My Pompous Writing

I pose therefore
That if the rich are allowed a show of opulence
A display of power and might
Why can't I,
A writer but of modest means
Be allowed to be pompous in my writing,
From which I derive so much joy
So much hope, so much - life?
Living life on a big spoon, they say of the wealthy
Writing with a big pen,
Or as the big, brilliant mind conceives
I say therefore
Of my free-spirited self
A pompous writer but of modest means.

Love Dilemma

I know it's not the best thing to do but I know it suits the time now. She might think its a travesty to the love she feels but it could not be further from the truth. At the moment and in the foreseeable future, it just doesn't make sense that we get together. Because I, normal on the outside, cannot seem to find peace and tranquillity within, what with my demons constantly driving me down the cursed avenues of their nefarious existence. What with my pockets empty as a ghost town. I will make her happy but at the right time. The love is true, the fantasies valid. The time, unfortunately, is a fault. Such is the dilemma of living. How does such a good thing come and claim its rightful place at such a wrong time? Or could it be that it's not the best thing for me or for her? But let it be known that there is none other that makes me feel so warm and fuzzy, and tender and loved. But I just don't know what to do. Let it go or move in and try to build it with her? And will she wholeheartedly embrace my inglorious toils and crippling flaws? Thing is, I don't want to drag her into the fetters that restrain me in perpetual squalor, into the horrible, sinful chambers of my troubled existence. She is just too good to stoop this low. Her beauty too profound to waste away in my blind wanders. And I, too careworn, terribly wasted and dogged with much to worry about to make her happy. And I know she is doing the proper act by moving on. Hopefully, I will find my own love when the time is right. But if life were at my behest, the right time would be now and the love of my life would be her.

Life Teachings

And so will come a time
When they will think of days of before
Days when there was less and nothing more
Days when poverty was pertinent on their miserable door
Days when they were prone in ennui on the cold floor
And days when food thrice left them in awe

It was those days
When friends and foes
Like day and night would come go

Like the waters of the oceans would ebb and flow
And now on the honoured floor they stand and pore
The cruel fetters of poverty, they vow, to return nevermore
Bad memories of depressed days and long nights
And a family affair capped with a furious fight
Those weary days when thoughts hammered away
A future bleak and dreary
Shaded in avenues of morbid darkness and pensive hopelessness
Showered with tears of agony and walls of poignancy
Dripping with a slime of hopeless optimism
Bold apathy and mindless consumerism
Each shilling spent before it is earned
Now lessons, as they gaze at the sun have,
Not without flaws, been truly learned.

This Beautiful World

This beautiful world 

Oh, my bones it rattle 

My heart, alas! 

It rends with precision 

Scything through the riotous throb 

A tumult of orgasmic elation 

A surge of cheerful contentment 

As the sun drenches the verdant hills, 

Domes looming in the vicinity and the curved horizon, 

With the mellow bars of its unerring rays 

The thin leaves of the pine trees glittering in the day

As the conspicuous red flowers of the Nandi Flame singe the eyes 

But with grace, pleasantly mild

The light filtering between the leaves and branches 

To the maculated and dewy undergrowth  

Crawling with earthworms and red ants 

To the flowers on the briers and bougavillea shrub 

Mottled with the elegant glide of the butterfly 

As the weaver and the swallow sing 

A harmonised melody from the heavy crown of the fig 

And on my skin the warmth dances 

Like a tender caress - soft and loving 

Kind and courteous to my happily trembling bones 

 My cankered bases restored.

My eyes glow and grow 

 At the pulchritude of nature 

 Balmy and rustic existence 

Oh, this beautiful world, 

My heart of stone, it thawed.

Beauty, and The Wonder of loving it

The glistening down
Dusk
Thinly clouded westside
Fall
Sun setting to rise
In worlds away and beyond
Orange flatters grey clouds
Strokes of the rosy rays
On my cold skin play
In me
Invokes
Sound wonder and Raw marvel
At the golden shine
Horizon
Of a glorious Sun down.

So, you may not be all that I wished for
But you have provided all that I needed
And so much more
You may not be up to the pristine wishes
Of my faulty fancies
But you have been more than 
A fulfilling reality
And for you my love I give, Oh glorious sundown.

Short Prose

"The law forbids me from brandishing my gun in public when I'm under no threat so get your hands off that gun."

"Oh Elvin," Leo smacked, "I'm not that stupid. You reach for your pockets I reach for my gun. Just to be sure, so don't mind." 

"I'm duty-bound not to kill you in public, much less without you posing a direct threat." Elvin gruffed, looking at Leo with his eyes narrowed. 

