Posted in Poetry

Things that should be funny


–Baleful Basilisk

Silence is a funny thing

It has a way of acquiring meaning.

It has a friend called Stillness.

If you remain with Silence for too long,

She comes along after a while.


It’s funny how silence can be enforced.

A logical solution in this world,

Where we, one of the most inefficient species

On the planet, decide:

We want our inefficiency to be efficient.


Funnily enough, the same comparison applies

To classes of human beings:

Haves and have-nots. Men and Women.

Silence is often for those who have-not

While those who “have” scream at the top of their lungs.


It’s like we are really children,

With the added ability to have sex.

And added incentive to control other people.

People with candies scream because the shape isn’t right.

While a world of hungry children,

Would be glad for a rotten piece of bread.


Silence is often assumed to be a characteristic.

And it is, but not acquired by choice.

Invisible threads of privilege support our puppet shows.


It’s funny how we all forget,

That plants grown without water and nutrition,

Or without fertile symbiotic soil,

Tend to die or become stunted.

Consciousness is funny,

You think it’s you.


Strange when you are half-supported by the best threads.

And the other half is dangling because some cheap paper tore up.

Perspective is the funniest. It gives rise to other inefficiencies.


Like empathy.

It’s giving somebody your threads,

Because you think they have only paper.

An inefficient process for someone,

Who cannot prevent their threads from being stolen.

And with people who paste paper over threads,

To maximise capital.


I don’t speak of Stillness very often, though.

Because stillness is love.

And I like to protect that segment of my existence

From the multi-level system of inefficient puppets.

That measures everything by efficiency,

Which is just a justification for inefficiency, in the end.


Love is the calm that washes over me,

When I don’t have to be a puppet.

It’s a rare, unintended side effect,

Of partial isolation. It’s lying down with my parents,

In silence, saying nothing, absorbed in thought.

But still not alone. Its when my silence breaks for a moment,

And the whole world doesn’t matter.


Stillness is delicate. It spoils with display.

They call it love. But their love is not stillness,

The calm of not having threads.

It’s pulling an act for the benefit,

Of nobody. Not for enjoyment.

For entertainment.

Subtle distinctions are funny.


Posted in Poetry

About Her


–Baleful Basilisk

Sunshine doesn’t burn her.

She has thick skin.

But the wind comes in,

It enters her without a conscience, without care,

Making it ache where it still can.


I look at her, there are so many images.

I have lost count and I have lost care.

I don’t understand why it all comes to this for her.


Sometimes, she smiles as she peers,

She is a child, I don’t understand her.

She makes a graceful pattern

Out of everything as if

It does not matter to her whether you throw a stone

Or a knife, Or a petal.

She has learnt how one can change into the other,

In a moment’s glance, a single act.


I made a home for her,

And she made heaven out of earthly things.

In a quiet ecstasy, I watched her grow

Faded scars and bright lights.

She looked so strong, I let her out

And she ran out joyfully.


Rolling down with glee,

She was forgetting me a little,

She was lost in someone else.

Her memory is by necessity

Short and unsteady.

With a tendency to repeat mistakes,

In the name of kindness.


I didn’t see her for days,

I missed her. It was cold here,

I managed with coffee and books.

She took all the music with her.

I was happy though, for I am old

And her joy gives me life.


Yesterday, the door knocked.

She was there.

My child, in a tattered cloak.

Her music stolen and her heart cold.

I looked and though I embraced her warmly

It doesn’t seem to make a difference.


I wish I could convince the winds

To neither love nor hate her.

Just let her be, in the quiet calm

She creates for herself and her many loves,

Where her best thoughts mould her world,

And sometimes reality.