It’s dragged on today.

It’s been a long day
Longer than most I’d say
They say time flies when you’re having fun
By God has it drag on today
Pass me the wine

What’s been gained from it?
I suppose I have learnt things
Now there is less space in my brain thanks to
Statistics
Pass me the wine

I reread the same page
Seven times
Pass me the wine

I took a nap
But by God, am I still tried.
Pass me the wine

There is a willow
That weeps in my head
Pass me the wine.

U.S. drones kills civilians
Posts on posts on posts on
Twitter and wikileaks
People still don’t give a sheeit
Pass me the wine

Hyper connectivity costs us our
Souls. We want more likes
Not a utopia. Not a free society.
We want more fame
Who cares about famine?
Pass me the wine.

Morality is a choice
A choice that’s best not made
Evil is too kind
Good is too careless
Ying yang.
Third eye’s blind.
Pass me the wine.

I write but no one reads.
Pass me the wine.

Play for me

October 19^th, 1853.

Shanghai, China.

 

I am spread across the couch

Of velvet green and satin sheet;

I am sick, unwell and unbecoming.

My imperial nation has done well

To strike up such relations with China

To form a tyranny over the poppy.

It has nothing to do with me.

I rest on my comfort and poppy seed.

I feel sick, and ashamed.

“Won’t you, play for me?

Won’t you pick up that instrument

And play some tune to carry me away?”

The girl is not explicit,

She’s not interested in these worries of mine.

But she picks up her tablet

And sets it down on the table

To play me the strings

She’s practiced since she was six.

Her lips are poised in a pout

As her fingers trip the strings

To play me a sweet melody.

And it’s just what I need

To not feel so

Overwhelmed.

 

I notice the soft lines of her face, her rosed cheeks,

The soft skin that leads to her chest

Is covered by the red silk of her dress.

I look at her like a bride,

A bride that could have been mine.

Her beautiful eyes, a hazel nut brown

Keeps watch of the strings,

It’s all we can do.

Sometimes I even ask myself to keep playing.

 

But oh, won’t you play for me instead?

Je veux vivre

I remember sun kissed streets

Where the smell was sweet

I woke up to breeze

Clinging on the sheets

 

The sunlight danced on the drapes.

 

I remember taking walks

Circling the hilltops, even when it rained.

To the coast of Les Issambres.

I faintly remember the smell, flowers and rain.

 

I was happy then, when I was then.

 

And my friends. O, my friends.

They who I grew up with

And truly cherished

Even when we fought we blemished fairish.

 

I longed to fight with you.

 

But daylight passes to dusk

And memories begin to fade

One face becomes another’s

And now I share my story with them

The bay of rust.

The bay of rust
And below the ships’ bed.
Distant shallows
Where the ships lie sink’d,
Rusted red, battle bled.

The wind passes through their shells,
And their skeletons bellow to no end.
Haunted hollows
The shipyard of death within
Captured a child’s interest
And deeper he went in.

The gaping mouth of metal oust
With wind running in
Seemed to scream at him
Yelling at him to come in.
And so he did.

Dark was the ships’ corpse and damp was its’ mildew
A smell of green musk hung in the air
And a stale iron stuck to the boys’ lips.
Tasted of blood.

Light only crept in through the deteriorating skin
Splotches of holes. Gaps of chores.
He felt a concern
He felt a fear
And alarm as he stood there. The soles of his feet
Slowly getting damper.

“It is not clever young boy,
To search for answers,
In the shells of the dead.”
The voice that spoke was
So bitter and cold. Not a human’s voice.
But this did not stir the boy.
“I’m only here,
For I want to know
What lies inside the shell.”
“You can find that out
By yourself.
Seek inside your head.”
“I want to know how the corpse rusts
Lest the engine stops to run.”

No answer did the boy receive.
No answer did the boy need.
Instead he stood and stared
At the holes breaking through
The light always breaks through.
No matter how strong the shell.
No matter how stiff the dread.

All the world’s a stage.

And I am merely a poor player here 10

That sits and sits and waits to come on in. 10

To play my piece, say my words, until my exit 12

Some nights will stay restless for things not said 10

Do we leave the script, or is it a part of it? 12

 

We nest the plot in our thoughts. Give it life, 10

The scene comes alive, unravels our minds. 10

Every decision, every light, pastime 10

Guiding us to our unhourly blight. 10

To breathe, to feel, to see, this play is too real, 12

This life feels undead. Where is choice? Where is it? 11

 

But choice – Here reality is defined. 10

Would I give up my line? No, I heed it. 10

Hear it now. It is mine. I give it life. 10

Because I choose to speak it. That’s my line. 10

 

There is a rhythm in the centre mere 10

It has been writ by the script of arithmetic 12

On its’ resonance we can hop and skip 10

To enjoy life, would be hard without it. 10

If in search, you do not know where it is found, 10

Alter not the hearts’ beat; this play is full of sound. 12

 

You just need to hear it.