Serendipity

Cigarette ashes and coffee stains ruined our photo book.

They have erected a museum of ghostly newspaper articles over the sacred ground where we buried our time capsule with those 11 letters to our futures selves 10 autumns ago.
All I have as memory are these blur poorly shaded sketches stored in my chaotic mind, in no particular order.
There isn’t much, but yeah, will take what I can get.
It sucks because the only way to open this memory box we made a pact once, that it should be by drowning it in warm tears of either one of us…This is fine, don’t worry you don’t have to cry, I will swallow my low self esteem and cry for you.
there are splat patterns, the abstract paintings of  infants on their trembling knees,
Arms out stretched towards the open sky
Catching bungee jumping mountains and free falling light bulbs, grandsons of meteorites,
Their smiles destroying the tyranny of all things ugly in the face of the galaxy
Their smiles are what makes the world spin,
tucked between dying hearts and breaking bones are their chuckles,
this is the sticky substance that has glued the dead and living together,
there is great life in every death, existence is solidified to an enchanting stillness.
We are here today, you and I
There are pink skeletons and silver petals, the color of youthful metals, the ornaments of our awkward union,
Map readers illiterate, indecisive compasses.
It is impossible to plot the precise moment when we became one.
Not many of these objects are useful
The memories they hold are armless soldiers, their souls are cold. 
When these stories are told,
The fabric walls between enemy territories are torn. 
Nations die when they unfold. 
I’m slowly forgetting about the war. 
Don’t mind this part. 
Behold, there’s a sculpture of us next to the stream beneath the willows on a Saturday morning, your pockets are full of rainbows and I have brought the sails with, hoisted my sleeves towards my elbows in case the stream discreetly grows to a river or the whole ocean while we recite our poems. 
I’m ready to save your life if floods come as unannounced as they usually do. 
There’s a bird in my chest, every hour she comes to life and remind me that I love you despite myself. 
This bird is a giant woman, she is you in the forth approaching incarnations, 
though my heart, smaller than her ear lobe, I love her too. 
I speak to her, I tell her that even if you and I part ways, 
hearts discover their separate pathways, I will keep her there, always, 
I will carry her with me all my life, because I love her, not because of you, 
but because she is you and I Love you, she stays there. 
She is there now. 
But she doesn’t remind me of anything. 
Me and her concur.
Not many of these objects are useful
The memories they hold are armless soldiers, their souls are cold.
When these stories are told,
The fabric walls between enemy territories are torn.
Nations die when they unfold.
I’m slowly forgetting about the war.
Don’t mind this part.
Behold, there’s a sculpture of us next to the stream beneath the willows on a Saturday morning, your pockets are full of rainbows and I have brought the sails with, hoisted my sleeves towards my elbows in case the stream discreetly grows to a river or the whole ocean while we recite our poems.
I’m ready to save your life if floods come as unannounced as they usually do.
There’s a bird in my chest, every hour she comes to life and remind me that I love you despite myself.
This bird is a giant woman, she is you in the forth approaching incarnations,
though my heart, smaller than her ear lobe, I love her too.
I speak to her, I tell her that even if you and I part ways,
hearts discover their separate pathways, I will keep her there, always,
I will carry her with me all my life, because I love her, not because of you,
but because she is you and I Love you, she stays there.
She is there now.
But she doesn’t remind me of anything.
Me and her concur.
There’s a bottle filled with sad, there are words in the sad louder than the sea waves, 
the words speak loudly, volumes of units more than grains there in. 
You bought this at the African market, I remember. 
The third gift you handed me after the StarBook and your heart. 
I wish it was your heart that you forgot here not this sand, 
but like I said, I’ll take what I can get.
There are 3 dimensional glasses; 
this reminds me of a day we were so drunk of a Love unbound, 
our feet moving independent of our minds, 
the perpendicular labyrinth to the movie theater, 
we had set our temporary destiny to see the ancient mythical gods play hide and seek behind modern day ideologies, but fate had it otherwise, 
we obliviously killed half of our glorious night looking at robots fighting humans, 
their steel fists colliding, 
the unbearable music of our daily arguments 
about biscuit crumbs on your bed, 
the sudden vanishing of body lotion, 
the antagonistic notions we had about what good poetry should sound like. 
I tried them on in desperate attempts to see the slope where we once slipped an fell in love. History is a blur collage of could have and should have beens, 
I see nothing worth my search. 

