Violet Romance

I flush my dreams here today

blood trickling down the pipelines

as the memories
try to cage my throat

this evening offers me nothing

but only cigarettes
and the very soft perfume of marijuana

I watch the wet photo burning slowly
upon the marble floor

do I need to remember you anymore?

or those days
of masked emotions
and haunting midnight messages
that echoed through my cellphone?


and the many days
that I spent
struggling to write a line for you?


for this hour poisons me
with pain
and a very strange longing
for the sudden strike of death


I look at the ugly mirror
and observe those red eyes,
hiding a tear in every turn

the blind lips
hunt the pretty woman
for a kiss no more


and the fierce sweat
boils on my skin
waiting for the martyr

I let the canvas of
romance and violet rhymes
erode out of this mind

I let the lights
morph into darkness too soon

as the room disillusions
slowly into void

and so do I

the prophets are busy now
framing an obituary

The city is happy again

and so
are the restless poets of the dark…

Dark Love

The poet steps
into the mansion
of slain dreams

a blank notebook
in his hand

a vagabond

vying for words
and poems…

the goddess of dark love
has invited him
for dinner tonight


his vision travels
through the dead lights

his secrets shaken

and oblivious,
he loses his way

and so , he finds her
hours later

in the arsenal
of miracles and dark magic

tracing the humid song
of the gramophone

as the lotus
unfurls
through the eddies of darkness

and morphs into
a lady of strange appeal

who sits there
sipping the wine
of black lust and lonely shadows

her lips
smudged with auburn blood

serpents worshipping her eyebrows

her hair
crucified with the skulls
of forgotten lovers

as the solemn candlelight
surrender to those eyes

slowly

the wind is soporific

hypnotizing the poet
with its cold whispers

as he stands there

frozen

a murdered rose
bleeds on the table

her womb
cursed with
zygotes

offered by the white rivers
of artists and clowns

she wants to bury them
in the red chest
that lies on her table

forever

before she serves the dinner
for him

burnt
with the kiss of death

The Rendezvous

the artist
sits in the quiet corner
of the café

green demons
trickling down his throat

a vortex of bohemian
tunes in his mind

igniting predicaments…

nebulous thoughts crawling in
through the pages

rising through the winds
and morphing into a fireball
of rebel dreams

which collide
with the marble floor
and the walls

echoing through
the empty hole
of his head

he writes
he writes

the letters
dancing to the eerie serenade
of morphined loneliness

figures of stone
all around

his surreptitious eyes
wandering among desecrated
theories

seeking redemption



when his eyes meet
her virgin shadow

there she arrives..

dressed in scarlet

the lucid moon
breathing on her lips

and her beauty
unveiling the atlas
of his lost romance

he captures them

slowly
in his memory of fossils
and corpses

as he finds
a cavalcade
of festered imaginations
strolling around

her voice
giving birth to coveted prophets
whispering parables
of love and romance
with every stroke of the finger

and capturing him
in the seductive asylums
of poems and figures

yet again…

A Walk Through The War Zone

we walk in slow
through the narrow streets
and the mystic alleys

hand in hand

the women stand,
with burned babies
in their arms

looking out
with electrocuted eyes
from behind the dark panes
hiding a few more scarred lives

the camera flashes
and we watch quietly
as their lips
slowly melt into
blood with crimson desires

peace has not visited this city
for many years now…

we walk
as the street lights
mould

slowly…

into mommies
of stone

standing…

their dark shadow
leaving a mark of the curse

the curse of a war
long won by the devils


on the castrated grass
bearing skeletons of bullets and mines
in their ugly geometry


the coffins
have long been buried

the trees
have long disillusioned
into the dark smoke
that veils the sun
in the sky now,

as the clouds
with only acid rain
to offer

the church lies vacant
with the crucified figure

tears of dust
in His eyes

we walk in slow

a tune
slowly breathes
its presence
on the wind

as the zombies
rise through the naked orifice
of the death lake

sculpting the
prayers of vengeance
on the strings
of a faded guitar

You Creep In...

