canteen of thoughts

Canteen of Thoughts 3

Time then divulges that I’ll forever fail to harvest ample faith to trust that individuals, that us impotent humans, can prophesies our destination that is scribbled quietly in steps pressed over every corner of the world––people cannot know.

The sun began to sprout
from the soil of the unlit sky
in a style that guzzled down a mess
of emotions from the tank of my core.
I’d gamble on this sight, that
if all other could inspect
the heavens through the lens I held,
that if I could always possess
such a lens, the syrupy fruits of the bitter world
would glide into our laps; 
pain would, for a beat, be pushed
to the back caverns of the mind,
and fate, destiny, would shape shift
into an entity far more palpable.

Minutes gave me my destination,
as I crawled across arctic hills
to the monumental door of the bathroom.
The feeling then drove off from my fingertips,
and intermission  scattered
throughout the whirling in 
my head. 

Matthew about Alan

“I was at Leavesden Studios today when I heard the news. As I walked through the canteen I thought of Alan queuing up for his lunch with us mere mortals. I recalled the trailer in which he offered me some of the greatest advice I ever received about this mad profession we shared. Being back in those corridors made me remember a lot of things and I will treasure those memories all my life. He inspired my career more than he ever knew and I’ll miss him”

(x)

Canteen of Thoughts 12


The stairwell forward, like the mythological stairwell to “success”,
is shorter than the dragged out series of bricks
of hope appears. From afar
the outlook assures the mountain has no end: 
I doubt whether the rise really does die out.

Clouds suspend in their cushioned seats off yonder. 
Impatience is a boundless hill of detriments 
for the type of battles I have planned, 
a curse casted to the town
of warriors in my intestines.

I climb and climb…

The clear-cut slopes remind of a dream 
I cannot recall fully,
a love I cannot rid, 
a star I cannot reach to taste;
they yell of determination, of persistence,
but all the acreage of aspiration will surely crumble
if the demon faced ahead, similar to the devil
of my thoughts, is but one’s own
reflection.

Made with SoundCloud
Canteen of Thoughts 4

Neurons skirmish for food, 
food for thought and its elephantine plate.
I thrusted my skull upward
to a mirror of lies; every cold reflection
that expelled in bulk narrated
of some different romanticized tale
on life and love. I knew better than anyone 
that rain does not fall, and snow 
does not kiss the floor. 
Within that small bowl of emptiness
exposed by the cutting horizon, 
my eyes toured, seized by a death grip. 
The chirping was not heard, 
nor was the choirs of the meek. 
For that brief coma of reflection, 
I was deaf, I was blind, I was mute––
cut off to drown in a 
numbness.

Canteen of Thoughts 2

Within a few swift moments,
I plummet into flight, having an older mistress
affixed to my broad shoulder–– 
she isn’t dazzled by the premature doodles
on the furry interior of our
space shuttle, by the broken sentences bulging
from the notebook of my soul,
penned to paint the splendour of
her phenomenal body. The ardor
engulfs every curve of my mind until
the dense void of the world
now stinks with a silence; and a warm kiss
on her neck shatters the hull, breaks the stillness.

Vision soon frisks my cool eyes,
and the lustful rendezvous is but a forlorn fantasy,
for that lady is too wise for me,
and yet too ignorant of
my heart.

Canteen of Thoughts 10

I slide by a see-through set of bridges, ascending
far from underground. 

Lucid ashen footsteps emerge in piles
as I marvel at the millions of dents
that sit invisibly on the 
lumps and cracks we tread on.
Wide eyes and a dangling jaw 
bloom. 

What a heavy heap packed 
in but a few square feet
of the sidewalks’ brown paper bag.
Alone we are, on a sphere of billions.
Solely in the blend of such a sight, 
does ego, does narcissism, does class
appear as a towering folly
of mankind.

Canteen of Thoughts 8

The train wobbles
on pyramids of unsteady bricks,
mimicking the nature of
the erratic thoughts that stream down
the cataracts of yesterday, 
and cast back snapshots of my life.

The high tracks steer to the venues of my body
that long for wonder to rattle. 

There’s a diversity within the hovering cart,
differences in ideals and lifestyles. 
I wait and wait, wait for
those fixed doors to finally
open the other
portal. 