My dear Love, my soul has tired. 
I will not search anymore,
This last object is the end of my quest
My hand feels like greying hair,
I can feel your heart in the bad stories 
that the grapes carry to my ears through a subterranean vein
It does not have any of your tears
But I know you enough to trust that you’re crying as well on the other side
I can feel your shoulder blades cutting through my chest
I’m holding too, too hopelessly much to a fading memory of you
This is because you’re still her in my chest
The giant women has built a nest
It is a fortress of gold feathers
This is my last treasure of a Love unknown
I still keep her here. I Love her despite my self
When the fortress grows cold in the early phases of spring
She covers my flaws with her violet blanket
It has the powers of a flying carpet
She never flies though, She stays there, she sleeps there,
engrossed in my endless questions
‘How did we end up here? When did we become such puppets of a mere alkaline chemical reaction?’
She is not a scientist, so she doesn’t answer questions about time, alchemy of physics
She loves mystery and magic with the same force but in the opposite directions as I Love her. Nightly, I ask her these questions 
And like we did yesterday, we conclude…
There’s a bottle filled with sad, there are words in the sad louder than the sea waves,
the words speak loudly, volumes of units more than grains there in.
You bought this at the African market, I remember.
The third gift you handed me after the StarBook and your heart.
I wish it was your heart that you forgot here not this sand,
but like I said, I’ll take what I can get.
There are 3 dimensional glasses;
this reminds me of a day we were so drunk of a Love unbound,
our feet moving independent of our minds,
the perpendicular labyrinth to the movie theater,
we had set our temporary destiny to see the ancient mythical gods play hide and seek behind modern day ideologies, but fate had it otherwise,
we obliviously killed half of our glorious night looking at robots fighting humans,
their steel fists colliding,
the unbearable music of our daily arguments
about biscuit crumbs on your bed,
the sudden vanishing of body lotion,
the antagonistic notions we had about what good poetry should sound like.
I tried them on in desperate attempts to see the slope where we once slipped an fell in love. History is a blur collage of could have and should have beens,
I see nothing worth my search. 
My dear Love, my soul has tired. 
I will not search anymore,
This last object is the end of my quest
My hand feels like greying hair,
I can feel your heart in the bad stories 
that the grapes carry to my ears through a subterranean vein
It does not have any of your tears
But I know you enough to trust that you’re crying as well on the other side
I can feel your shoulder blades cutting through my chest
I’m holding too, too hopelessly much to a fading memory of you
This is because you’re still her in my chest
The giant women has built a nest
It is a fortress of gold feathers
This is my last treasure of a Love unknown
I still keep her here. I Love her despite my self
When the fortress grows cold in the early phases of spring
She covers my flaws with her violet blanket
It has the powers of a flying carpet
She never flies though, She stays there, she sleeps there,
engrossed in my endless questions
‘How did we end up here? When did we become such puppets of a mere alkaline chemical reaction?’
She is not a scientist, so she doesn’t answer questions about time, alchemy of physics
She loves mystery and magic with the same force but in the opposite directions as I Love her. Nightly, I ask her these questions 
And like we did yesterday, we conclude…
My dear Love, my soul has tired.
I will not search anymore,
This last object is the end of my quest
My hand feels like greying hair,
I can feel your heart in the bad stories
that the grapes carry to my ears through a subterranean vein
It does not have any of your tears
But I know you enough to trust that you’re crying as well on the other side
I can feel your shoulder blades cutting through my chest
I’m holding too, too hopelessly much to a fading memory of you
This is because you’re still her in my chest
The giant women has built a nest
It is a fortress of gold feathers
This is my last treasure of a Love unknown
I still keep her here. I Love her despite my self
When the fortress grows cold in the early phases of spring
She covers my flaws with her violet blanket
It has the powers of a flying carpet
She never flies though, She stays there, she sleeps there,
engrossed in my endless questions
‘How did we end up here? When did we become such puppets of a mere alkaline chemical reaction?’
She is not a scientist, so she doesn’t answer questions about time, alchemy of physics
She loves mystery and magic with the same force but in the opposite directions as I Love her. Nightly, I ask her these questions
And like we did yesterday, we conclude…

It is open, 

Serendipity, that’s how it happened.

Serendipity, that’s how it happened.

Serendipity, that’s how it happened.

∞

~ Ben Thikalog of Tecres Yociets

Song titles morph into chaos and a poem

So I exhausted most of the daytime collecting song titles from Last FM. Because they all read so awesome...Compiled them as they are, in the same order as found not adding or removing anything...To my innocent awe; they crafted a little moving silly thing I would call a poem if I knew what that is. Here is the compilation. 

