[I]nsanity & [I]nsomnia

18th & West Alabama

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:48 PM

Her fingers are nimble
and her eyes, deep and soulful
like the california sunset -- Amber Brown
Her beautiful figure could fool a guy
or two, or three or five
but underneath her shimmering
cover-girl lips and charcoaled framed amber eyes
lies the scar tissue

she wears her heart on her sleeve,
"You're only young once..." she thinks
but under it all, she knows this man, or any other
can't fill the lack of friendship; of love
of seeing beyond that
figure-eight body;
or amber eyes, or covergirl lips
but the spirit of gravity
cannot choke this flower...
from dreaming:
of a quaint home
where she can raise her new born baby girl
or a man to sweep her off her feet
care for her, just like daddy used to...
before the accident.

"One more night" she thinks...
for the thousanth
And oneth time,
as she gets in the car
where a horny businessman thinks:
"tonight's going to be a night to remember"

Fuck you, Cupid

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:46 PM

You are the god of love,
but the assasin of friendship
I hate your guts, you fucker
but I like your style

I was only thirteen
thir-teen
when I met that
brown-eyed mess
that beautiful goddess
or infamous tramp
depending on who you ask
or rather, when you ask it

It scares me though, it does
that she could be both a creator,
my brown eyed goddess;
and a destroyer,
that, infamous bitch;
in the eyes of the same lover
although, a lover
no more

fuck you cupid,
for letting your dogs loose
on the best friend I could ever ask for;
but if I could do it all over again
I wouldn't have it any other way
because that is how
this moment was shaped.

Please don’t tell me now

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:43 PM

It has been 7 suns
Since I last felt your warm embrace
And eight
Eight, oh so fucking
Cold
Nights
Your gentle hands
Exposed a world, I thought
I would never see
But now it’s
Gone
Gone
Gone
And I am once again lost
In the torrent of life
Like an autumn leaf tossing in winter winds
Out of place
And out of control.
Still,
I would not have it any other way;
Cupid stabbed my heart,
And now,
I must have my revenge
Please,
My creator
My destroyer
If you love me;
at all,
Please don’t tell me now.

The American Way

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:42 PM

America,

This one’s for you –

Home of the brave

And land of the free

--market capitalism, that is.

Surely, our forefathers

-and mothers,

Started with the best of intentions

“A democracy

Of the people, by the people

For the people”

They said, of course a “person” was

A rich land owning white male over the age of twenty one

Truth be told,

It was really built by a coalition

Of two-thirds of people,

For the land-owning white people

On the backs of savage people

Who had brown skin

And lived with the land

Instead of against

Or off of, it

These people simply did not understand

“The American way”

“God Bless America”

Some vengeful god that must havre been

With the power of “manifest destiny”

He promised those

Greedy white men

An entire continent

Which they traded “money,”

A magical combination of green paper and metal coins

To other rich white males

Who also knew how to live against the land

In exchange for the land they then called

America.

Of course, God’s have a sense of humor too

Although it’s a poor one, at best

Because they made contradictory promises like that all the time

This one time

He, or she, or it – for that matter

Promised the same land to two different people’s

One which claimed to be “chosen” and apparently killed his first son

And another who refused to drink his blood, and prayed five times, daily.

Then told each of them, to claim it in his honor

This land, they called

Jerusalem.

That same god also told these

Rich white men, who called themselves Americans

And more generally, his children

To claim this land between two bodies of water in his name

So, as any child would

They obeyed the command of their father

And played a violent game of “capture the flag”

With the other people who had lived there for eons

Who had brown skin

And did not know “the American way”

Of course “flag”

Really meant life

And the white skinned people,

Did more killing than they did capturing

They did it with the best of intentions

And after all,

that’s what really mattered.

