Monday, August 25, 2008

Baby Ismail

Waking up in the middle of the night
I had visions of a dream that filled me with fright
I saw void-like demonic eyes
That pulled me into them, ‘twasnt nice.

Gasping and sweating, I tried to summon god
But in that instant I felt something in my sheets; hard as a rod!
Oh merciful screams! How they were wrenched out of me!
And try as I may to move, I couldn’t feel my feet!

Pulling my sheets aside
Was I in for a sight!
Gone were my legs and feet
And in their place was a baby fast asleep.

Terror, fright and something akin to motherly instinct
Were the feelings invoked within me, emotions that I thought were long lost and extinct.
And right there before my eyes
The baby rose; oh what a surprise!
Yellow eyes and a ghastly smile
That was my baby; my baby Ismail.

Oh how was I to abandon him?
As vile as he may seem, I couldn’t toss him out on a mere whim!
A baby still was he
So from that day on stayed he with me.
As for my legs and feet
Apparently, he couldn’t find anything else to eat.

A regular carnivore was my Ismail
And I kept this a secret for a short while
But soon the neighbours started complaining
When their cats and dogs ran away from him wailing.
Babies went missing
And kittens ran past hissing.
Oh baby Ismail!
Why must you be so vile?

And then one night, without my knowledge
The neighbours decided to drug my porridge.
And into deep slumber they sent me away
To capture my Ismail, to deny him from seeing the light of day.

And in the morning when I finally awoke.
Not a sound did I hear; not a person spoke.
As I stepped out of my hut
The sight that was there before me, eviscerated me with a thud!
Blood and brains and intestines galore.
Of all kinds of people – from the rich to the poor.
All the people I grew up with, before me they lay
Slain by my Ismail, who crawled amidst them – healthy and gay!

Crying and sobbing I ran from that scene
But at last I had to stop, and against a pole I did lean.
God sent me the devil, the devil it seems.
What wrong have I done? Other than filch nickels and beans!
Sadly I returned home, to my humble quarters.
As I make my entry, he hears me and gladly totters.

I can’t slay thee oh son of Satan!
So calmly I smile at thee and say, “hush baby no more waitin’”
More blood loss, more damage, more destruction will come.
But I’ll stand by thee baby for I am your mum.

[Note to the general audience - The paintings that I have posted are not my own works of art. These have just been randomly selected to suit my poems. The artists remain unknown to me. To whomsoever they may be - I salute you!]

Sunday, August 24, 2008

How many times have I told you that I love you. How many times! You lied to me. You said you loved me. Do those words not mean anything to you? [Thump Thump] All those times that we talked late into the nights about our futures together, all those times we made love like we would never leave each other, every time I’d look at you when you were sleeping; dreaming about being with you till the end of time, all those times we went walking together holding hands..[Thump Thump] We had such a beautiful thing going on Julia. I really love you Julia, I really do. [Thump Thump]

I see her with him. Has she forgotten me? Are they sleeping together? Oh. She’s laughing. She’s laughing more with him than she did with me. I hate the stupid sod. I want to just slap that petty fucking smile off his face. The bastard must be fantasizing about her at night. Maybe I should go and ruin it for them, you know, say something like “Hi baby (kiss her) who’s this?” hahahahahah…

I first met her at the fair. I don’t know how but there was just something about her. Amidst those thousands of sickly sweet happy clown-like faces, just her face caught my attention. There’s nothing extraordinary about her. She was sitting there, glum and sullen, absent-mindedly pulling at her candy floss. At first glance, I saw a young girl, perhaps 20-21, thin, average height, short hair (like she’s cut it on her own), doped eyes, bags under her eyes, a bluish mark on her upper cheek (like a shiner fading away just to leave its memory behind). I go up to her but at the last minute I chicken out. So I sit down next to her.

“You got a smoke?” She’s talking to me. I’m shuffling around through my pockets, desperately searching for a smoke (where are those thin fucks when you need them the most???). “Nah it’s cool if you don’t have any on you, I’m off will buy myself a couple” All the while I haven’t said a word. She gets up. I look at her. She turns. “My name’s Julia” I smile. She smiles (a faint wisp of a smile) and then she’s gone.

