Pay first. Eat later.

In a galaxy far, far away
Or a different corner of the Milky Way
Sits a food joint on some lonely planet
Where you pay up first for your meal, only then have it.
Not very queer, not unheard of. In fact, most common
But what if you didn't choose the meal, and the waiter brought his favourite ramen.
A block away, you tread along, to find a clothing store
But your clothes you take only after, your wallet they take before.
And in this town, the infants start at a prison facility
For crimes they've not committed yet, but crimes their lives will be.
All this might sound to you, rather very strange
But think for once what you give your children apart from a funny name
You choose for them so much, so much they do not know
And hold them up for ransom when your beard's white as snow
Parenthood seems to be passing on a debt they never chose to take
You hand them a bill for a mess they did not even make
You pick their schools, you buy them things, and condition them too
And then they grow up to owe a debt when they'd rather reset, start anew.

Übermensch

Pumping the accelerator on a bumpy old truck

Brother said stop at 90, I figure I want to try my luck

Just then the bridge gives, and though my first lesson was last night

I spin around in one-eighty, also grab a kitty frozen in fright.

Changed scene. Dressed up in linen tights and a velvet suit

Ride Marengo all the way to the Alps, make quite a loot.

Get not fooled by pride nor greed. Nor the love of a princess -

Empires like these were built by lions - attack and return to their dens.

Blink. Become death – destroyer of the worlds. Or not,

Find ways to better use my mind. Not play fiddle to the war-mongering lot

In the face of famine, I create a drug, as Buddha and Einstein

And Schrodinger and Borluag and Vinci and every mind divine.

I am a maverick, a warrior, a scientist mastermind

Every time I close my eyes and take a walk inside my mind.

Lazy afternoons make for daydreams; I rise but my enthusiasm is hung

I know and I can’t help. Youth is wasted on the young.

The Golden Ratio

(1)

The chiming of the wind finally found accompaniment as Raffaello and Vincent stepped off their carriage, carefully placing their steps in the dark of the night.

“Give us all the nameless murders and keep all the bounty to themselves. Like always” complained Vincent.

“No, this chief’s different. And much fairer than the last half dozen of them. You’ll see, my friend”.

As a constable hurried with a candle lamp, the faces of all the men present turned a curious shade.

“This couldn’t be”, exclaimed Raffaelo who was well acquainted with the members of high society. But even the lowest ranking soldier couldn’t miss the peculiar look of one of the city’s most famous merchants.

As they turned the body of the burly old man, they were surprised to find no marks or stains of blood. The man seemed to have gone as peacefully as the saints, only his fingers were conspicuous by their absence.

“As neat as the work of a butcher”, noted Vincent. “Or a man on hire”.

(2)

“An important case on hand and here we are passing smiles and giving courtesies to people who couldn’t care less.”

The older Raffaello seemed to have made his peace with the routine duty of watching over meetings of the genteel of the city. However, it didn’t take much to notice his mind was as far as the perpetrator of this latest crime seemed from their reach.

The rest of the party seemed happy with the perks of the most lavish food, even if it only came to them when cold and rejected by the guests.

Just then, a tall and accomplished-looking man paced towards Raffaello. In a most gentle voice, he invited the sergeant to see a painting he had only just begun. Humbled as he was by this generous offer, Raffaello politely declined ignoring the crowd that had gathered around what seemed to be the next greatest masterpiece this city of the Renaissance would produce.

“Magnifico”, said a certain Josquin, who promptly dedicated a composition to the painting, which he read as a tribute to his own art.

But Raffaello was consumed by his thoughts, until the lights of the hall went out with a noise. Two shots fired and the entire hall went in a frenzy. 

It was Loretta now, the Chief’s wife.

(3)

With the chief himself a possible suspect, Raffaello duly took charge. However, there was something eerily similar about the two murders. No struggle. And this time, a neat carving of the neck from base to ear. 

“But why would he?”, inquired Vincent. They had been lovers before marriage and had two children too.

“What else did we find out about our gent Pazzi?”, asked Rafaello.

“Hear from his most loyal friend, his accountant.”

