Long Backstreet Poems
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Sensing the atmosphere for omens.
Signs of impending, cusp and verge.
I ping and curl, scrape to drudge up-
internal program and hit send
and hope for good vibes return "not the end."
I have become a lightless diode.
A buzzing lamppost in the neighborhood
of victimhood and it's backstreet node.
A useless burnt out core in off mode.
A robot running over castles
premade in the sand.
I try to read between the lines,
decrypt the Oracles plans behind,
the fulfilling jinx it has in store foe me.
Stars aligned.
A telepathy mainlining, a pulse headlining freakshow.
Of kinetic belonging, or safety net I used to abide in
long ago.
When the world had justice and overseer
and endearment-
enthronement-thoughts of the faithful.
I long for the ether of a hint,
graft me in with your marrow, splint, in the know.
Don't leave me high and dry,
Alone and crooked, wicked bent.
Odious clouds and signature mounds.
Terra-blyte your foretelling,
Either a warning or a telling of blue skys color turning.
Ether, of any which way the wind blows in my mind.
A private message, rather stalking.,
as it stands a topography cone of cold stand.
Your best made plans, for me
for the tasting, cast of shadow.
forecast, menacing.
Bound to be set in stone, found rather mocking.
Injected in-guest-guessing an after the fact thing,
for me.
You read my fear as I fill
a prescription of
my self fulfilled prophecy,
rolling the bones
with fate's hands.
I hear there's power in the knuckles,
the joints, the suggestion of glands.
Just. Faint whispers,
whisking by
warning-arrows
with no flame-
no spark burning for me.
Just a whisker filament, fading to the darkest
sharade of gray, hit parades.
To shade my own guilty sense of judgment.
Of putting my trust in false things.
With their superficial gradient of monochrome;
night rainbows,
overlooking Styx river country home
aside a brick road leading all the way to Thunderdome.
My sonar/feeler brain finding it's way
in the dark like a worm in the dung.
In someone else's element.
With no taste for mental or spiritual atonement.
Or the taste of Hope's spark on my tongue.
Dreaming of a pot of gold, you came to town
It was sprawling, this metropolis, you knew none around
Your earnings were scant and engagements, irregular
The overseer assured steady income in lieu of a favour
You succumbed to ward off uncertainties, and gradually sank deeper
You were born of impoverished stock, high up in the Himalayas
Your clean looks and youthful age were your kin’s panacea
Your home, the arid plains, where land is mostly barren
Starvation a reality, your innocent world was broken
When it comes to sacrifice, inevitably you are chosen
You were a country girl, pubescent and barely thirteen
Travelling to the big city with a distant kin
To serve an urban family with mop and pail
A drug laced cup of tea made you vulnerable to a cartel
You woke, imprisoned, in a dingy room of a highway brothel
Battered and beaten and raped to submission
You forgot the gods and your daily oblation
Your escort paid dearly for his betrayal and malice
Was it your homage to the gods or backstreet justice?
You languish now in jail, but the brothel still exists
You were in your second year, studying BA (Honours)
With a weakness for the life of the upper class
And the knowledge to achieve what you felt, you must
The initiation was debasing – no niceties, just frenzied lust
The payment was in cash –the first time wasn’t the last
You are not alone in your tainted existence
Women arriving at the metropolis in suburban trains
Working by day and exiting before the peak hour rush
Living in opulence, in times past – barely middle class
Very discreet, these devil women and financially flush
You conceived, a professional risk, and the baby you resolved to keep
Now nineteen and actively trafficking, his misdeeds make you weep
His latest catch, a tender ten year old, the same age you were shackled
Your flesh and blood, the son, you had mothered from the cradle!
Your agony was incomplete, now it had completed its cruel cycle
Hail lady of the night
With time, you’ve overcome both fear and fright
And blended the distinction between wrong and right
You’ve lost your vision, though you retain your sight
In a world shrouded in darkness where the sun still shines bright
Because this here is your passing
out parade doth your cap and gown
This here I don't know if you if you are
aware or know it yet
But also the end of what was once
your student life I hope you kissed
it a fond farewell and goodbye
As your days spent on scholastic
dissertation theoretical drunken debate
expressing your altruistic views putting
the world's wrongs to right in some or
other cheap backstreet pub
And pack away your monogrammed
slogan t-shirts and swap your long hair
and man-bun for a short back and side's
Because you my friend I am sorry
to inform have finally just crossed over
to the dark side
Welcome to the big wide world we have
been expecting you
And though you now have in your possession
a certificate denoting you are university
standard educated and have letters
to accompany your name as proof
Nothing you learned or where taught
be that even higher level education
would or could possibly have prepared
you for the harsh reality life has in-store
And unlike school which eventually
runs and has a predetermined course
over a precise timeline
Life means life and the remainder of
your's has just begun starting now
The time has come for you to put your
degree to some use find a job buy
a car and a house somewhere to rent
or buy
And oh did I forget to mention most
importantly of all
Start paying back whatever student loans
you took out compounding interest that
got you where you stand today
Until your 10 year graduation reunion
comes around and is the 1 and only
topic of discussion that everyone
still have left in common
Same old people as before now
just all grown up replaced with
long drawn faces
That once sparkled with aspiration
instilled with dream's of changing
the world and making it a better place
Who now wish for nothing more than
to be able to put food on the table and
go to sleep without the fear of the power
being cut off
Not the 3rd degree or lecture
PEDDLING HOPE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a small pill, solace in a blister pack
legally dispensed by a white coat
promises relief, a cure, a return to normalcy,
a life unburdened from pain and disease.