The Natives Are Restless

what we cannot speak of, must be passed over in silence

The tenth planet

By moving the stars I have found where you are hiding

The Clouds Marched

A Flood Named Aftermath

Falling Into Nothingness

Nobility Of Loneliness

As The Horizon's On Fire

Lovely World Dies

Show Me The Colors In Your Dream

Dark Sun Of Night

Lovely World Dreams

Tender the Night

Blood In Your Eyes

Black Magic Woman

As Far as the Sun 

Run Run Run. 

PRO_MISS

Painted the air with breaths of dead roses from an aerosol

The air smelled of a fading blue, like the sky

A pure sky, the sky in my room inhaled the angry smoke from my troubled shoes

Looking for unnoticeable spots under my bed and over my head

Once found, only glitters confirmed their presence

I cleaned my room. Looked at my phone

No red flashing lights, no ticklish vibrating dances

It was silent, my cool phone was there playing dead.

No sound, the gold was even wearing off the silence.

Should I call the hospital already?

Let me call her first.

She does have a nice voice, I should admit

Time slowed down, hell stood in awe

When her old voice mailed me a boxed message from her past

“Hello, it is me here, mail me your voice in this box and I’ll get back to you if the message is worth it of course…or deep”

With just that, the myth of heaven became a glimpse of what truth sounds like

I saw it jumping out of the fixed wall in front of me

I saw pink suited astronauts floating from its amorphous windows

They had all the air that sustains creation on their backs,

And that’s all that God was, the air entered my ears

A smile spread itself all over my face

Joy rushed into my chest without my approval

I didn’t leave a message; I couldn’t be deep as requested by her boxed voice

Should I call the hospital already?

I think she’s avoiding me

Or with someone else much more cooler than I am

Am I paranoid? Paranoia cannot be the architect of distrust and insecurities

Or can it?  I think too much that’s my problem,

Her words still echo on the tips of my tongue

“You should learn to relax Kagiso, know that I’m yours and I’m not moving”

It was hard to believe, a ballerina speaking of stillness,

Almost oxymoronic, but where is she?

I have been waiting, Godot passed here chasing the speed of light

But what can I say? I think I should call already, yes, the hospital.

At the hospital, it is such a madness and unnecessary suffering

Children being born out of luck,

Others returning on exit, afraid to exist, in this fun world

“It is not fun Kagiso, you are being absurd again”

I swear people die there every day,

Doctors running out of patients

Buildings deteriorating, waiting rooms running out of patience

This waiting has got me mad now, where is she?

Oh but the mind does that sometimes,

Oscillates uncontrollably fast between opposing polarities

I should be thinking about beauty Damnit!

Okay, clearly her absence is driving me more crazy than her presence

I’m calling the hospital,

“Hello, I need help please…yes…I can’t move…

I’m sitting in my room…with a broken promise…” 

Daughter of the Unknown

Nirvana, Nirvana, Daughter of the Unknown Elders

I know this poem is too early for your ears

But believe me it has taken all these years

For me to know that beyond these walls of forever, eternity lives

Time is empty; clocks are statues, constant motion

Still as the two L’s at the end of the word, hands chained by space, nihility

I now know and acknowledge that you are there

Playing house with your yellow unicorn friends and mermaids of the sky

Painting stars in the galaxy with your radiant crayons

Blissfully circling the planets in your amplified smiles,

Wedding them, giving them rings, driving them crazy

Creating orbits, you’ve crowned the sun the pivotal point of the planets,

The sun is your heart, illuminating my everyday existence

You are there, building new universes with mud pots,

I think about you all the time and visualize

A time yet to emerge between our spaces

I see those joy rides of cloudy roller-coasters

Over the sepia rainbows in the chilli winter nights

The speeding splinter kites,

Colouring the horizon with white doves of hope and peace

Nirvana, Daughter of the Unknown Elders

I worship your existence in advance

It might have taken me a long time

To know what light is and to make fireworks of my fears

Place them in my hands and run through the dark city streets

Fuelled by instincts and two litters of adrenalin

To speak these words to the sleeping day,

This day; I know that I’m growing,

Every second of it I’m different from the previous one

For you My Spirit-Child I’m evolving

Yes, I used to wake up to a reality of hit and runs

Sharing lullaby hymns with crickets of forbidden voices  

I awoke to a reality pillared by myths, ornamented by illusions

The earth would move beneath my feet

Dreams walk out of my head

My heartbeats hidden in caves of strange mountains

I was empty! Nothing could touch me

Not in the invincible context, I was a rock,

Numb as the second day of the year.