Of course America was also the land of

Religions freedom

One was free to worship whatever god he or she wanted

In so far as they also worshipped

Those green pieces of paper and metal coins

Which they gladly did

So the greediest and most “American”

Of all Rich, white, land-owning, men

Who promised god to represent the will of the people

(that is, the rich land-owning white male people)

Promised some of those green pieces of paper and metal coins

To the poorer, more rugged of the white male genus

In exchange for the heads of those brown people,

Who used the land wrong

Or did not use it at all

Of course everyone knew that children,

Of all colors were easy to kill

So they gave more money for the full-grown heads

Of those brown, heathen people

And even more for those which appeared to have penises

But the Americans have always been

A gentle people

Eventually, they felt bad for those

Heathen brown people

Who had not yet learned how to keep themselves warm.

So that winter, they gave them blankets

Of course, those blankets were infested with small invisible creatures

That made people who were not naturally immune

--Or otherwise, rich and white,

Very, Very ill.

“it was better to die warm

Than freeze to death”

They thought.

But America was no savage land

It was a land of honor, a land of justice

Eventually – those white people without penises

Managed to menstruate simultaneously

And demanded that those with penises treat them equally.

Menstruation was a technique of bleeding

For seven dsays at a time while lashing out at people

Without having to bear the consequences of doing so.

Basically, a get out of jail free card

So, to appease those people

The rich white land owning male people promised that

Those white people with vaginas instead of penises

Could help choose the rich white people

To represent their political wishes,

In a city they called “Washington”

The two-third people with charcoal skin

Were also awarded similar rights

On the condition that they don’t bother the people with white skin

“separate but equal”

The rich white men thought

So they built separate schools

And separate bathrooms

And separate restaurants

And separate water fountains

For the charcoal people

Of course the rich white men knew,

That some pigs were more equal than others.

The people with brown skin also

Got their “separate but equal”

In exchange for leaving the white people alone

And not complaining about the blankets

And the killings from back when they were less-than-people

So they gave them some of the land back,

But the brown people still missed

Their less-than-people who were brutally slaughtered

So they cried all the way to their new homes.

This land was eventually called “native country”

By the rich white people

Who sometimes walked down the trail of tears

To try and multiply their green paper

At placed called “Indian Casino’s”

But most of the rich white people lost money

So the rich white people who governed some of the states

(Which were smaller, more concentrated units of Americas)

Who could not stand to see the brown people win,

Banned those Casinos

On the land they supposedly gave back.

Now-A-Days

Americans claim they have changed their ways

Since the charcoal people and the brown people

With penises and vaginas

Are practically equal—

Or equally disadvantaged, at least

But some other people with brown skin

From some other continent

Who pray five times a day, to some other god

Don’t believe them

and occasionally fly planes into a few American buildings,

(which are tall structures that tickle the clouds

That were built by poor people

Of all colors

For rich white male people to work, pee

And cheat on their wives in.

But America,

Oh America

Has always been a just land

So we just labeled those people “terrorists”

And “enemy combatants” so we wouldn’t

Feel so guilty about slaughtering them, either

Maybe one of these days..

They too,

Will get their blankets.

To Blossom

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:40 PM

They say spring is the most Beautiful season

I thought so too, That is,

until you showed me

Summer was the season

our love would blossom.

I had seen you around before,

Exchanged an embarrassing

Facebook message, Or two

But it was not until the summer

Of my senior year, That I felt you.

The person

The most beautiful Event,

that ever collided

With this lost, confused soul.

But that is how the world goes round,

That’s how destiny chose

To play it’s hand

On that august night

As we sat against the wall

In what we thought then, was

The most miserable of establishments

Staring at an apartment complex

Across the road where other people danced,

And partied the night away…

We danced too,

That night in the silent dorm roomTo our

own love songOne more beautiful than

I had Ever heard or felt.

This, I experienced.

The only sound

I heard was the sound

of our Heavy breathing

As you bit my lip And I

slipped my hands around

your Beautiful plush waste.

I was lost in your big brown

Eyes, for what Felt like a century.

Time passes slowly when you are

Learning to savor every second.

We fought the good fight -- You and I

Against fate, Against distance

Through even the coldest nights,

we kept our fire burning strong

whispering secrets to each other

late into the nightwe found warmth

in each others voices

while the lovers slept

and the poets prayed.

“two days and ten hours”

That’s how far we were from each other

But for that beautiful month,

You were here with me

By my side.