She’s holding his hand. I’m gonna kill that fat fuck if it’s the last thing I do. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck now I’m getting all moody and shit. I mean if she doesn’t want to be with me how can I force her to? Right? That would just be like emotional rape or some shit like that? Right? But fuck I can’t see her with him. I want to beat his ugly smiling face into pulp. Hmmm.

She’s lying down beside me. I touch her thin body. She’s always been too thin. But I love her body. Every time I look at her, I just want to make love to her. She’s the most beautiful when she’s sitting next to me, naked, looking out the window with a cigarette in her hand, smoking, dreaming. “I love you Johnny, I can never love anyone else. I don’t know if you’ll ever believe me but I really really love you” And I loved her too. I still do. But I loved her so so so much. It hurts to think of it. Love can kill. Love can pain you even when you are the happiest. Bittersweet love. Fucking betraying love.

I was the happiest with her. Even in my sadness, I was the happiest with her. I never had anyone in my life. Only her. Julia. She once told me that I’m getting obsessed with her. But it was never obsession. It was never something as cheap as that. I’d dream about her, I’d wait to see her at the end of the day. I’d work harder for her, I’d buy her gifts just to see her smile, and I’d do anything for her.

She’s lying down beside me playing with my hair. “Johnny, how long do you think this will last? I want it to last forever Johnny. I’d do anything to be with you. Promise me you won’t ever leave me and go”

I don’t know what happened. Everything went blank and now I’m shaking. Where am I? Holy shit it’s the basement. What have I done? Jesus fucking Christ what have I done?

Hmmm. I killed the stupid bastard and I’m cool with that. But fuck why did I have to kill her too. Stupid me. Not going to happen again. Have to start taking my happy pills. This has happened too many times before. Lock the doors, draw the curtains – its time to bury flesh under the floorboards. Hahahaha. Fuck Johnny, you’re gonna have to skip town again you stupid bitch. Shhh stop talking to yourself. Fucking voices in my head.

[Thump Thump Thump]. Digging stops.

Pumpkin Pie

I fear I write in a singular style
So to break free I must push myself; go another mile.
This is a story of love I write
It has nothing to do with sex, drugs or plight.
A truer love story never will you behold
Between a girl and a pumpkin; I fear I’m being bold.

“Oh dear one, how can we go on this way?
To bide our time is what you always say!
But to be wed to you is my only wish
Lest you end up being my mother’s favourite dessert dish!”

“Oh fair maiden, with you there to protect me
I shall be safe and sound and make a grand entry
Into your beautiful house
As a son-in-law and spouse”

As the days passed by and the years skipped on
The girl grew weary and said to him one morn:

“Oh dear one, I heard talk over dinner
They need a pumpkin, with Halloween just around the corner!
And with you being the only pumpkin in the house
They have no choice but to carve you inside out.
This time I cannot save you dear one
By day break they will come for you and you shall be gone.”

So heartbroken was the pumpkin
I have no words to describe him
Enraged with his fate
So filled was he with hate

So come Halloween day
When everyone was trick or treatin’ and gay
And in the girls great manor
Was held an extravagant dinner
A seven course meal
Chicken, ham, pork and veal
A three-tiered cake for dessert
And a pumpkin (the pumpkin) carved with a pair of thick scissors.

As the guests waited for a slice of the cake
The lights dimmed out and the floor began to shake.
And in a voice that boomed like thunder
Spoke the pumpkin to rip hearts asunder

“Oh fair maiden, thou hast forsaken me!
I have now returned to exact my revenge; this you shall see!
Before the night is over you shall all be dead
And your bodies turned into statues made of concrete and lead!
In death you shall experience the most excruciating pain
All attempts to mollify me shall pass through in vain”

With a cackle and a hoot the pumpkin set himself on fire
His job was done; there was nothing left for him to desire.
In terror the guests made haste to get out
Just to find the doors locked with a padlock so stout
At the turn of the hour, as the clock struck twelve
The house shook with the screams of the guests and the tolling of the bell.

