Words.

Cipher
Cksdgodf sodfn ifg pegndf,
sdfkg wien veroiv pwmcq zvdfe
svoijve erivnd ksd, veohsd vio,
jfvut. Dertjh feuq v grei,
weiof cruznxw oiernz fwever.
Msdjue aiugyc ivue cbuiw.

How could this thing be worked out?
Under a God with such clout?
I’ll go to Him for a bout!

The Red Clouds
As I approached the midnight hour
I took a look up into the
night sky
and saw a flush of red clouds
forming right above
me.
Winds were blowing and
trashing the trees that
lined the deserted roads,
a rain of brown leaves
swirling around
violently, almost uncontrollably.

I remember this sight as a child,
the red clouds that were always
accompanied by
invisible winds.

I remember Mother used to tell me
that the red clouds were the
souls of people ascending into
heaven, and that was where
we
would all go one day.

I remember being astonished,
at how my soul was
actually drenched in the
color of red.
But now I am older,
and I know
that the red clouds only
mean that
a storm is approaching.

Caution
Frustration held under
the bubbling
coming up slow and
molten
a gentle fire
licks the cauldron
of the mind
carefully sticks of memory
stir and stir
stir and stir
what lies suspended
within
the dense emotion
gradually heated
working towards a point
beyond which
only a boiling overflow
is next.

Between blinks
a whole night passes,
and it is day again.

Within that blink
an infinite unconscious
unfolded.

The Bicycle Ride
Time before anything rose,
but I did,
and we found ourselves
waiting at Longhouse for
the ride to start,
me and her.
Yes, there were others as well,
the Queen of Snails,
a Rock and Roll King,
an Italian Stallion, just
to name a few.
But as far as I was concerned
I saw just the
two of us,
matching each other
even in stroke, as the peloton
rolled out
at 5am on the spot.
Time waits for no rider.
I could feel her spinning
ever so smoothly
like running water
right beneath me
going on and on, stirring…
crossing into subtle joy.
And yet we just rode on,
without saying a single
word to each other.
She wouldn’t? (Or couldn’t?)
We zipped along,
up Prata Hill,
Paul took off, no one followed,
me and her we stayed
snugly in the pack cherishing
the draft and warmth.
The rolling stretch of Mandai
kept us together still, although
it was over too fast for my
liking, for soon we reached
the Shell station, that pit stop
where tired legs and foggy shades
gather and regroup
but still she didn’t say anything
to me as I looked at her
(and sometimes I wonder if
she even knows that I’m
looking at her).
Left, or right,
the pack would split
and that was the end
of my bicycle ride.
To the next ride, then,
whenever that may be,
tomorrow perhaps, which
I, foresee.

Castaway
I claw at them, those untouchable thoughts that thought themselves
into existence, but I slice my fingers through them as though
through black shadows that dance upon the inner walls of caves.
Whose agency is that now that new thoughts should come to my mind
without my conscious conception of them? All around me,
you people, every single one of you, as I tell myself that by my
own choice I harbour you in my mind you become puppets
and then slowly gradually you do my bidding all that I tell you to
which all exists only in my own head.

Errata
Still in production, still in the
process of writing printing,
I find all these
errors mistakes speckled
through the yearly
daily pages of my —-.

Flimsy sheet,
might get ignored overlooked, filled
in with symbols corrections
that might not be noticed read.
Not even part of the binding.

But I would read them,
feeling understanding each nuanced
change correction that seem
to be done only on
hindsight. Would it not
have been all too futile late,
however?

As if that slice piece of imperfection
could balance out negate
that pulp which was already imperfect
when it was finished.

She became a
thought, and then,
she was all mine.

There are my books,
a mere monologue
between friends.