I walked inside every minute to its frontiers

I felt myself breaking, gasping for the living air

That was never there, I have done all mystic things

Surrendered my hunger to leftovers of the dead, I ate them

And when the thirst emerged I killed it, crocodiles tears down my throat

I was a rock, Yes I know rocks don’t die, they create stones

I know you’re My child,

Hear me Nirvana, hear me Daughter of the Unknown Elders

I’m here, and I know, spirits don’t grow they just open up

I’m opening all my pores, I am waiting

  

Meditating on the image of your soft hands

Those little toes, with tiny nails that look like smiles

Your curled hair reaching down your ears, your sideburns

Your tasteful scent after every bath

I can see that poetic mouth with no teeth,

The truth will pass unfiltered,

Those snare heartbeats

I can’t wait for your flattering giggles and smooth smiles

O Daughter of the Universe,

I call you Nirvana now,

You are a place of complete bliss and delight and peace

But please, don’t be confined to only that

You have all the liberty to name yourself.

I know you’re ready to come to me

Please be a little patient My Child

Daddy is still in the quest of an equally passionate

And a bit more loving and divine lady,

To help Daddy pull you from eternity to this dimension

Believe me My Child, I Thikalog of Tecres Yociets; will one day father you

Now help me My Child, I’m looking for that Elysian woman to mother you :) 

AGAPE

Behind the door is a broom

The broom sweeps clean the room

But everyone in the house is asleep

There’s a flock of sheep,

A thousand sheep with not even two having the same colour

Who can separate light from day if it isn’t the moon?

They sleep and assume it is still night

Knowing not that the sun and the moon can alter man’s perception of time

Eclipse, the celestial spheres in unison, where’s everyone?

There’s a moving picture of the great grandfather on the grungy wall

The wall’s ears are visible, so no one speaks in the house

There’s a mouse, residing in the toe of the wall,

Many painful nails cured by a collection of grandfather’s jackets hanging on them

The nails think those are bandages

The advantage is; what you don’t know will not kill you

Befriend your fears and the fright might just heal you

Go through. There’s a perpetual passage that leads to the mother’s room

She left a decade ago, she is still on her way there, and her death is near

The neighbours are already celebrating

The neighbours are already dead; it’s been a year now

Their heaven is just above this house

When asked; they said they’re in the basement of heaven

There’s a metal bucket with purple water on the table

Next to it is the current flowing cable, shocks are still there, dancing as a mini-lightning

The brother wanted to make more electricity for the village before he died

He wanted to enlighten his people; his hair seems like quills now and very smoky

They lied; electricity is not made out of water

Alchemy and magic books are still on the rocking chair

But the infant is not there, no tracks of his knees on the floor

If the rest of the family did not walk, children would fly

Jesus Christ! He took off with his crayons, there’s a rainbow in the sky

But some colours are too intense than others, might just be his favourite ones

Am I the infant? There’s a name I keep writing in the sky

I haven’t learned the basics of seeing, wait...this is not the sky

It is the inside of my eyelids, I know no beauty

I don’t know my mother.

I can smell the peace in your eyes

I can taste the lightness of your heart

I’ve heard the triumphant songs of your smile

I knew then that I wanted you to be mine

What an honour to coexist with you,

Sharing the same planet with is enough

How intimate can we be? hell! we share the same president

I’m just an infant in this Love thing

I’m sorry I cannot write anything amazing

You’re too much of a dream so it really had to be fiction

O agape the love that consumes!

Please know that I love you

The Poet Has Died!

 With no warning to the silent air,

 the bell forces its grieving voice to the serene space

A big noise sounding like nothing but doom on drums of ears is heard

The sound is absurd,

carrying final breaths of a man

 on his death bed, the resonance is bad

The atmosphere grows tense,

 the empty space is sad,

only the yet to be felt pain is glad

“It’s not often that they take pleasure in such delicacies. Now to thee my unborn: learn to relish your suffering, all experiences are experiences and thus, they deserve to serve their purpose, don’t be selfish as yet”

The pain speaks to more pain to be born

 when they all get to hear the news.

They all know this;

the once shinny and whimsical with magical songs bell,

now corroded by the careless hands of time,

 rings only when this tangible reality has run out of room for a radical dreamer,

a soldier of invisible boots

with musical laces humming the bitterness of truth heard only when the now bedevilled messiahs dance in their sleep, the bell rings only when angels take off their halos to ornament with luminous kindness the path of a deity that penetrated more heaven secrets than them. The bell announces the retirement of a lucent soul from the ever misinterpreted flash.

The Poet has died.