“Pazzi, my brother... well, he was a most honourable man - his wife never found about his mistress who lived by the shore. And that - you have to admit, officer - in his position and age, is only a proud touch, a proud harmless touch of a feather on a glorious crown.”

“Very well then, more time with the chief.”

(4)

But it couldn’t have been the chief. What confirmed this was the discovery of a score of corpses in the heart of the city.

“All of them with missing parts.” As the sergeant said these words, he heard steps  from inside the wall. But it couldn’t be. 

A wall that ran at least ten metres thick through the middle of the city surrounding an old friary. A slice, a cry, and a thud - Raffaello knew he had to do something quickly. He kicked hard against the wall which gave into what appeared as a secret passage across the frairy. 

With a thud, an infant fell to the ground. Its cries wouldn’t stop but the detectives had their ears out for the culprit on the run. Following the sounds of his wooden shoes, they rushed along the narrow tunnel. The constable had stopped to take care of the baby and shouted “The eyes. This time. The bloody devil has taken the cherub’s little eyes. Oh God.”

With a keen ear, Vincent followed the footsteps until they made no sound any more. Raffaello signalled him to stand guard as he ventured ahead. But with a thick slash, the deputy’s ear was cut off and he fell to the ground. Raffaello knew a great deal was at stake and at once began to run after the butcher.

After a chase that had left both men panting for breath, Raffaello was sure he had led the mouse to its trap. However, the man found an exit. “Which one now - there are three doors here.” Undecidedly, the sergeant stumbled straight into a workshop. Full of wooden machines, and designs. And then, there were sculptures too, and by their side a dozen dead animals with their throats slit open and their insides bare.

Bones, birds, animals, and machines - what was this? Where was he? Raffaello was just as shocked as he was impressed.

And to the centre of the room, he was welcomed by an easel. On it, a strange image - the strangest of all the things he had yet seen. A blind man with flowing hair - but that was not the strange bit. A blind, naked man with flowing hair, with not one, but two sets of limbs.

Time... (and Direction)

(Or why I shouldn’t be allowed to drink coffee late at night)

Time. The right time.
Wait for it, and there is no time left
So no down times. Only crossed lines.
Cross the T’s, dot the I’s, if you ask ME.
Time’s up, that’s 50 bucks for therapy.

Untitled - 2

Dogeared, the pages of my life are now crystal clear

Irony, you never miss me

When writing, no living, those chapters was I, the book was fine, to crimp and line

Smelling new too. But I was a blind man, a blind careless man throwing punches at the typewriter

Irony, an ironical word indeed. 
Starts unfazed, like the strongest pillar, the northern star, ferrous-iously (ferociously)

And ends in the iffiest possible way, like a melting block of ice. 

Hopeful, I lift my pen again. Or try to

But is this pen heavier now with memory or my hand much weaker - I do not know.

Hope, I had a pocketful and some more.

More than the sand under the seas, I felt like its heir and master too

Doggedly though, life makes equals of us all

Some in death and I in my absence of the life I used to know

Dogeared, I return to the book you once gave me.

And wish I’d never learned to read.

Woof / To Simba, With Love / Slick and fine, my canine

(If only you could read, my love... but I'll read it out anyway - to your tilt of the head, I imagine)

sniffing wet noses,
inching muzzles reaching i.
meddling munchkin’s him,
bounced off my lap, the little gub
and now, louder than his namesake he roars awa’.

Across. Then, Down.

Sometimes, we find ourselves staring at the end of a dark alley

Even as the lights around us flicker bright, our mind - it has a ladder of its own

Locked, nowhere to go. Lost, nowhere you know.

Fear, that old familiar former girlfriend who held you hostage to her whims, yet left you feeling guilty each time.

Dusted. Is this of any help? Is this of any use?

Oars away, drifting from your stretch in the middle of the ocean

Usurped, your Kingdom Comfort. Only now, will you really start to discover the strength of your arms.

Black as the alley, only now will you search your thoughts

Then realise your awakened sense of touch is more powerful than that impulsive eye - no good when the light shuts off.