In my big broken bed,

I always left you a spot next to me,

And a match

Half-hoping that you would really

Be here, when I awoke

And we could

Burn that broken bed

Under the heat of our bodies;

Spark a love,

That we both knew

We had left, in our summer skin.

Cheers, here is to you—

My brown eye’d beauty,

We will always have Paris

Or whatever you want

to call that miserable

Austin dormroom

Where I learned

What Love

Was

Daybreak

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:39 PM

Sir,
I call you a lot of things
Some good
And some bad
You are my provider – yes
You brought me into this world
And that’s a fact that sadly,
I cannot ignore
Whether on purpose, or by accident
Is a subject up for debate
But something you could never be,
Or will be,
Is my father.
No matter who’s name is on my birthcertificate
Or whatever last name I bear.
Sure, you are not only to blame,
It takes two to bear a grudge
But as long as you expect me
To live in your shadow;
To be your reflection –
I’m sorry
There’s simply no room for you here
I have simply grown too full for your cup
Of rum and coke
Or black label and sprite
From which you drank yourself blind
--To my accomplishments;
My growth.

But I know this is your home,
Your castle,
And like you always said
“we do things (your) way around here”
So please,
Do not be offended
As I take my leave,
My leap
My chance – at life
To see for myself whether or not
The grass is really greener on the other side
Don’t get me wrong
You will always be a part of me
The part that I’m always running from
Your shadow
Your reflection
Your smell and your touch
I hope, I pray
To a god I don’t believe in
I can be a better father
Than you
Ever
Were

Plans

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:49 PM

no one starts out life

knowing it is going to be meaningless

it all starts with big plans,

larger than life.

curing diseases, being firemen

falling in love, living freely

you know -- dreams,

ambition, aspirations maybe;

The thing is, dreams stay exactly what they are;

and what they always will be :

Dreams.

And one dreary night we look in the mirror;

42, alone and oh so fucking

broken and realize

that we can't stand the reflection

staring back at us.

one by one,

sometimes two by two,

we leave this cruel world

just as we entered it

lonely,

miserable,

and crying our fucking lungs out.

A Dance with Destiny

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:48 PM

We exchanged a look
as she troddled up the incline
of the top floor
of a parking garage
in some suburban neighborhood,
no different from the rest of 'em

she had jet black hair,
and plump white cheeks.
Her name was Helen,
I assumed so at least, as she looked
as all helens do, I figured
with piercing blue eyes
in which I could only see my own reflection
and pale milky skin
which was smoother than sandpaper, at the very least

Although we only exchanged but that one brief moment
between shock and awe;
that another human soul was here,
sitting on the ledge
on the seventh floor of a parking garage
overlooking the entire city
on a friday night
sculpting words
into expressions
the trademark of a poet

But this moment had to end,
as all moments do, I suppose
as she quietly creeked
to the other end of that lot
sat atop her throne, and lit a cigarette
or two
and our words danced,
although we never exchanged a word

As the city clock struck twelve
and the pidgens startled into the midnight sky
I think we both shared something
like ordered chaos
or beautiful sorrow
in my dance with destiny,
I tasted fate.

The Wall

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:47 PM

For a poet,
there is no hell like
writers block

the impossibility of
expressing the thoughts
that linger within
that hold each moment hostage
that torture - is like no other

Perhaps this is the quiet
before the storm
the last breath before destruction
or perhaps I just need to breath
...or fart

Handicapped

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:45 PM

what is a knight without armor
or a souljer without a gun
or a doctor without a stethascope
or a businessman without a business
or a poet without a thought
about what to say
or how to say it
I wish I forgot my pen,
... at least then I'd have an excuse

Today, I am useless.

The Simple Life

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:44 PM

"Life's a bitch; you work

and work, and work

and for what?

-- to realize that what you have just ain't good

at least, not good enough."

"harry..."

"shut up and listen, woman

there's no time for consolation

no time for your petty lies

shit, there's barely even time for me..."

"..."

"look at me,

42, overweight, balding and

a night-shift assistant manager

at a grocery store no one has ever heard of...

