I know Nothing. I Know it Well.
A blank page stares. I am afraid,
I am going to write something on it
and rob the infinity of its white noise.
It could have been anything. From the confession
of a serial-killer,
to the bemoaning baritones of Ian Curtis
and in between, some bleeding suicide notes,
or some unrealized fetishes of the boy next door.
Or it could have been the holy texts,
to inspire the generations of half-wits to kill,
plunder and preach.
On the other hand, I could have
left the way it is, and let it be
the notation of Cage's 4'33"
or Dr. Dennis Upper's paper on Writer's Block
or Rauschenberg's breathtaking paintings of none.
I could have just left it blank
and let it be the answer
to all questions, that Buddha did not answer.
The Whole Day, It Rained Heart-Attack and Vine
No, I cannot pen the pain,
the way Tom Waits does. And I can't sing
the sad ballads which
can make the Zircons weep,
can torture the thousands chasms.
But those longing for the unseen nymphs
fleshed with ether and flowers;
The angst, anxieties
and the skin-like sense of a lonely world,
the heart-aches that just don't go. Yes
I am smitten all right.
Existence is one of those voids
that you can never fill,
not with a bottle of Cognac at least;
so one day, I made peace
with heart-attacks and vines.
The price you pay, to be a thinking man;
a lot of self-made scars and that looming sense
of impending doom.
There are no glitches in the matrix,
because, there is no matrix.
Stay love. Stay rose. Stay tight
There are oceans of sorrow to drink. (A tribute to Tom Waits)