you creep in

through the shallow crevice
in the night sky
disguised as the moon


you creep in

like the sun’s third eye
gliding through the waves
and waters


you creep in

like a young sapling
fracturing the crust
of this wounded motherland


you creep in
you creep in


you creep in

like the forgotten scents
through the reverberations
of malignant winds


you creep in

like these poems
through the dark pipelines
of psychosis


you creep in

like the psychedelic dreams
through the metaphors
of reveries and slumber


you creep in

as these words
through the narrow crevice
on the skin of my loquacious mind

Woof Contest Winners for May 1

Poetry
Roy – “I have a hole in my socks....” - Concealing what's inside with smile... like a sock with a hole...
Zorlone - “The Modern Hercules” - Do you desire the perfect body? Then you have just surrendered to the vanity of the demon within you.
Christable Anon – “For my Brown Boy..” - Brown surrealism... a collage of thought process..
Sourik Banerjee – “Somewhere The Artist Still Remembers...” - This poem is a tribute to the enigmatic evening that the poet had spent with his ladylove for the first time...
Dragon Blogger – “Traffic Jam” - Traffic Jam, a unique poem of love.
About Writing
Alex McGaughan – “Things Every Poet Should Know #1, “No-Nos”” - This is the first installment of a series offering advice to poets. This one is a discussion of some "crimes" often committed by novice poets.
Izzy Daniels – “Blogging or Writing…What is More Important?” - Sometimes we tend to walk a fine line between blogging and writing. I do my best to highlight the differences.
Fiction / Monologue / Flash Fiction
Webbielady – “Confessions of a Devoted Sinner” - How distracted he was and so he decided to take his concerns to the Highest Being...
Jena Isle – “Mickey” - A story of a young boy who played video games.
Brought to you by PlotDog Press with the Serial Suspense Screenplay "Intervention"
(WOOF participants should re-post all the links above by next Monday. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top posts as chosen by the May 1, 2009 WOOF Contest participants. Want in to join the next WOOF? The next contest ends May 1. Submit a link to your best writing post of the last 3 weeks using the form on this page. Participants, repost the winning link list within a week and you’re all set.
Other WOOF Contestants for 05/01/09
Poetry
Dragon Blogger – “Future Flash” - A poem about a grim potential future.
Dragon Blogger - “Mutant Graduation” – Random twitter poem inspired by x-men, even mutants graduate from school.
Dragon Blogger – “Where Has Love Gone” - Poem about relationship trouble and believing in a better end.
Jennifer M Scott – “Arson” - A poem not about arson or is it?Jennifer M Scott – “A Summer Night in Spring” - The feeling of summer in a spring night.
Non-Fiction / About Blogging
Jena Isle – “SEO Sites to Maximize the Exposure of Your Articles” - How to maximize the exposure of your articles in your blogs.
Fiction / Monologue / Flash Fiction
Zorlone – “Difficult to Please” - A flash fiction about a barber in a new neighborhood who has been having a hard time getting customers.
Find out why...
Jennifer M Scott – “Red Velvet Box” - An eccentric woman bequeathed her belongings to her niece including one of her special treasures.
Jennifer M Scott – “Saturday Night Decisions” - A story in exactly 100 words about an alcholic what does he do, make your own ideas.
Jennifer M Scott - “Dell and Patsy” - A writing prompt about a mother and daughter and the mother's obsession with weight.well... this is a first for me...

Top Picks In Woof Contest...

Poetry
http://sugarcoatedworld.blogspot.com/2008/05/i-have-hole-in-my-socks.html
http://zorlone.blogspot.com/2009/04/modern-hercules.html
http://colorspot-bluenotes.blogspot.com/2009/04/for-my-brown-boy.html
http://sourik-poems.blogspot.com/2009/04/somewhere-artist-still-remembers.html
http://www.wandererthoughts.com/traffic-jam-original-poem-by-dragon-blogger/

About Writing
http://alexmcg.com/?p=426
http://www.izzydaniels.com/2009/04/blogging-or-writingwhat-is-more.html

Fiction / Monologue / Flash Fiction
http://tales-details.blogspot.com/2009/04/churchgoers-irony-funny-catholics.html
http://gewgawwritings.blogspot.com/2009/04/mickey.html

I would like to thank all my fellow writers and friends , for without their blessings and good wishes, it wouldn't have been possible for this humble poet to find his name among the top five picks in the poetry category in the woof contest!!! Thanks a lot!!!