Come morning, in the manor, where silence prevailed.
One can still hear the silent cries of the young maiden; of pain unveiled…

[Note to the general audience - The images that I have posted are not my own. These have just been randomly selected to suit my poems.]

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

My daughter has a hidden life. The other day I saw her on the road, wearing this skimpy outfit, accepting money from a strange man. When I confronted her about it she gave me a weird look and walked out of the room.

Dear Diary,

My mother has a hidden life. The other day I met daddy on the road and he gave me some money to buy myself jeans. When I went back home, ma asked me who that man was. How can she not know her own husband?

[Note to the general audience - The images that I have posted are not my own. These have just been randomly selected to suit my posts.]

The Melancholy Life of Winona Spyder

I write you a love letter. Every word that I write to you is like a needle embroidering my heart for the better.
I spill tears over my words. You know not how much my love for you burns; it hurts.
You came into my life at a time when I was in pain. At a time when looking at me was like looking at the Grim Reaper through the rain.
I beg you not to leave me dearest. It is with you that I see my life the way it ought to be; the clearest.

I spoke of you to my mother yesterday. You will not believe all that she had to say:
“Dearest Winona, you have not a thought for your mother. You sit about all day brooding about another!”
“You help me not in the kitchens. You waste your time playing with those heathens.”
“You have grieved me today child. What have I done to make you run amuck and so wild?”
“You will never be with him of that I am sure. Not only is he dumb and daft but he is also rather poor.”

Oh Charlie how her words shamed me to pieces. I had to slit her throat, cut her up and feed her to my nieces.
Charlie say you will be with me. Or else you will also end up like my mother, a part of history.
No say not you that I am threatening you. That I cannot do for I am hardly a Jew*.
I have had many hopes and dreams for our future together. So what if you happen to be my estranged brother?

This love letter I write for you dear Charlie. I have never loved like this before and I am waiting for the day when you will hold me.
These words they come straight from my heart. At first I did not know how to start.
But now these words they flow like a river. A ‘no’ from you will be in my heart a thorny sliver.
I wait for the day when you come to take me away. My feelings are so intense I think I shall soon swoon and sway.

This picture of you that I hold in my hands. It is adorned carefully by loving hands with beautiful garlands.
They say you died many years before. But I believe not in what they have to say for at the drop of a hat they could ruin my reputation; turn me into a whore.
Oh Charlie. Please come back to me.
I wait for you in the tower room. I wait for your light, but the darkness still seems to loom.
I don’t think I can last much longer. I am getting older, and not younger.

Steal away my pain my love. Make me not come to you with a handgun and a glove…

* Jews are still referred to as cunning, conniving, thieving, blackmailing scoundrels in some parts of the world.

[Note to the general audience - The images that I have posted are not my own. These have just been randomly selected to suit my poems.]


I keep my feelings bottled up. I keep them to myself so I can go and explore them, experience them, gloat over them at a later period. My name is Farah. I have a problem. No one knows that I have a problem but I do. I was born in the year 1916 but have never really experienced what it is like to live with a family. My father was a bastard and my mother, well I don’t know who she was. My father died when I was 6 and I don’t know why.

The only thing that kept me going all my life was my little brother Farooq. He died. And, then I cried. And the tears never stopped streaming down. My whole life has been tear-filled. All my thoughts tear-filled. My hatred tear-filled. My joy tear-filled. I have rashes on my face from the constant flow of tears. All of this is of course in my head.

I tried to fall in love, not once but thrice. It didn’t work. Some say I am insane, some say I am weird and one said I wasn’t easy enough. All three are dead and I don’t know why. A detective came to question me the other day. Something to do with me being the common factor in all the death cases. He died the next day. May his good soul Rest In Peace.

I pretend to live in a world where I am exceptionally beautiful and I am exceptionally intelligent. I pretend to live in a world where I get all the attention. I pretend to be Marilyn Monroe (with brains). But in reality I am nothing. Just a tiny dot on the face of this earth. All my life has been a blur to me. I am now awaiting my death. Maybe in death my life will be more eventful. I once watched this movie that depicted death in colour and I thought to myself that is where I want to be.

