[dream of liberty is
thicker than magma]
(after [love is more thicker
than forget] by E. E. Cummings)
dream is thicker than magma
thinner than the feeble breeze
more cumbrous than asthma
more buzzing than bees
it shall never be dead
livelier than the red sun
a pencil filled w/ lead
making a child draw & moon
dream is a smouldering ember
letting your heart beat
it is a decay-proof timber
yet, it is larger than the woods
shinier than the Northern Star
its lights never dwindle
it spackles your memory’s scar
because it’s as panacean as elixir.
“Kill anything that speaks!”
This is the dictator’s motto.
“Just enjoy those mute arias!”
These are the dictator’s preferred tunes.
Yes, you can kill speech.
You can cut tongues.
But don’t expect to sleep well & snort
because a BOMB is planted in every
that one vowel will ooze through the sieve
of any silencing system.
—One [VOW]el will wake you up
full of fear.
The daffodils leaves are still sleepy.
Caressed by the dew’s debris
they start milking the sun.
& freedom begins
when the first sunlight flooded
The Dream of Freedom
To define “freedom” is as important a work
of art as any, as is to draw a map not on a
termite-eaten atlas but (virtually) in your mind,
while waging a fierce war on stagnant geography,
while full of life on the banks of the river of dreams.
The dream of freedom is a castle – more fortified
than fortification – w/ many windows in all sides
just waving to the sun where all rooms of despair
fall asunder letting the sun’s lights welcome
all dreamers in a freshly blossoming garden.
Dictatorship is not a fate. When afflicted by it you
should do your best to speak. If you don’t speak
that means you are not a dreamer & that you
have no mouth. Flies will just laugh at you &
reside in it. — A pond enclosed.
A Simplified Sonnet for Freedom
for the soul of Nelson Mandela
A bud that blooms.
A spring’s bird that sings.
A sun that never sets.
A bee that always buzzes.
A fire that always flames.
A light that never dims.
A sun that smiles.
A seed that sprouts.
A siren that always sings.
A gaze that always glitters.
A fire that is always fierce.
A blossoming almond tree.
A jubilant wave that breaks out the
confines of the sea.— Light in a somber cave.
When You Are Silent
When you are silent, you are not alone.
Art is with you. The symphony will not
begin unless you are silent. W/ exhalation
of all nonsense you shall leak art &
all the fuss about art.
When you run out of words just have
recourse to silence.
When you run out of red wine just have
a chalice of tomato juice.
Yes, we can put tomato juice in a chalice.
The poetics of silence is an avant-garde
chalice which reflects something from
the innermost; something that speaks:
—A silent sitcom
Life Is Meant To Be Inhaled
Like a rainbow that yawns in an embryo’s imagination
a deposit of zygotes smiles against death.
Life requires steps, exercises, & smouldering
embers. Afterwards, life is meant to be inhaled;
totally inhaled; not exhaled.
& it’s my job to exile sensations of death,
adding saccharine breath to the cloying life.
Life is larger than to be worn by a place;
by a sinister sensation.
See! Even breasts try to avoid the confines
of the bra.
Everything tries to escape the confines
of the cage.
Everyone tries to escape death.
The Silence of Roses
The fresh poem that rose from centuries of silence:
— Fragrant narratives are in the process of fermenting
—The eloquent silence of roses at rest,
Silence & grace— a grammar arose
It Must Be a Voice
Hollow wall devoid of theories.
Errant bees steep into the holes.
Exhalation of buzzing voices.
Hence, limitless possibilities of
smearing the quietude behind closed doors.
Quietude is boring. So it must be a voice.
The solution is in murdering silence
w/ shrilling voices.
Silence is unbreathable.
It must be a voice. It must be
We won’t feel release unless the voice
begets candelabra & outcries.
A Little Theory of Silence
silence lances the boil of the underground
& sticks its nose to what crops out – noise.
Look at this image:
—The nostrils of a sleeping ox.
Then, a buzzing fly.
Then, a symphony of moos begins.
Silence sometimes appears in the form
of recycled words:
—Metaphors hiding in capsules
of ashy mosses.
Silence is synecdoche of a simmering
Concoction of Liberty
The news said the dictator died.
They put a garland of jasmine on his carrion.
A lamp was swaying amidst the grave:
— A treacherous translation of light.
But true light would glisten again
to wash away the limitations of your body.
Inside your free soul, the rapture
of the cosmos takes the shape of bonfire.
When your blood clots on the paper
true light would glisten again
on the altar of your memory.
True light would glisten again & again.
I see the butterflies enjoying those creative
concoctions of liberty silhouetting onto
the surface of the fountain’s water.