Somewhere The Artist Still Remembers...

from the dark celluloid of my mind
fell a dream
and slept
on the sinful pages of reality


(the artist watched from a distance)


as the blue skyline
changed before my eyes


and the evening crawled in
through the broken spine
of April


I found you ,

girl of scent , sweat and romance

as answers echoed
through the distant hue

revealing a faint figure…

draped
in a robe of red miracle and prophecies


I recall as I write

when I found…


my poems
dancing on your skin
beneath the spotlight
of a thousand moons and stars


and a folklore
of mystic tales of love and romance
buried in your palms


my strange lust
nibbled on your flesh
like demons in the obscure wind


the sulfur streets
of crystal jazz and neon
sank deeper beneath your tresses


and the corrupted night
alchemized
into eyes


of your unfolded dreams
hanging from
the hypnotized sky


somewhere in his antique memory
of portraits and time



the artist still remembers
the forged music in your voice


as his tongue
moved like a razorblade


licking your wet body
veiling a fragile universe
of cocoa and heroin


and painting a landscape
of his novels on your breast

he still remembers…


your nails
undressing his wounds


as his kiss went up in flames
on your lips…


tempting the purple bitch
riding a warcraft
of hunger and sorrow
in your veins…

(P.S.: This poem is dedicated to the evening the poet spent with his ladylove for the first time. This poem is a tribute to that enigmatic evening...)

Mistress of The Sapphire Moon

Mistress of the sapphire moon

the sound of the distant drums
speak in the silence of this evening

when the words sink in my soul
from the pages of this old diary

hailing those paranoid thoughts
stifling the unborn verses growing
in the womb of these poems

tunes from the forgotten times
argue in my mind
and recreates a theatre of songs and roses

the blue world bursts like an atom bomb
on the canvas of a black universe
and I find myself trapped in
an orgy of green demons and pills

ladylove,

does your smile still veil the secrets
and scents of unspoken truths?

do your eyes still hide the mysteries
of the sun and the stars?

I still offer my prayers at your doorstep
with poems inscribed on its skin
when dawn blossoms in the night sky
and robs the costume of slumber
off my shoulders

my dreams have long been lost
beneath the metaphors of your beauty

the prosodies have lost their way
in the hollow tunnels
enchanted by the echoes of your voice

the rainbows have long been frozen
by the winds of time

memories still float like icebergs
on the cold oceans
which devour my tears and pains

when December curls like a dark cobra
beneath the acid viscera of my body.

The Evening

(Part I)

lord
you dissolve the day
in a glass of shale and tar

the white sky paints itself in violet blue


the rays are lost
beneath a landscape of turbulent lust and desires


as the sun melts down like honey
in a wet chamber of cowards and culprits


the moon is slowly raped into darkness
by the violent clouds


her screams murdered by the bellows
of a howling storm


her tears in the grip
of grey cops and lawyers
who fall with the evening rain
with corrupted afterthoughts of money
and deception


the distant stars share the backseats
of a silent audience
their heart and genitals sliding
down their body


indulging themselves in innocent games
of orgasm and voyeurism

(Part II)

In this evening
of rape and suicide



when the impassive times travel
through dusty lanes
tired and a pauper



the veiled captors invade my body
and break open the vaults
usurping the spirit of words and poems
hidden in them

(Part III)

a flicker of the wand
with crucifixions and executions
and the room changes color
when it becomes a garden of feast


an opera falls from the evening sky
music climbs through the hills of emotions
with the dancers carrying tunes in their bellies


the hours summon the night
our minds are laid out
like red meat on the plates of the hungry captors
and the devils
the aroma of poems and sculptures
seducing them…
the earth
a squeezed lemon in the bowl


chanting the name of the lords of evil and lies
remembering the cathedrals of blood and sacrifice
they begin to eat
piercing with knives and forks
slicing the capillaries of dream and inscriptions


blood pours down with songs and angels


another artist has been killed tonight…

A Confession

behind the curtains of fallen rays
and coffins of the dead warriors

The cries of vampires and witches
still torture the cold moments of the midnight

crystal tears of regret in the waterfalls
their curses echo from the distant hills

The serpent of black sins
runs through the green courtyards of forsaken memories
and pierces the distant horizon
sealed in with a lead sky

