inglourious basterds

we fight for pride, but discard so carelessly
the gift of life, you ask... its heresy!
so a french dies, with scalps on
while Nazi swastikas laugh on...
the ashes and the smoky flames,
paint a picture, et tu? italians blast first
so live on! instead of death, invoke courage
you inglourious basterds

on despair

i feel irritated with angry voices,
who scream, rant and rave, righteous and boisterous
but for those who listen.. you'll hear
a false war-cry upon what they fear

sticks and stones, worse still unbreakable bones
they fake an image, imagine, scream!
world upon their shoulders,
modern atlases upon rat hearses..
with virtues as fronts for black purposes

their cries grow hoarse, irk - disgusting but apt
so do peoples find emotions to fill this gap
on the attack, easier to destroy than to build
they can't grasp, can't rest.. pawns in this internal feud

a clue for you, the ego speaks of deep instincts
which goes against which beliefs then?

freudian philosophers may frown upon this bridge
but what i feel is that the internal is this lever
while the eternal breaks, but can't express..
what i want to hear - distress, not hate
a cry, that bares, what i want is... real despair

on genius

unnoticed, he scribes quietly
the art captivates, his whole soul put
without fear of baring, unbridled glee
rather die fast than go silently

and the second smiles, laughing at this poor fool
what does he know? fake prophets and false truths?
god is not metaphysical,
a paradox, which doesn't exist
so if you subscribe to god's will, you shall not kiss
that virgin which you scribe of,
truth
eternally untouched, the forbidden fruit
but don't forget, metaphors run true

he touches his pen, o' deep philosophical words
gibberish with no meanin', and apostrophes that jerk
your random references have no depth
but some men dive still, into its traps

yet another watches on, with no comment
empty vessels and broken noises speak more than he can
you lie! a bold exclamation
hypocrisy bears its teeth at every resurrection
for that is the essence of rebirth.. isn't it?

the first just writes on, unperturbed
driven by Athena's light, he runs berserk
through the familiar words, solace at long last
but rest not weary traveler, for your zenith has gone past

in the mind


the cold breeze passes
faster, ever faster
eternally the passer
-by,

is it really so sad?
for what was, never comes back
and relief is a torment
that has to forget

and the leaves follow
empty and hollow
to reflect upon
self-inflicted sorrow

hot summer heat waves
hated, but spring craves
for fire, like a winter gaze
upon fireworks of autumn days

so as it was, a lasting quarrel
imagined, frantic,
do we still have the courage
to look to the morrow?


the piano player


his long fingers arch
beautiful form that marks
skill, for such
are days that gloss
is worth more than art

crescendo, fingers sculpting
a piece, but too many
do not understand what that means

scores are interpretations
but music these days
are bereft of imagination
all i hear are echoes
of long lost souls

is it so hard to dare?
conditioned we are, to enter no lair
though the self-invited are elect
but such men are selfish and rare