Carrying their hills at the back of their heads, they chase ether to the temple

All unite at the foot of the entrance; their heads swallowed by their chests, knees kiss the soil

Metallic foil hiding their cynical but gloomy faces, bodies are caldrons; blood is left to boil, veins coil no movement, “admiration for the elysian is expressed in stillness, be still and know I am God”

Candles on their hands though burning upside-down, they have flames speaking ineffable glories of shame soon to befall their children “The Poet has died, who’s has the map? Our young ones will need direction...And what about their hunger for perfection? Their origins? Oh the hurricane of entangled perceptions! What do we know about our inception”

Lamentations of the last days released before their time. All apparelled in benighted cloaks for the light has been drawn back to the stars to complete the equinox, tighten the constellations and circle Orion’s waste, paste posters of human desires on the walls of the sky and complete the universal catalogue, “The law of attraction will at least work for a few days”

The Poet has died.

The coffin: A fortress of stories told in blood and smiles, wooden soliloquies of a wise tree still wondering in complex memories “If it wasn’t for the death of those birds on my braches I would have been a chair in the king’s palace right now, oh their blood on my name”. The golden handles made out of some metal that worth’s less than a blank paper “They will have to hold themselves from falling apart and release me”. A silky lace whispering the expensive taste of creation when it comes to fabrics “O how fierce is oblivion to manifest over you my friend, you will soon worth nothing once the soil is your blanket” the tree named in blood laughs with sadness.

Some trees are buried like people, coffins are dead. Place his corpse in the dead coffin,

The Poet has died.

The Poet has died

Books unfinished,

Poems stuck in the mind map stage,

Characters half done, split personalities,

Dreams spinning on the pottery machine

String theory in laces, children tripping over them

Analogues repealing, parallelograms skew

Paint splits on the floor,

Flowers and rainbows aborted,

The canvas is upside down

Pens are looted by invisible beings walking around the esoteric abode

Lead still burning, gold pending,

Alchemy on hold

I will not die!

I’ve lost all memory of my life

All I recall is the first poem I wrote

The best cloud I created and rode

The moving words I spoke and showed the road

I let them walk away from me,

I took my reality and invented dreams for you

I cannot sketch any faces anymore,

My hand resorted to writing codes

I cannot match aces anymore

My hand’s devoted to shuffling skies and playing poker with god

Chairs move when I sit, I stay grounded so you can rise

Look at me from above so you can label me deep

Hell I will not die now, I’m a poet and I know it!

I will not wait for death to remind me, and so shouldn’t you

I’m here now and you should hear how

Deep is my love for this art

My heart fails constantly to love these fly women      

Of the earth who cannot even jump a banana skin even if they see it,

I’ve killed so many brain cells for this poetry thing

I’ve gone mad, crazy, nuts, gone into being weird, out to be foolish and now I’m insane

No poet will ever die!

Their bodies can perish,

Eyes pop sight out in the fire

Ears scream in flames, I will not die

For my words will forever remain!   

Introverts are people

They would all sit, huddled by the soft arms of night and mesmerized by the invisible voices enchanting the horizon with hope and soft altos

They all listened to that harmonic choir of stars, singing the winter night blue with grace

Singing with high pitches of glitter, serenading the serene silent night,

Spark there and another one there. The stars would sing light to elucidate the shy sky.

They all savoured the rough notes, the unbalanced tones, phones that would jump out of corroded cords to put the day to sleep, set the moon alight and set the mood to write. But they did not understand.

It is at night they would deploy their tongues and separate their lips from the everlasting explicit intimacy of muscles that took plays the whole day.

It is at night they’d speak, seek depth in heights of time when the day tweaks and dies into noon.

Odd moments when evens go oblique,

Counting ions backwards,

Speed of darkness chase light

Feathers lifting heavy hearts of hardworking men with minds that have suddenly gone weak, every week they would pray for salvation after a night of hectic orgy with their dreams, sodomizing reality “because life is fucked up” they say. “Women have mastered the art of control, stirring the Milky Way with brooms and sweeping us off our feet, now we’ve lost direction. They have grown porcupine quills beneath their armpits, they’re hard to please, it is hard to make them laugh, so don’t even think about happiness, they have killed everything in village, now they’re going for trees, put money in a monkey’s hand and they will marry monkeys!” All the men believed

It was later discovered that women also felt the same about these “heavy breathing and sweaty palms men, they can’t even chew right, they speak with food in their mouths, drinking from containers. They are monkeys!” The women would complain. The same shame glowed in their eyes

When they all united, males and females, north and south, cold and hot, hearts and minds, they all learned to express, let each other know what they feel on the spot, with immediate effect, speak what they felt and sort their differences out then and there.

And when they all learned to speak, the listeners all died.

No one felt the need to hear the next.

The world is flooded with mouths, and looted of its ears

I cannot speak... please just try to feel me...