Canteen of Thoughts 6

I felt 
faint howls surging for the Deity 
with universal eyes swathe in
my barren imagination.

I need not grave support––
the life held loosely in my hands 
isn’t even an inch close to 
a centimeter of hellfire, 
but I whispered to render thanks.
Thanks for the trials, for hunger,
for planting my soul where 
it blackens with each breath.
It is a charity to battle;
ease would alter who I am
laughter would defect
the truth.

So the hour I traverse space-time,
the instant I plunge into the interlude amid
love and hate, I’ll advance
with open
arms.

Canteen of Thoughts 11

With the hours of petty introspection
and musing on high-rise steps and
the world––studies I do not 
fathom but poke at with theories of nonsense––

all that unfolds is her––
not her body, not her face,
not her clothes, 

but what she said. 

The way her words can persevere 
in the pit of my brain 
for long periods of quarantine, for marathons,
and not even rot.

There’s a neon flicker to the set of characters
she arranges with ease to utter
and resonate with the tranquil notes of nature…

Nowadays, that is the sole kiss I crave: 
the manifest love rendered 
in the shape of another of her irreversible 
letters.

Canteen of Thoughts 9

 Liberation on walls. 
The words appear as trifle,
but possess more gravity than any 
boastful certificate of achievement…

Below the crisp bends of spray paint 
and ink pens, freedom drips in color.
I cannot resist the surfacing envy
of the loud letters sketched out
to convey a gospel of allegory.

Souls etched in the form of bright red calligraphy, 
narratives transformed from caged scrolls
to the screams of rooftops,
emotions splattered for all eyes
to absorb –– my mouth waters

at the energy of this independence,
at the visible fruits of life jammed
in the marinating ink
of a metal
can. 

Canteen of Thoughts 13

those mutant ogres
crawl on the hairy backs
of all segments of the city.

they, too, scramble up
fitfully, like when
scouring for holy answers.
comets raise such questions,
with a shimmering
emphasis – those inquiries we submit,
aware there’s no
“right” reply 

 praying by some
divine intervention some person
interrogated could
defy the laws of a crappy life
and perform that resplendent
miracle for you.

the queries zigzag
and jet over our congested heads,
as though they hold a purpose
other than exhibiting how inwardly
penniless we are, that we crave
for reassurance in
empty bottles

unearthing only
empty responses,
and sugarcoated tales. 

why must we
do this? 

Canteen of Thoughts 5

Waves crawled and crept up––
the slender rays voyaged a far way 
from the sun to the inferno of my palm.

Footfalls were heavy, caroling of
the cloaked strain from drawn-out 
fibers of contemplation.

This minute, the idea of time travel widened;
to sprint to where my heart told was a 
triumph, but to follow was a mammoth 
of defeat in the bosom of hell. 

The exertions I propelled ever
contrasted with my ideals. I went,
I delved into the dull stairwell in the skyline,
trooping to another set of hours.

Regret was a certainty, for I always
collapsed at the face of physical 
pursuit.

Canteen of Thoughts 7

As I nosedive into a horde
of citizens clouding the metropolis
with monetary and mental thirst,
a lustrous comet collides with my heart:
the world doesn’t long for, doesn’t ache for,
any extra philosophers, innovators, writers…
But, in countless episodes, I’ve heard
the wails and itching for
a real person, for a lover, 
a giver, a beggar -– for a person who boasts
a sincere concern for humanity,
for the earth.

It sniped my layers densely when standing
within the crowd of clones that
they were but the byproducts of 
some natural or unnatural system, 
that I am no philosopher, no inventor, no writer,
nor a human of loving care, 
but the antithesis of those commodities 
to corporations and the inverse 
of useful to the mortal 
habitat.

Canteen of Thoughts 14

though,
Question everything––
the contradictions pressing in seats
in the frames caressed with cold eyes
every sunrise, the inconsistency in tomorrow;
that I must look forward when
my mind always time travels 
to “back in
the day”,

before life was judged by  a number grade
and every face was a hundred percent 
the same…

Goals of fitting in fully Abolished
by personal rights leaders.

 Such luck,
only a sharp yell propels
my soul upward
to the next bus 
station.