Non-Aligned

You say poetry is liberation, poetry is a movement

Yet you guard it's gates like it's your birthright, like poetry is your ancestral heritage you have to safeguard from things you don't consider poetry enough

You say poetry is for one and all

And yet you bark rules and impose terms like a dictator fearing his imaginary empire will come crashing down like a house of cards

You say poetry is art

And yet all you ever talk is tall tales of cheap, rented ideas, like an ageing ape aiming for the low hanging fruits

You and I are poets nevertheless

But peers, we never were, we never will be

You need background scores to make your words bearable

I trade in awkward silences and heavy gasps to clothe my words in

You throw around words complicated enough to break jaws

I deal in ideas non-binary and non-aligned, that crumble biased backbones of spineless existences

You use words like diamonds, a veil of borrowed sophistication to mask your inner shallow

I use words like crumpled notes and clinking coins, the only currency I've ever known

You write poetry for greatness

I write poetry because I'd have to cut myself open if I didn't

Your poetry smells of expensive aftershave and sells abstract dreams

My poetry reeks of cheap liquor and tells ugly truths

You and I are poets nevertheless

Except, you're the pimp and I'm the flesh

F*ck Faith, Piss Hope

Dignity was never a quality

It was but merely a benchmark

A self-righteous price tag for the ones who could be bought

Thus was born Capitalism

The ones who thought not being auctioned would make them pricier

But had no buyers in actuality

Desserted, discarded, narcissistic philosophers

They called themselves Communists

The sore greedy losers who had their feet on both the ships and fell in the abyss below

Basards of no faith, no price, no face, and no skin, they identified as Socialists

You ask which side was I on

I was on the outside watching them all tear each other apart, each dripping blood of the other, and the semen of their pretended self-glory

What can I say

I'm a hedonist, a sadist, an opportunist

While they fought to tell the world their stories

I sold the world three paperbacks of unadulterated fiction

The Shit Called Art

You say the world needs art

As I watch your delusion wallow your existence

The world doesn't need privileges, only the basics

And art you see, is a privilege

Do you ever see the rich care as much about art as you do

Do you see the poor care as much about art as you do

Art matters to them only if it means money

For the rich want to get richer

And the poor want a day's meal

But you, you my dear delusion middle class fuck

You think art is a struggle

When truly it's really you romancing the idea of it

Art is your eulogy to your dead dreams

Because you were privileged enough to dream

But never privileged enough to be dished them out to you

And while you were busy begging privileges for paychecks

Life aged in wrinkles and not chardonnays 

So you sought art to be your refuge

A desperate lament to hold onto your long dead dreams and long lost life

For the ones who could sell art have sold them to the lust of luxury

And yet here you are, screaming your art to the world

A middle class madman who calls himself an artist

Bougainvilleas

We humans, are like bougainvilleas

A species divided by colours

A species crying out loud the irrelevant differences, irreverent of the existential truth that it's all really the same

Each colour screaming out it's vanity and deluded perceptions of self-assigned importance

Each colour waging a cold war for supremacy, because the world is for singulars; more than one and it's comparative, more than two, and it's superlative

You look close enough, and you know it's all the same, just different shades of a primary colour really

You look from afar, and it's nothing but a bunch of coloured dots, the dots so miniscule you could barely tell the colours

We humans, are like bougainvilleas

No purpose, no meaning, no poetry, no art

No real necessity in the measured existences

Some made up stories we tell ourselves

From generations gone, to, generations to come

Just so we don't feel as trivial as our lives truly are, because existential isn't comfortable, and if death is inevitable, why not make living comfortable

We humans, are like bougainvilleas; a species that exists only and only because extinction hasn't caught up on us yet

The Goddesses Men Made

I come from a land of seas and oceans and mountains and ravines and clay and sand

I come from a land where they're all addressed as goddesses, not gods, but goddesses

I come from a strange land 

I come from a land where the goddesses are plenty and the gods are few

What is so strange, you might wonder

You see, where I come from, the goddesses are the protagonists and the gods more often than not just a piece of a greater jigsaw, and happily so

And it's said, mothers and lovers and wives and daughters and sisters and teachers, they're all goddesses

Yet, the men of the land shiver in cold sweats trickling down their invertebrate spines, every time a woman has let her thoughts out loud