I carry a secret code of fear
in the red wine that climbs through my veins


in the branches of the crippled willow
lurks the prayers of vengeance of the hanged priest now

the spirit of the weeping mother
still hunts for her child’s life
beneath the rusted remains of bullets and daggers


yes, I confess
I hail from the lands of blood and murder
when the bleeding times return
with rotten sweat and regrets


and they escape
when I try to bury them in the dark alleys
of a forgotten poem


And my heart
stripped to a wounded beggar
now begs for mercy
in the graveyards of those burning souls…

Cytherea

Cytherea,
I smear the sky of distant rivers in grey
and carve the black boulders of cloud in its womb.


do you see the golden boat still surfing in the west
as darkness befalls?


do you see the necklace I weaved of diamonds
still hanging in its breast?


while you sing the rhapsody of love and sacrifice
I poison the cataleptic poet residing in my soul
with the selfish thoughts


money
coins
lust and desire ,


and smother it into a silent death…


the forlorn seduction of the
evening jazz ,


the story of the naked whore
writing letters to her midnight lover,


the hunt for the passwords of hidden treasures
beneath the lines of lost highways

doesn’t excite me anymore.

dear sky...

dear sky,
why do you still dress yourself in blue?

why do you hide my thoughts
beneath those distant clouds?

and tell me stories
of twinkling stars
and the golden moon?

His Last Thoughts…

There he sat,
On the cliff of his untamed thoughts ,
Leaning against the boulder of his fears ,
And looking down upon the vast ocean of his memories.

His eyes were different ,
For they were colored with the harsh color of reality ;
A color which bore the ideals of sacrifice ,
A color which bore the ideals of indomitable courage.

The ocean seemed to be pleasant ,
Disturbed , sometimes , by the waves of unhappy times.
There were a few islands floating on it,
Evergreen with the soulful hours of his past.

He wished to travel to those islands , if possible ,
Taking the small boat of time ,
And relive those tantalizing moments of history ,
Which were inscribed deep within his heart.

But , he knew , that he would lose in his aim ,
For , the curse of impossibility would forbid him in his quest ,
And he would have to return with a hollow mind,
Which would be sucked off its hopes and joy.

He knew he would be at war,
At war with his death in a few days ;
And so , he wanted to live the days which remained in this birth ,
With the memories he had cherished throughout his life.

He looked at the calm sky above , flying high with its clouds ;
And dreamt of living the final moments to that limit ,
For he still had some counted days in his destiny ,
Whose precious branches could merge to form the tree of a lifetime.

A Lost Life...

The cold rods of steel
Binds thy self
Thy fingers hunt for solace
The sands of time
Slowly flown away
The dark nails of fear
Pierces thy mind
The music of this lost life
Wicked with the sarcastic charm
Invades with the bleeding knives of pain
Tears would not lose them
The flowing river of red
Discolors with the passing hours
Thy soul flutters
In that barless prison
Seeking ecstasy
Forsaken , thy mortal self
The small window of hope
The last moon smiles in the sky
Darkness is too scorching now
Dawn heralds its advent
The sun prepares to rise
A life is set to lose
The bells of the Hour
Begin to chime.

Dreams and past…

it seems
the broken door waits on the pebbles of patience
arms rusted by the winds of time


I see the darkness peeping through its sides
is she there inside?
With her vision trapped in the black air.


why is my mind so restless?
pushing itself against this innocent heart?


am I dreaming?
yes, I have slept with this dream before.


or is it ,
the small packet of white powder
I tore last night?


No…then why does Picasso say
“Everything we imagine is real”?


Thanks Michelle ,
my room still smells of your Vera Wang
your enigma still haunts the old voyeur on the roof


do you still bear my kiss on your lips?

do I still remind you of cigarettes and Shakespeare?

or have you lost them in the flavors of passion?


but these are meaningless now
as I walk past this door…


golden swords of the sun through the small cracks
hanging stretches of soot,
a miasma greeting me inside


a hanging frame of good times on the wall


yes…I have seen this lady before
smiling in a red swimsuit


do I hear the tune
I have heard when I have slept under the moon?


it still speaks of poems and tears…


does she call me under the shadow of this soulful music?



such difficult times come seldom though
and here I am
standing in this room where the young maiden sits on the stool
playing the piano on the notes of pains and past


why do dead spirits so love
mysteries
under the cruel mask of revenge?

( here Michelle refers to my ex-lover and Vera Wang was the name of the perfume she used)