Yesterday, I met a guy. Before the end of this year I know I will be married to him. Today, in the morning when I was browsing through the morning papers I saw an ad. I’m not ready yet to tell you what the ad was all about but you will know in due course.

I try to think back into my past but nothing seems of importance to me. So when I converse with strangers I create a fictional past. I tell them about my father being a Mughal emperor and having three wives and 60 concubines. They all seem to look at me in a weird way and they all move on. I have no friends and I don’t think I want any. I had one friend back in school. I can’t seem to remember her name. She died. And, I don’t know why.

My life has been a whirlwind of fake dreams and emotions. From one foster family to another, I moved all over the country. Each one betraying me, each one humiliating me. I had a father who brought me up for a short period as his sex slave. And then he died on top of me one day. I don’t know why.

I was in the news a couple of months back but I didn’t really care. I have better things to do. I have to go home and toast the bread and ‘butter my slice, anticlockwise’. I like music. It soothes my nerves. Makes me think of peaceful things like bells and crows, cemeteries and amputated toes. I write a lot these days. I know not what I write about but writing continuously is what I find myself doing after a long and stressful day.

My name is Farah. I have a problem. No one knows that I have a problem but I do. My problem is that I am not meant to be in this world. I am neither good nor evil. I am just me. I may do things that upset people, incite them, anger them or move them to tears but I mean no harm, as I don’t know what harm is. I am neither good nor bad for I believe these two words are man made. I believe that what I may deem as a good deed, others may look upon as bad. What difference does it make anyway? All I want is to find my way out of here…to a place far away from here…where I can rest my weary bones…

[Note to the general audience - The images that I have posted are not my own. These have just been randomly selected to suit my posts.]

Thursday, August 14, 2008


Vincent Malloy is seven years old,
He’s always polite and does what he’s told.

For a boy his age he’s considerate and nice,
But he wants to be just like Vincent Price.

He doesn’t mind living with his sister, dog and cat,
Though he’d rather share a home with spiders and bats.

There he could reflect on the horrors he’s invented,
And wander dark hallways alone and tormented.

Vincent is nice when his aunt comes to see him,
But imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museum.

He likes to experiment on his dog Abacrombie,
In the hopes of creating a horrible zombie.

So he and his horrible zombie dog,
Could go searching for victims in the London fog.

His thoughts aren’t only of ghoulish crime,
He likes to paint and read to pass the time.

While other kids read books like Go Jane Go,
Vincent’s favorite author is Edgar Allen Poe.

One night while reading a gruesome tale,
He read a passage that made him turn pale.

Such horrible news he could not survive,
For his beautiful wife had been buried alive.

He dug out her grave to make sure she was dead,
Unaware that her grave was his mother’s flower bed.

His mother sent Vincent off to his room,
He knew he’d been banished to the tower of doom.

Where he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life,
Alone with a portrait of his beautiful wife.

While alone and insane, encased in his tomb,
Vincent’s mother suddenly burst into the room.

“If you want to you can go outside and play.
It’s sunny outside and a beautiful day.”

Vincent tried to talk, but he just couldn’t speak,
The years of isolation had made him quite weak.

So he took out some paper, and scrawled with a pen,
“I am possessed by this house, and can never leave it again.”

His mother said, “You’re not possessed, and you’re not almost dead.
These games that you play are all in your head.

You’re not Vincent Price, you’re Vincent Malloy.
You’re not tormented, you’re just a young boy.”

“You’re seven years old, and you’re my son,
I want you to get outside and have some real fun.”

Her anger now spent, she walked out through the hall,
While Vincent backed slowly against the wall.

The room started to sway, to shiver and creak.
His horrid insanity had reached its peak.

He saw Abacrombie his zombie slave,
And heard his wife call from beyond the grave.

She spoke from her coffin, and made ghoulish demands.
While through cracking walls reached skeleton hands.

Every horror in his life that had crept through his dreams,
Swept his mad laugh to terrified screams.
To escape the madness, he reached for the door,

So he and his horrible zombie dog,
But fell limp and lifeless down on the floor.

His voice was soft and very slow,
As he quoted The Raven from Edgar Allen Poe,

“And my soul from out that shadow floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted –Nevermore!”

- Tim Burton