Diss-integrity

For some, success tastes of shit and cum

Commode for a mouth is a great skill set to have apparently

For some, success tastes of fresh soles of the latest brands of footwear in fashion

Wet rag for a mouth makes you a worthy professional apparently

As for the rest

Success is a struggle they'll die fighting for

Success is a rather underwhelming outcome not worth the effort

Success is a series of endless mind-fucks they end up losing the appetite for

Success is relative, but then, so is integrity

It's funny how quickly integrity becomes the shield for some who couldn't seduce success

It's funny how no one gives a singular fuck about the integrity of the successful

It's funny how a sellout society keeps judging relative truths in the name of objectivity but can't stand the same thing happening to it

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

Have you ever felt a warm breath on your tender adolescent breasts

Like a gush of warmth as if cloaked in the blanket of familiarity

While your bare immature feet froze cold in the veins

Nails grown out of a habitual neglect, outlining your skin

As your soft spine shivers and shudders

Quite much like the first time he had breathed down your neck for the very first time

Shattering the walls of a rented innocence long lost

"Dad, not today" you beg

The warm breath draws itself closer, as the sweaty stench of his aging perversion clouds the vision of your teary eyes

The desire to live piles up some more rust, as your death wish watches on, like a lusty voyeur

Confessions Of A Misanthrope

I despise people

I despise people for who they are 

A bunch of literate morons 

Who can't tell the difference between literate and educated

A bunch of dumbfucks 

Who keep telling themselves they are wise desperately hoping it were true

They crave, desire, and show off intelligence, like it was some showpiece

That they could flaunt through the shallow glass of their shallower cupboards

Somewhat like a desperate man reeking of patriarchy, showing off his newly acquired wife

As if to say, patriarchy had won, and he was the flagbearer of this newly found win

For years and years and years

Stupid people in their ignorant existences have heralded intelligence like it were a gift

As if it was the Midas' touch that could solve every existential crisis there ever was

For years and years and years

Stupid people in their delusional perceptions have thought intelligence is the key to success

As if it was the one thing that stood between them and their imagined glory

Had they been intelligent

They'd have known, the intelligent despise intelligence like the stupids despise mediocrity

Had they been intelligent

They'd have known, the intelligent's barrier to success is more often than not the intelligent's intelligence

Had they been intelligent

They'd have known, intelligence is a cancer to the intelligent, while mediocrity is merely syphilis: it doesn't kill you, but it's rather contagious though

You know what's funnier

The stupids despise mediocrity and yet rejoice mediocrity, only of a different kind

And the stupids think that's what makes seem intelligent

Putting on plastic faces of apparent intelligence

The lesser stupid ones think no one will ever notice their actual skin

The more stupid ones believe if they live the lie long enough it will be their truth

And all this while, the intelligent look at them, jealous of how simple their shallow existences are

And wish, they hadn't had the intelligence they had, so they could be a bunch of blind followers too

And wish, they hadn't had the thousand demons inside their heads telling them they'll never be enough

And, continue to wallow in their miserable, nuanced existences, struggling to put on plastic faces of pretended stupidity

I despise people

I despise people for who they are

I despise people

I despise people because I cannot be people

Dichotomy

It's always bewildered me people asking me

As much as it has bewildered the people asking me apparently

The question in actuality is simpler than it seems on the surface

How is it that I make jokes and poetry in the same breath of a rather measured existence?

I find it rather amusing that

It amuses you to not realise the similarities as obvious as they are

What are we but pimps

Of measured words and loaned silenced

The poet and the comedian are quite the same recipe really

Sprinkled in sarcasm and laced in caustic cynicism that burns you with a nagging aftertaste

I tell a poem

And people listen, because poetry is for the polite

And as words fight their way into the dead weight of sheepish souls

Their clattering claps and behaved beings with their pretended sophistications nod in nicety

I tell a joke

And people listen, because jokes are a legitimate excuse to take offense

And as some lips rupture and the stained teeth show up in sadistic laughters 

Many more assholes clench hard, tighter than the grip of reluctance, their sweaty pretenses and rusty beliefs scared they would be rattled

And you see, I am, what they call a greedy motherfucker

I want the subtle and the whiplash, the tickles and the punches, the bruises and the bloodshed

Watch it all burn as the pretentious mascara of agreement falls off the dark circles of dissent

The dichotomy of comforting the uncomfortable and discomforting the comfortable, all at the distance of a few words

And as the curses and the abuses line up higher than a stack of match-sticks waiting to be lit in the hopes they would burn my words to the ground

I smile, a wide wild grin, from ear to ear, because, guess who really won?

The Bastards' Tale

Have you ever wondered

The gods you kneel and pray to

The gods you call the omnipresent invincibles

What are they really

If not a bunch of self-obsessed narcissistic megalomaniacs

Who you claim are immortals

All powerful and all forgiving

Why do they keep feeding off the faiths and beliefs of mere mortals

The mere mortals who provide for these apparent immortals

And yet, are nothing but meandering puppets to the wishes of their god's flaws

Why is it that

Your gods look like everything you've ever wanted to be but never could be

And yet they look up to your lesser selves like a clueless infant to a watchful parent

When did immortality become so fragile?

For I know crawling mortals without a spine

Who could outlive nuclear bombs and raging wars

But your gods with their spines of religion can't even outlive questions

Your definitions of godliness look like make-believe stories of a fucking lunatic

How is it that

Your gods have colours in pastel shades from a child's crayons

And yet, the audacity of someone who could upturn worlds

For thousands and thousands of years

The mere mortals have killed each other and spilled blood like wine off a cannibal's chalice

And while the whole of humanity danced butt-naked in the mayhem and chaos they called religion

The so called immortals have sat back and watched it all with a grinning smile like wasted stoners watching a dogfight

An all forgiving God and yet all it reminds of, is nothing more than a god-damned parasite, thirsty for some blood and some more

But the mere mortals who made gods of Frankenstein's monsters

And worshipped them in blind faith

Their eyes scraped off their sockets and served as offerings of belief

Their brains splattered across the plastered walls of temples and mosques and churches

Those invertebrate shitheads who needed to cling on to faith because that was all they had

Because accountability, you see comes at a heavy price

It often costs you your larger-than-thou ego, and accept that you're a fucking mess

It takes you to acknowledge your vulnerability that you know little or nothing of anything out there

It needs you to be okay being lost, in an attempt to figure yourself out in this life of randoms and uncertainties

But then, religion is so much easier, so much more convenient

And so, the faithful bastards of the faithless gods sing the bastards' tale

And so, the living bastards of the faceless gods sing the bastards' tale

So many bastards, so many gods, so many tales

And yet, all it takes to watch them tremble in their knees and shiver in theirs spines, is an inch of a doubt born off a single moment of reason