the ache returns, however, louder and more insistent
another pill, then two
the dosage creeping like a vine.
a pressed white powder, a crystal shard
illegally peddled in a dark alley
promises escape, temporary reprieve, abnormality,
a life numbed from pain.
the craving returns, however, the gnawing need
the body screams,
desperately clawing for the next fix.
addiction cares not about legality~
the hungry monster gnaws the same
whether fed by doctor’s script or dealer’s promise.
Big Pharma, a sanitized name
cartels in suits and white lab coats
pushing their product with glossy ads.
the cartel’s hand, a brutal fist
deals death blows and ruin,
pushing their product in seedy places and backstreet alleys.
one wears a suit, funds politicians,
smiles on commercials, promises relief from disease.
the other whispers in shadows
creates transactions based on desperation and fear.
Big Pharma’s towers gleam, untouchable
built on prescriptions, on the fine print no one reads.
cartels hide, their dens and caves obscured
built on blood, dead bodies, and broken dreams.
how many lives line the pockets of pharmaceutical giants,
legal drug pushers in suits peddling hope in blister packs?
how many lives line the pockets of backstreet cartels,
illegal drug pushers in hoodies peddling hope in powder?
Wait! don’t tell me about regulations, about quality control
when the end result is the same:
bodies chained; minds enslaved
lives bartered for fleeting highs and ephemeral repose.
A monochrome of boho days
segue one another surreptitiously.
Endless pantomimes of idle chatter flutter by.
Cantilever bridge, a one stop halting site for gossip and suspense.
Small talk, bespoke winged creature, Combe of pleuron.
Turin shroud spotter in the mise en scene melting pot.
The spirited stride of pavement strollers prompted by
agenda.
Metatarsals on the march.
Street vendor’s spooky cry with banjo beating busker at his side.
Dirt pan bellow and brittle strum about the
orange alert ahead.
Crowded car park, careening bus, frustrated taxi driver rank and file.
Backstreet Barney or kerfuffle on the lawn.
Swing sign overhead, a pawn in every trending breeze.
Office block malarkey cutting capers for the press.
New age ante-fix, the cover tile for corruption.
Whistle blowing wag inside the
city centre fault line.
Brass neck
reservoir of hoodwink high and low.
Harassed mother, barefoot beggar
nervously extends her rusted tin.
Guilt edge coin as bandage to our shoddy scruple.
Bag lady on the fringe of some haute couture complex.
Stasi-like security whose bluff veneer belies an inner
bludgeon.
Crouton salad diner has his finger on the pulse but not his pulse rate!
Tycoon in transition with an open brief!
Teflon tyrant
back to the future.
Ambulance chaser …. legal eagle…..with fortune in misfortune their calling card .
To the limit and beyond like an offshore Ansbacher.
Noonday bell
interloper at the scuttlebutt tavern.
Seconds out,
moments out,
hours in a hari kari haze.
Sensei’s of the left filling void with vacuum.
Laboured diatribe against dynasty, trite slogans, empty rhetoric, mannah from heaven?
All this from the cadres of social despotism!
Passage, the
pollinating insect of aroha.
Behind the rhythm of the grind a broad leaf grain of hope may sprout.
Green shoots of bounty.
Latent sidewalk bloomer.
Blossom by default or tender impulse
Delhi seems closer than it was last time.
After a tea with GST,
on to a backstreet of Varanasi,
Untouched by authority;
ignored more by memory
than darkened by amnesia.
A huge black cow lazes about,
like a Moghul monarch blocking
half the street. It won’t let the OLA pass.
At the hoary-holy sanctum,
my poor drops of milk from a paper cup
pour on to the Lord’s cosmic crown.
Ganga, here, is a very old Benares
fraying at the edges, laid out in the open.
So still, like samana, the balancing prana.
From a boat I watch how human flesh fuels
the firewood at the Harichandra ghat..
Benares eyes Harichandra rather darkly.
Then, the Ganga Arati at 6.30
Their off-white attire. The huge lamps they hold
and draw patterns with, in the air.
Lines with the solemn predictability
of a Ravi varma . Ganga is a new Miss world by now.
At the Manikarnika ghat too, bodies dutifully burn.
In the dark, Death sparkles like huge fireflies;
pampered by pundits and Sanskrit
I lie in an OYO at Godowlia so ill.
So close to mukti. A godsend of a doctor
At Matha Anandamayi hospital queers my pitch..
One of a tribe long extinct in Serpent town,
his fees: ‘whatever you please’.
I remember hospitals back in Kerala.
Thank god, I was not in one there.
Else, I would have hit hell by now, looking for money.
