The Conspiracy of Olympus I

The Theme : Of the things you should not discard

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Response :

~WILL KILL MYSELF FOR FOOD~

(i hope this will help me blaze my way to pauperdom..)

you showed pity on me,
like,
you really care,
it's not enough,
i said, NOT ENOUGH,
to save my life
...

now, if you'll excuse me
i have to take my precious meal,
for my hungered,
empty
appetite,
my precious
fermented
food

...
yes,
it is..

and..
i'm going to devour every piece of it,
voraciously

"IF YOU HAPPEN TO DISGORGE,
PLEASE, SAVE IT ON MY NEXT PLATE.."


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is it true that you can write?”
she asks.
“Don’t throw away your talent.”
In reality I am laying here praying to disappear.

Writing requires honesty
and I like to lie.

“Are you really a passionate lover?”
he asks.
“You shouldn’t waste it.”
So I become a cheap lay.

Passion requires me to feel
and my heart is obsidian.

“Don’t
throw it out.”

“lease
don’t
waste it.”

“There are souls
who view reading your work
as therapy,”
she says.
“Do it for
the ones who need you.”

“Remember that
your words touch lives,”
he says.
“Do it for
those who have yet to be touched.”

“Do it for love,”
I say.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i am a ceramic ballerina
in an endless twirl on your palm

but i give grace to music

i am the push-button robocop
who gives in to your every whim

and i don't even run out of batt

i am a full plate of left-overs
that hungers to be hungered

yours, when nothing is left

i am a damaged stock
on a bargain rack

almost always a give-away

i am your own, your commodity

the understudy
in your broadway play

i am your creation, your property

the second-hand garbage
on the garage

i am your yard's dried leaf

the scrap
you could never afford to trash

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wasted Words

Words twirl expressively past parted lips –
Deep vows, thoughtful questions, quick-witted quips –
And drop to some numb, oblivious ear
Impervious to sound, never to hear.
What good is a sentence that’s left ignored?
A valueless word, weaker than the sword.
When no one will listen to what you say,
There’s no reason to throw your words away.

Words spiral unthinkingly through the air –
Blurted insults, false claims, a careless prayer –
And these, too, no doubt evade attention
And wither before they reach conception.
But one might seep into an errant brain
And lie waiting to resurface again…
Be frugal with each and every word,
For you never know which ones will be heard.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Dump Truck Romance

His after-sex condoms
would be kept in a jar
and I would not allow them to
be modern-day glass slippers.

His cigarette packs
would be inserted in my
erotic poems journal
and they would be my
bookmarks.

His unfinished love letters
would be ironed from crumples,
framed and dated
immortal

His beer bottles
re-used as flower vases
and would represent the garden
in my solitary jungle

red old briefs recycled into
fridge towel

improvised gun,
hanger

failed exam booklets,
comics.

He is anti-aging,
no-rotten-stage.
His garbage, my Gethsemane
his dirt, my daffodils

and by all means,


I am building him




a museum.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

please don't...

don't throw boxes away,
however big or small they are,
whatever color they have...
i totally feel for them
['cause ages ago,
an invisible box confined me
from the realms of veracity]...


who told you that they should be thrown away?

you can put your dust-covered albums
or your cluttered papers into them,
or even turn them into coffins
of your bitter memorabilia.


when you see a box...

think of the trees
who died for those boxes,
the birds and all the children of the forests,
who shed silent tears when their abodes
kissed the grounds and were dragged away from them...


don't throw boxes away...

they are forests in compact form

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Broken happy line

Like a murderer returning,
To the scene of the crime,
I return.
Tread slowly,
And bathe in the cold perfection,
Of the beauty.
Like an award winning novel,
The crispness and preciseness,
Takes the breath away, from the critics,
I am my own worst critic.
Oh, the bitterness I feel.

Rereading each broken line,
Each half-hearted syllable,
Carelessly placed.
The message?
A cliché.
Just like the hand that wrote it.
So unbelievable.
So predictable.
Yet I believed it.
Yet secretly,
I always will.

The creased, ripped and stained,
Letter,
Kept close to my heart,
All these years,
Brands itself to the draw it’s kept in,
With the memories.
Reminders.
Like a murderer returning,
To the scene of the crime,
I often return.
The one thing,
I will never throw away,
Are the memories.
Painful and priceless.
Treasures to me alone.
I’ll never discard them…

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Save The Rubber Tree

Condoms

The tool
of pleasure

The gift
of heaven

The rubber
that saves lives

The bubble gum
that prevents diseases

Condoms

The cheapest way
to a worry free night
with a total stranger

Both the party balloon
and the life of the party

So why throw them away?

Condoms

Recyclable

Reusable

Refillable