I can't keep looking myself in the mirror and asking
Is this really how it was meant to be? "

"No Harry: this is not how it was supposed to be

we all have big plans

about what we wanted to do in life

about what we want to see.

about where we want to go, and

even who we wanted to be.

Fuck, you think this is where I want to be Harry?

38, a stay at home wife -

the personal assistant

of a night-shift assistant manager

of a grocery store that no one has ever heard of

who doesn't love me enough to marry me..."

"How did we end up like this, vanessa

where did all the good go?

how the fuck did we not see this one coming..."

"we were blinded harry,

by ourselves,

by our parents,

by our teachers,

and most of all,

our plans...

after all, no one plans on being miserable

not us,

not the junkies next door

not the old couple across the hall

and certainly not the millionaires in hollywood

it all starts with big plans and ambitions

but ends exactly the same.

for all of us..."

"What are you trying to say...

that a man shouldn't have dreams?

that a man should expect

to die in this world - just as he came into it

miserable,

alone,

and crying his fucking lungs out?"

"maybe Harry, maybe...

maybe this wouldn't be so bad if we didn't expect

nothin out of it. Hell, maybe we'd be proud..

of managing not to kill ourselves each day"

"Fuck you, Vanessa...

maybe I don't want to live in a world

without hope

maybe that's just not good enough for me

what do you cunts know about dreams anyway?

you cook, you clean

and sometimes...

you even look good enough to fuck

You've accomplished everything

that the world expects from a woman,

i'm the failure..."

"Go to hell Harry,

I have dreams just like you do.

You ever wonder what the hell it's like for me?

at least you got a chance

to do what you want,

to be what you want to be

you fucked that up, and that's your burden to carry

me?

I've just been stuck here with you

day in and day out

cooking, cleaning

and doing my fucking best

to be the best woman I know how to be

but that doesn't mean I don't have dreams

there's not a day I don't think about

how things coulda been different

if I went to ballet school...

but we all can't do what we dramed of doing

that's not how the world was meant to go round

besides,

what are those big 'ol dreams gettin you now, huh?

you ain't happy

you've never been happy...

All i'm sayin is maybe,

things wouldn't be so bad

if we just forgot about what we wanted

and learned to deal with what we've got"

Harries tension burst

into tears

of anger,

of sorrow,

of confusion,

and slowly rolled down his cheeks

vanessa's charcoal rimmed eyes began to leak, too

"what the fuck ever happened to the simple life?"

This one's for you, Dear Stranger

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:56 PM

We are far apart, you and I
but we are united by these words
which bleed from me on this here paper
and you, so beautifully read
and interpret
and wonder...
"what was this guy smoking?"
the truth is, if there ever was such a thing
that we poets focus too much on ourselves
and not enough on our subjects
there's a hint of narcessism in this whole mess
but who better to clean it up?
so
this one's for you,
whether your young and wrestless
or saturated by life's beauty
Kudos,
for pronouncing these written words
and giving meaning
to otherwise lifeless vessles
you are every poets greatest wish,
or perhaps -- our worst nightmare.

Creativity

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:55 PM

Creativity is a virtue like no other
the mother of love
and the father of meaningful existence
but it is a virtue for which too few have
the heart
For some, it is easier to follow-
to sit in the back-seat of life's carriage
making passive comentary on a life-
-they were too weak to live.
Me?
I hunger for life's underbelly
I drive on an empty gas-tank
and fly kites only in thunder storms
with every action, I write my own destiny
following any road without a who
or a why
or a fucking care in the world
Some people drive to their destinations,
I drive to loose myself,
without any direction.
why?
becuase there's beauty in the struggle.

Never look Back

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:55 PM

There's something very comfortable about childhood

Innocense, perhaps

or maybe the magic of running through an open feild without

a fucking care in the world

or being the first to wake up, and watching the sun rise,

or skipping rocks in a quaint pond

ankle-deep in clear blue existence.

