Tomic Riter

Category: poem

  • Fog, Me, You.

    dense fog
no world beyond hundred metre radius
an hour into wakefulness,
I still cannot think straight
waiting for another fifteen minutes to pass
maybe that will lift the fog 
in my head formed from long uninterrupted sleep
it's strange how cold can sedate one
into such a state
twelve more minutes of waiting
my eyes still sealed by sleep dirt
Warhaus playing in the background

Love's a stranger until I see you again

what's left of the fog seeps into my bedroom
through the half open window
despite the freezing weather, 
I am wearing nothing
my feet turn colder
the back of my neck begins to ache
you are awake now 
as awake as I am, maybe more
and you tell me,

I dreamed today and it became too real
and I woke up

I find it beautiful,
sad but beautiful
I write it down
and keep listening to you.

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  • Begin again.

    late night
done with all the red wine
and half of dinner
hopping from one song to the next
craving for a smoke
it's been a wet day
it will be a wet week
new addictions wait for me
new destructions
I lifted my one foot long ago
I am still climbing that one step
imagine my joy upon finding
that I haven't reached anywhere.

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  • Late one evening.

    thought I got rid of the pain
it's back again and it's back late
in the evening when almost all is done
and I am about to retire to my corner,
the frigid corner of my home
Johnny Cash sings Highwayman from his grave
the charm lives on, the melody
melodious than ever and you want something
like that when you're in this kind of pain
an evening warmer than the ones that passed
my love is in the other hemisphere
drowning with sunset
my nights do not make me tremble anymore.

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  • Why indeed.

    Why talk in beautiful verses when I am gifted with such a foul mouth?

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

  • The trick.

    the trick is to leave the poem alone,
make it an orphan by choice

the trick is to treat a poem
like an open wound
left to rot on some maniac's thighs
held captive in a abandoned asylum

and finally, you come around to it
after days, maybe weeks or months
or just a minute later
and you put a full stop.

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  • Before cleanliness.

    the ache continues for the fourth day
waiting for the ice to turn to water
so I can pour a bucketful over my dirty head
and begin my day
a sunny day, that's two sunny days in succession
sometimes, life can't be more rewarding 
savour the sunny days while they last
the clouds can gather around anytime and fuck you up
or be a buffoon and ignore all of it - 
the clouds, the sunny days, this life
outside, bird screeching continues
I am starving already
I feel like chopping my head off
my ashtray sits like dead jackal on my table
its many tails burnt, froth out of its many mouths
its ass destroyed by swords
it won't come alive again.

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  • This poem is just another lie.

    another evening
victim of the invisible hand
this night won't be any brighter
or colder
but colder nights are coming
coming
colder nights are coming
I am running out of songs to sing
I have been left dry in the brutal sun 
for so long
I could take my chances any night
not tonight
tonight, I am just a plain coward
scratching the surfaces
on which beautiful things grew
this poem is just another lie
I write truths only in paragraphs.

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  • Fortunate anyways.

    the fruits of time ripen before time
begin to rot
I am a witness of the decay
each evening I return home
devil has laid its hands on my appendix
and my bladder, ripping them out
there's blood on devil's hands
and pain in my eyes 
and painkilling pills clenched between my teeth
it's an otherwise pleasant sunny morning
my dining hall filled with putrid smell of garbage
the places I have never been to,
do they miss my presence?
fortunate anyways.

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  • Distractions.

    sitting
with all this pain
listening to a bitch sing like a bird
an evening wasted on drinks and food
and conversations with the ones gone
nothing lasts long enough
nothing lasts
nothing
waiting to board my bus
to somewhere
anywhere
away from all this
a new life awaits me
I keep it waiting.

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  • Past nine.

    waiting again
the only task harder than waiting
is to wait all over again
it's like
my life is jumping from one wait to the next
I am a patient animal
wounded but patient
nothing in my wounds is personal
I am a vagabond caught in the crossfire
minutes fly out of my wretched life
like bats high on helium
as I savour, alone, all the ache in my spine.

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