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  • rishabhpal22 113w

    To the stalk that was razed before the bees arose
    To the friend for a night who now walks on all fours
    To the child that suckled on a closed liquor store
    To the enemies on the shady side of this door

    To the bald spot that would've adorned my head
    To the pawn shop that keeps running out of bread
    To the seven silver spoons strewn over my bed
    To the warmth of sugar-dipped bullets of lead

    To the priest whose tar-clogged heart was never found
    To the soulful prisoner, gagged, homeward bound
    To the flashing neon's blinding lewd sound
    To the heathen's monologue nailed to the ground

    To the last breath to ever embrace death
    This song clawed in a teardrop is left.



  • rishabhpal22 113w

    With your poor-hearted snare
    Stretched 'cross the wooden shore
    And your lullaby ever so frail
    The sand sticks to my scratched car door
    The headlights once flicker and wail
    The faded petrol pump receipts
    Pen Poetry, insincere,
    The worn our stick's worn out grooves
    Moist with sweat, lay bare.

    The door lock picks its broken self
    And the Moon slashes its wrists
    The sunken sailor rests his voice,
    Jake Peralta echoes noice
    Alone and forsaken
    His cries bleed on stone
    The waves bathe your sinful song
    To my cold engine's moan
    Clenched, my fists cling to the wheels no more.

    With a malarial sanity
    I am the blood smeared on my knee
    I vaporise to that dastardly call of that sea
    I cremate souls that never were
    As you fondly sing and stare
    Where the stars were once murdered
    'Neath your poor-hearted snare!


  • rishabhpal22 114w

    She mopped my deadweight eyelids
    With a cotton sogged in blood
    As her left ring finger
    Stroked an ashen rosebud.
    With a whisper choked by sand
    She drew from purple mud
    Nucleating 'neath veins
    Thin as the wings on a spotted moth
    That was torn to shreds by her repaired tablefan.
    Her feet hanging off a noose
    She said, to this self-pitying, make-believe man,

    For lovers' guise,
    I stood naked
    Shivering, in the midst of thy spring
    While you, Lover,
    Slumber in mine


  • rishabhpal22 155w


    The ink once was at shoulder-arms
    When paper there was none;
    The wettest bone was stiff and loud,
    Prepared to shoot and stun;
    Blades of dust, kiss they must, fingertips, burnt and bruised,
    No night was dark, to hide its mark, not a pistol noosed!
    The streets were of stone, to be pillaged, to be mourned,
    To play the wise man who never died;
    The river would wail, as it wagged its tail
    To he who never lied;
    To the pair of wings that flailed about a rocky cornerstone,
    Maimed the wind had blown.

    Paper just might emasculate,
    Poetry shall blossom out of Fate;

    The ink would spell out to me
    From four-lettered words;
    The names of that stone,
    That man, that river, and that bird.


  • rishabhpal22 177w

    Gods of our Days

    Shelled gods of gutsy times
    Ousted right when near;
    That sell high on dreary shards,
    Drawn be fear and drawn be heart,
    Halogen too bright to guard
    The Gods of Our Days.

    They wear their vests when all that is,
    The nylon prophet of the breeze
    Who flails beneath the subtle breath
    Of the Gods of Our Days.

    Who governs the muffled cries,
    The deadness of the burning ice,
    The stiff, the numb, the dumb, their price
    When truth be told of falsely lies
    That kiss this corpse of mine?

    Hold your feet, slay your rhyme,
    To butcher your own forgiveness, Crime?
    He who seeks an inch of hair
    To burn your head and wig you fair,
    And holds your hand, says your prayer,
    With claws driven beneath your bare,
    Bare conscience!
    The keeper of your synergy,
    The naked, damned Gods of our Gutsy Times.


  • rishabhpal22 194w

    Bludgeoned Prophesy

    Green skies weep, their milky tears suffice
    The uncountable fingers pointed;
    Towards the scales of halogen lights
    That may have thorns adorned;
    Into a holy obscurity!

    Dwells in which a thousand and one
    Sparrows and squalls of timid chirps
    Twelve robins, sight hath none;
    Pitter-patter prophesy of
    The ink-washed kerb,
    A four-fingered poet described?

    Taunts he, a mockery of me,
    Vain my voice may be;
    Strangles he when the ink has dried;
    And the kerb has been freed;
    The streetlight has ceased to claw
    His flesh of naïvité.

    The kerb was his throne to grind
    His kingdom, a bludgeoned thumb.
    A bludgeoned poem.
    A bludgeoned prophesy.


  • rishabhpal22 209w


    Like an untethered raft drifting away
    Along the weeping brook,
    For lives have I floated across
    Sanity's sinful spectrum.
    A wounded noise insinuated all that I took
    Till tears of a prophet had drowned my loss
    And left me numb to pray.

    The shadows that once inside the mirror
    Danced with mine abreast;
    Confinement have beseeched;
    To dally with Time's memory,
    And be fondled by the silhouette of the crest
    Of a tide's dying wave being leeched
    By The Three-Headed cur!

    My heart is a lonely tramp
    Lost in an unwavering maze!
    Where the widest of lanes are narrow!
    And the tallest of men aren't men!
    Hope gives to the cowardly fire of doubt ablaze,
    And the sun may never shine tomorrow!
    Yet its fettered walls are unbroken and damp!

    Seeking Wisdom's words for truth,
    For lives I shall drift on!


  • rishabhpal22 209w

    Judas Unnamed

    The trailing robe hangs 'bout too loose
    To take me through the door;
    Where Sirens rue to midnight blues
    Along an unknown shore.
    A lonesome cloud limps on, ahead,
    An oblivient orphan stares in awe.
    Soulful, serene, supine, as said
    The dusty clouds of her forgotten flaw.

    Tread past a fallen corpse,
    That a rainbow stood once tall.
    The shadow of time warps,
    Shrieks, stutters, trembles, and crawls.
    The arms that blind mortality craves,
    Time, blood-veiled, preys upon winter's grave!


  • rishabhpal22 209w

    A Portrait of Affection

    Pray confide onto my muddy canvas
    The deepest hue you may paint!
    Stroke the brush of your tryst with destiny!
    And whisper your symphony so quaint
    Into my once percussive soul.
    Writhing in solitude of a one-eyed eagle;
    Perched high upon a horizon that's faint.

    What may come of this discord?
    Will Apollo be gracious to hide his face
    In the darkness of his lord?
    May the rosemary not kiss spring's first breeze?
    Or the last of the snow melt down Time's benevolent fjord?

    Let me, my holy one, into your boughs
    Where the butterfly sleeps within your bosom;
    And the Muses savour the nectar of your beauty!

    Let my canvas be the only
    Where your stroke paints our poem;
    Illuminate, O Virgin of my Dreams!


  • rishabhpal22 214w


    Blessed Goddess of the cursed mother of sin!
    In whose shadows do you lurk?
    Drunk Sirens of Hymen dared not pluck before Spring,
    Bloom of His prime colossal work.

    Trembling fingers foretell the pallbearers of his Time,
    For whom, round goes, the Earth?
    Away within the hands of God, "pristine and benign",
    We bear not slightest worth.

    Oh! Gaze past through the high who now prostrate!
    That snow-white flame trails their bloodless innards!
    Linger, Humilty will conflagrate!
    Let justice lie to the death seeking bird!

    Yet, may the blurry wounds fold before hands do;
    If 'rise divinity, forget, man, subdue!