However, a time does come when we loose our shoes

in life's current and it's jagged rocks cut our feet

the desire for an anesthesized life overcomes curiosity

and we walk away from the familiar pond

never looking back on the open fields we ran through

we walk on an endless winding road,

with twists and turns

it is rough, and too cuts our feet

until one day we stop,

and look upon that long and winding road

and realize it has all been meaningless,

with nothing familiar in sight.

then we dream, of our childhood oasis

and thirst for the cool water to sooth our blistered feet

as we slip the noose around our necks,

we wonder why

we ever

fucking

left.

Modern Marvals

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:54 PM

Fasle are the ideals of modernity

we grow weaker and call it "progress"

we subdue strength and call it "virtue"

we sacrefice ourselves for suburban homes

and german cars

and trophey wives and husbands

and this, this blasphemy, we call "life"

I have grown to clever for your shiny objects and petty distractions

If nothingness is our final destination,

consider this my resignation.

The Game

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:53 PM

It all began with a single

BANG!

who's reverberations reached every corner of the universe

being grew too strong to contain itself

and becoming now flourished everywhere.

On a single rock,

three doors over from

the magnanimous swirling ball of fire,

forces competed with one another

the lamb and the wolf

the land and the sea

fire and water

strength and weakness

in an endless cycle of ascendancy and descendency

of going over and going under

being had become a great game.

Until one clever beast, subdued the forces

gaged strength within a fictional binary

of good and evil, right and wrong, god and Lucifer

Weakness triumphed for a wrinkle in time

but the flame of greatness still burnt strong

in other words,

everything strong was evil, but evil didn't die

However tempting this false order,

this clever beast was a product of being

and like being, was unable to keep it's pact with itself

the strength that was encaged turned inwards,

into ressentiment, self suppression and self-hatred,

and ate the insides of the clever beast.

And despite this moral order,

The wolf still teared at the heart of the lamb

the fire still burned entire civilizations to the ground

the sea still sculpted the coastline with powerful blows

and the prostitutes still lined the city streets.

"Evil!" cried the beast, with utter dismay

but being only continued it's game,

disaster continued its crash-course with destiny

and the clock still ticked

The clever beast looked up to the heavens

and cried, "the lord will save his children"

but there was no reply, no miracle

-- no one to turn this water into wine.

Only Laughter as being continued its endless dance,

and the clever beast disappeared without a trace.

Curious Art

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:52 PM

An artist I am, of words and ideas
my colors are boundless experiences,
unconscious desires,
potential for meaning and lack of direction.
No, I am nothing like the others.
With a stroke of honesty,
I paint with my thoughts, conversations
and actions, of course.
What do I care about paintings of mountains or canions?
or people who have long since deceased
or triangles and squares and circles
and such
I am an artisan of the twenty first century,
with nonsense, I fight the good fight
my canvas is life, and I'm painting my own mosaic

Dionysus

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:51 PM

Parks and Philosophy are an art

for which too few have the stomach

or the mind, for that matter

and even less the time

For too long have I seen men work

live, dream and strive

towards an imaginary ideal

of love, of safety

of wealth, of power

Only, if only, they saw

the meaning in their own selves

Look away from the glittering ideals of modernity, child

there's beauty in the struggle

Timeless

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 2:50 PM

The sound of water splashes in one ear and out the other

and the wind's briskly touch caresses my torso, and

the suns warm rays cradle my anxiety

like the warm touch of a new mother

Friends come, and friends go

Lost in an endless swirl of existence

Time goes on, but the fool with the banjo still plays

a familiar tune that never ends

and the water still splashes

the wind still straddles

and the sun still cradles

my every loathsome fear

this fucked up top still spins,

meaningless and all.

New Years Poetry

Posted by Shikhar.Singh at 8:06 AM

Greetings,

been a while since I decided to exclusively post poetry. I don't really get around to writing it very often, although lately I have been inspired by my nigga bukowski so things have been different. Now, as with anything I write -- I feel a disclaimer is in order:

** I understand that this note is entitled "new years poetry" what is hereby published has very little to do with new year itself, it was simply written on new years eve. Let's just say there's something inspirational about parks and children.

** Poetry doesn't have to rhyme to not suck. (for more, see Charles Bukowski)

Now, for the goods:

Shikhar

12/1/9

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