aren’t you worried that the airline will charge you extra,

The careful woman that you are?

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True Love

Well darling,

The chocolate has melted

Into ugly little smears,

The card from the little sidewalk shack

Has been mistakenly given to the trashman,

The lovely morn of our love

Has been covered with black curtains,

And the night in his unrelenting weight

Has descended upon us.

 
My hands have started to find,

The alloy in your golden skin,

And the surprising gentleness of my touch

(As you say), has become impatient like knife,

We’re ready to scratch each other, ever deeper

With the talons on our tongues,

Ready to admire the stunning artwork,

Of souls wounded for ever.

 
It’s inevitable, we can’t stop ourselves,

Inevitable as tissues that blend only to repulse,

Let’s see if at the end we can still kneel

Together at the dreadful altar of love.

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