Who the nightingale bites the eye

Sea foam was inside the room taming it
I have known conditions push over feelings of this life
where shall I catch hold of him
isn’t it killing itself talking in encirclement
face crooked even then so bitter the old man is stooping
revolution is complete
Revolution came and has gone without informing us
Signal calls while looking at this body he wants to know
how you are meanwhile wears the brain stable
our indecision covers perusal of the clouds
have not learned to roam around
that is why immaterial bohemian such family-world
then are awake crossed whereto which place
shadows spread on clouds one day there will be dawn
after enhancement in glow
wouldn’t care for purity time startled such a
restless life system
raw eyes where are the root bases
when is the exile knows that wound
takes hold of while talking who the nightingale bites the eye

That Boy

Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love.


I don’t have a friend whom I can call my buddy. Cannot remember the names of those books which were my obsession once. Now nothing is dearest. Actually dear is such an empty word. Like a soundless night standing in silence. Arranged in stacks and rows dusty pale a little dull maybe. This heavy wooden table of my father is with me for a long time now. It was still with me after my sister lost one of her eyes from the prick of one of its corners. In these days of fix and deceit maybe this was the only silent pleasure the only dearest whom you cannot disgrace by repainting it.


You know nothing of love
You know nothing of love