"But I'm a most wanted." Leo bragged, a disdainful sneer on his face. He turned and let his eyes wander in the restaurant. A waiter stood by the doorway leading to the kitchen, as people teemed about in the foreground. He had his eyes firmly on Leo but upon meeting the brute's eyes, he averted them to the door, where and elderly woman waddled in, a young man by her side, keeping her in stride.

"Who's that and why is he staring at me?" Leo turned to Elvin and used his eyes to lead him. "That waiter with jaws like a chisel." Elvin turned a disinterested eye at the waiter, who was now rushing to the table where the elderly woman had settled.

"Perhaps he is wondering just how long we can keep our butts here." Elvis said. "We better make this quick. I want to arrest you. You want to hand yourself in right?" 

"You have moles in here don't you?" Leo said, his face suddenly plunged into an aggressive scowl, brows knotted, and eyes narrowed. He appeared beastly, much truer to the brute he actually was. 

"I said I don't know him." Elvin retorted, displaying his own aggression with a sharp look and pellucid eyes. "Perhaps he likes you."

"Oh that's funny." Leo said and with a swift move, he whipped out his gun. 

He moved fast, so fast that Elvin had been left momentarily blurred as the figure fleeted before him and fired. The crack of the gun broke the calm air of a dusk tea den. Momentarily, time stopped as the bullet whizzed over heads following the explosive burst. It was immediately followed by sharp screams as everyone scampered off their butts in panic.

The waiter, tray in hand, collapsed in a heap as the elderly woman momentarily forgot her age as she scampered awkwardly to the door, where a bottleneck of scared people lumped in a rush to get outside. Elvin ducked late as Leo pointed the gun and fired at him. The impact threw him back, sending him crashing on the table behind him as his blood scattered and sprayed onto the white wall behind. In place of his left eye, was a gouged socket throbbing with deep red blood, his whole face smeared with the gore as blood pooled below his head from his torn skull.

Sad Love Song

Bolo was a wispy man. He came in an odd shape. He had a phallic head which was supported over his scrawny, lanky frame with a thin neck. Not exactly a human being that eased one's eyes. If anything, based on the fallability of instant bias that comes with a being human, he was repulsive, repellent. He had little, if at all anything physical, that atoned for the cruel physicality bestowed upon him. He was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Beast, a man who could lose a beauty contest to a warthog and still go home feeling like a champion for at least making it far enough to be in the final two. He had reddish, watery and distended eyes, a disproportionate nose that seemed to gulp down oxygen through the outrageously oversized nostrils and a pair of thin, dry lips that folded into a crooked smile that went a long way in bringing to prominence the ugly wrinkles on his cheeks and the hideous forehead folds that his straight face hid. While others held their smiles as a redeeming asset, Bolo's smile would be what made him the undisputed repugnant entity. It did more damage and offered no discounts. Which was why he barely smiled, barely even creased the side of his cheek by a millimeter. The last time he had smiled was something of half a decade ago, in the midst of strangers. A joke had been cracked. It had been a raw one, a ribcracker of rare authenticity and punch which had been delivered with a deadpan humourist that had become his good friend since that day. Just like everyone around, he could not control himself. Yet by the time the laughter was smouldering , it was he that provided the humour, he had become the joke. His aversion to smiling had thus been born. For years now, he had cultivated in him a brood and now, five years on, he owned his melancholy and wore his solemn, grave and humourless face with pride. But forget about smiling. At least he had had a chance to smile until five or so years ago. He had never had sex. Never. And he was clocking twenty five. Not that he seemed to care much anyway. Sure he longed for a girlfriend, but he had long been let know of his shortcomings and had come to see it as the definition of whom he was. So he never bothered to hit on any woman, even those he felt he would die for. Why would they want to look at him while they could find pleasure staring at the waters leaking from a broken sewer? So porn and masturbation became his distressful comfort. His struggles yet his fulfilment. His pleasure yet his guilt. Something that did not fill him with pride yet something he did with zeal akin to passion. His fantasy was to get a decent woman. His reality was masturbating to phone sex with an Asian prostitute with curves to die for. How inverted life was. Definitely not fair but not wholly unfair either. At least he once got to screw a voluptuous bbw in a dark alley at K- street. Yet still, this other thing is what actually kept him going. It was his passion, his definition. This one thing he did that could make all people respect him, make any woman fall for him, earn him enough money to live a comfortable life. Thinking of it in that sense flattered him and gave him the fuel to keep working on it. If only they stopped and paid attention when he rose and spoke. At least just slice him an ounce of their time and he would blow their minds away. He reached for the guitar and held it in hand. He placed the notes before him and studied them keenly. Then he strummed the first notes of this sad, love song he was composing.