Yet, the men of the land, to make up for their missing spines, batter and bruise women every time they dare to grow a spine, smother their insides until their guts fall out, and their spine is just a bunch of bones in a body bled out of blood

And for years, I questioned myself, why this strange dichotomy

You see goddesses are like weekends, their stay is short-lived

While women, women are persistent, unwilling to give up on their ideas of existence and being

You see godesses are made of clay, faith and fairytales

But women, women are blood and bones, every inch real, every voice loud enough to not be able to play deaf to

You see goddesses are worshipped, for goddesses are superheroes

While women are lived, for women aspire to be just women, no capes no wings, just an indomitable desire to be the women they are

You see goddesses are an idea, and ideas don't complain or fight for their worth

But women, women are chapters beyond the novels and words beyond the poetry, who aren't limited to paper existences, but skin and teeth breathing fire and passion like an everyday

The men made goddesses so they could be goddesses in temples and prayers

While the same men lynched women on the streets for they are no goddesses

The men made goddesses so men could tell women that they worship women, albeit in fiction

While the same men shoved their penises and opinions down unconsenting vaginas and throats of women, in daylight truth

Goddesses never were women, never will be women, just a faceless, meaningless abstract

Godesses are but, mansplaining women to the world by men pretending to be gods

Elementary

For years and decades and centuries and ages

Boys have waited to turn men, girls have waited to become women

And often fought each other, sometimes with each other

And all of it for a singular word, a twelve letter word that has plagued every human existence older than twelve

INDEPENDENCE is a twelve letter word; a rather lengthy word for vocabulary but, a rather short one to sum up the obsession of a billion lives

A word that's got so many addicted to it, a lion's share of them have forgotten what it truly means

Imagine being so independent that your independent brain is no longer capable of independently deciphering the meaning of the word independence

If you're looking for irony, human existences have defeated every other, known in the history of any and every language ever

So many lives costed for the independence of lands divided by imaginary latitudes

So many lives costed in the name of independence of people divided by imaginary gods

So many dreams of independence crushed and obliterated to pay for the dreams of independence of an entitled few

One begins to wonder, is the idea of independence really worth fighting it all and more often than not risking losing it all

So many selling their independence to suit their lust and so many buying someone else's independence simply because they can and because it lubricates their dildos of pride

One begins to wonder if it's independence or just condoms on sale at the supermarket, waiting to be used and thrown down carelessly into a pile of stinking garbage

Is independence even a real thing, an actual idea that can be remotely attempted to achieve let alone be won

Or is it just another opiod designed to bluff the whole of human race into gaslighting themselves with the mirage of an imagined superiority

Because if that day were to actually come that you were truly independent

Who'd you blame your failures on

Isn't that why you made up the gods in the first place

So you could escape admitting to your own self staring right back at you from across the mirror, that you are nothing but an aggregation of a never-ending cycle of continual and monumental fuckups

You seek refuge in the nostalgia you call childhood and gloat in the glory of how innocent, how happy and how blissful it was

Ever thought it was probably because you weren't independent, in fact the idea of independence wasn't even an idea your convoluted brain cells had conceived

Isn't it funny how you treat independence like it were good fuck you found in an off-season sale when the truth of it is, independence is that shit expensive divorce that costs you your everything

The happiness you thought you'd find is the price you paid to be audacious enough to even dream you could afford such luxury

Identities

Who would you be

If tomorrow you were to wake up without a job to go to

Who would you be

If tomorrow you were to wake up to your cubicle, your colleagues, your identity as an employee, wiped off, as if a clean slate

Would you still matter

Would you still be relevant

Who would you be 

If tomorrow you were to wake up without a family to call your own

Who would you be

If tomorrow you were to wake up to you being a parent, a child, a sibling, a friend, a lover, completely forgotten as if a distant dream

Would you still be someone

Would you be anyone at all

It's rather ironic that a world obsessed with claiming individuality is in actuality, nothing but a rather inexpensive photocopy machine

Churning out clones of existences deluded in their false sense of identity

Take away their delusion and watch them crumble, their hollow insides shedding skin like the stale ash of an overburnt cigarette

Existential crisis isn't everyone's glass of whiskey, after all