The Night is a Carnival

The road,
The cars,
The dim lit stars,
People in the bus stop,
The drunkard on the bench,
The loveless stench,
Horns sound, engines roar,
Conversations full of joy,
The hungry beggar boy,
Street lamps and trees,
Friends walking in threes,
The rich and the poor,
The saint in the dark,
And the whore waits in the park.
The night watch man stares,
Everyone is a suspect tonight,
Passing ladies,
Moving wind,
The dust grains,
And the blood stains,
Locked up mad woman,
Sad eyed owls,
Dark distant memories that sound,
Lust between her thighs,
And the crematorium that waves the departing souls goodbyes.
Everyone is a suspect.
The forgotten,
The remembered,
The ships that forgot to sail,
The sinner who surrendered,
The mountain that moved,
The sea that stood still,
The fishes that never swam,
Everyone is a suspect.
The night is a disarmed hero,
Standing vulnerable,
Anyone can break down any moment.
Trumpets blow,
Sweet songs burst into a chorus of delirium,
The night is yellow tinted dreams,
Yellow tinted faces,
The night is a furious promise,
The night is a decadent story,
The night is an eternal stillness,
The night is a carnival.

A thought for Bygone Summers

It was the summer when we danced under perfect moonlight,
when we breathed our last.
The roar of the breeze had stopped,
a sudden stillness it was in the air,
heart aches never felt so much painful before,
it was heart ache for the night sky,
that loomed over with its enormous silence,
it was heart ache for all bygones,
for friends and lovers whom we had made to wait,
heart aches for the afternoon streak of sunlight that rested on our palms,
and we tried with all our guts to clench our fist and trap the sun,
just for a second,
just for the sake of memory may be.
It was the summer when we ripped our clothes and sat by the streets,
desperate hooligans of the night,
bitter taste in our mouths waited to find its way to another,
lips that are soft and luscious,
and for once we could throw out all the cursing and moaning and shame.
It was also the summer of love,
with limbs spread apart we laid on the floor waiting,
waiting for a familiar smile to light up our doorstep,
waiting for an unexplained desire to crop up from the genitals and climb to the heart,
waiting is a summer job,
all the world waits for God knows what.
But summer is a old man's tale now,
it is rested in his memory,
memory that will be renewed with a new summer,
and until then we will always say,
I hate the summers,
how i loathe the summers,
summer heat deceives my senses.