Sure, the ‘path to hell is paved with good intentions’
( of corporates and false swamis)
Notes:
Varanasi: It is also called Benares and Kashi, One of the holiest of cities in India, known for its temple, by the Ganges, dedicated to Lord Shiva.
OLA : The taxi cab app, OYO : An app to find hotel rooms.
Serpent town : Trivandrum, Samana : One of the five pranas(breaths), the equalizing prana.
Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they paint sound and city pastel,
never at a loss for inspiration,
weather neither bar nor barrier,
in the face of whirlwind snowfall,
freezing ice, torrential downpour,
within themselves, he, she, they plod on,
hardship is adopted, never cast aside,
while others brazenly squirm,
wallow in uproarious denial,
wilt before the slightest storm,
taking flight in arid comfort zone,
shelter is their first convenient port,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
alert does not begin an ample portrait,
of this wilful dwindling genus,
genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
they capture worlds sidereal,
under velvet moon imagining bespoke,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
how magical their canny weave lexicon,
for us timid souls to relish evermore,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
vicarious the kismet, excitement from afar,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep
We were both of us young
when I walked her home from the pub that night.
She held my arm while explaining to me why she was a virgin
and would be until she married.
She didn’t ask me inside “..my parents” she explained a little sheepishly.
So we sat together on her doorstep,
the stone top step of two
the two that kept her front door from the narrow footpath
and the cobbled gutter
of that dark and narrow backstreet of her dark and narrow home.
Leaning back against her door we talked
of her Catholic god who I
clinging to my dark and narrow hopes
did not question in that way she did my godlessness.
With no dark side she talked to make a Christian of me
while I did as best I could at being as honest with her
as she was with me.
She gave to me her rosary beads and asked if sometimes I might pray.
What should I pray for?
For the peace of the World, and for its homeless and its children.
Of course.
She was short haired, blue eyed, blonde, Slender and small breasted.
Her name?
Did it begin with a K? The sound of a K?
We hugged and lightly kissed as we said goodnight while
the world’s wars raged and its homeless and its children bled and died.
We never saw each other again.
In a decent just and Christian world
she might have known the life she wanted.
Perhaps she might Have married Christ and
now and then could feel her prayers were heard.
I sometimes wonder how many young men had sat with her
on that cold and hard stone step
and now wished they could recall her name.
I stood in awe as she alighted like a bird upon some branch,
Belisha beacon to the abyss bound clochard.
Bonfire for uncanny scion adrift,
ignited by her
incandescent eyes.
Chanteuse of Arcadia on song and sound.
Halo at the crossroads, spreading out her wings to scupper animus
and bile.
Mystic lodger earthen yet ethereal,
hoisting every limb aloft from Bern to Betelgeuse.
Limelight vernal
queen blessed by open columns, healer on the arc where tangents dwell.
Silver tiptop finger nails a castanet with magic samba grooves.
In ritual or routine this lifeline Flora,
bright zoetic statue,
magnetising symbol for the bod without a bean.
Silken hands that rock the infant cradle,
quelling fractious babies, saboteurs of sandman’s mythic dust.
Moonlight moths that
flit across the glossy pages sculpted in her cheeks.
Backstreet lantern white knight,
echo in a mirror of chatoyant eyes.
Cast iron shadow coat tail,
destiny’s de lux edition bound but never gagged.
Damsel on assignment,
ever present vigil, soothing troubled psyches as they wallow in the waters of Lethe.
Nightingale who weaves an ample flourish,
band aid profile minder of a
cobblestone waif,
otherworldly migrant,
window on polluted quarters
harbouring those abject fallen figures,
bane of ghostly ushers when they prowl.
Heroine’s ascension ,
angel flying over heaven’s ladder,
waiting for that moment when her heart has found a home.
I’m from the little white house on the street and green leaved trees with branches
to conquer, block parties and the young ones’ adventures.
I’m from capturing lizards and frogs to approaching my sister’s bags of frozen wasps
located in the freezer. Playing Duck, Duck, Goose, Hide and Seek, and hooked on my
Tamagotchi.
I’m from few losses, but many gained. Grandpa’s Hershey kisses which terminated
after one tragic Christmas; to family drama and broken Thanksgiving celebrations,
and my puppy’s death from the black road where a vehicle had struck him.
I’m from Barney and Tinky Winky, Rocketpower, and “Who lives in a pineapple under
the sea?”
I’m from swings, slides, and the sandbox. Challenging how high I can swing and
escaping the wasps hidden beneath the excitement.
I’m from weak fences, exceeding the limits, snakes all around who were no match
for my dog Buster Brown.
I’m from “Bye, Bye, Bye” NSYNC, Backstreet Boys, and Jesse McCartney performed
by my entertaining sister and plays like Little Red Riding Hood directed by my
grandmother.
I’m from making movies on those rainy days; laughs, smiles, and silly plays.
I’m from bunk beds, and the dark night where I had encountered my nightmares as
I fall into a deep sleep; the most horrid visions that scarred my child imagination
and nose bleeds that elicited the awakening of me in the silent house.