POETRY – 12

THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILDS, BY MOMMY GOOSE

16 February 2014 at 23:39

This is the house that Jill builds.

This is the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the mouth

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

 

This is the moon with its wet singular eye

That winks at the mouth

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the cow that jumps over the moon

That widens its wet singular eye

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the maiden all forlorn

That is the cow that jumps over the moon

That widens its wet singular eye

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

 

This is the man all tattered and torn

That jills the maiden all forlorn

That is the cow that crumples the horn 

That widens its wet singular eye

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the priestess all shaven and shorn

That raises the man all tattered and torn

That jills the maiden all forlorn

That is the cow that crumples the horn 

That widens its wet singular eye

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the cock that crows in the morn

That wakes the priestess all shaven and shorn

That raises the man all tattered and torn

That jills the maiden all forlorn

That is the cow that crumples the horn 

That widens its wet singular eye

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

This is the feminazi she sows her corn

That jacks the cock that crowed in the morn

That wakes the priestess all shaven and shorn

That raises the man all tattered and torn

That jills the maiden all forlorn

That is the cow that crumples the horn 

That widens its wet singular eye

that swallows the hand

That strokes the snake

That stirs in the grass

That grows in the house that Jill builds

HELLCOW

15 February 2014 at 00:30

these half-wit cows slow full of bull shit

chewing on past cud foaming mouth white spit

stumbling meek along footpaths or street

pissing for blind devotees ignorant eyes unlit

her speckled udders make her odd cosmic mama

of hot milk spurts gerry can jell ghee or butter

the green grass is burnt into black concrete 

her fields are fenced machine-hedged moo mutter 

metal arms feed and fold her mechanical array

fading goddess eats chicken mince for straw or hay

sliced and quartered she is hung up red meat 

rare solace for those who’ve sung vegetable past

abandon the sad organic embrace the organum

know why the earth is wet eye-orb bleak polyglot

S.H.E.

11 February 2014 at 09:54

sweet spouse Patience

daughter Experience

O wet-winged motherly

Wind, sister Laughter

Siren splayed lapping 

O hot-breath Mistress

Heat, it sung loverly

the blood is no curse

only foretaste 

powers of Circe

the translucent fluid

Eye emerging

reads Rune of Druid

thrust into, thrust out

She Eternal 

cuts the knot of Doubt.

 

IDIOTS AND WIDGETS

5 November 2013 at 00:05

what the life is reduced to is that you wake up go for a walk on the terrace make it barefoot
the streets of india as usual are full of shit better to be higher up atop this concrete cradle
do not let the deep blue expanse surprise you it’s usually there a big blue bore blowing white
or grey weights lowering down over you like stones into the depths you have always drowned
or paced up and down like the caged lion you are let the miles wear your feet out fill your lungs
with poisoned air enough to live this useless day walk till the muscles are tight or aching realise
they are withering the cells are falling away my undiscovered flowers or dewdrops wetting dust
an hour then step downstairs there’s work awaiting the griddle hot the dosas done the children
dressed eat pray to the g-d who hears or hears not  let them leave in peace there’s time to kill
standing still or clothes to be washed or new meals to be cooked there is always enough meat
vegetables are not needed since you are already one what you can consider satisfactory failure
time to ride the wheel the machine reach safe the factory fill in pipeline time idiots and widgets
time always passes by or you can pass by it gently doing the breeze do not imagine it a typhoon
or another world heaven or hell or purgatory nine lives or another earth-like planet that science

discovers all this or nothing including feelings hot or cold or old that laughter amuses talk smells

of emptiness in the eyes of everyone you meet you meet fucking dolts traipsing a twisted road

clothed in death’s grey leaves and like the night it all comes down to seeing and sensing or blind

you ride back safe and sound another day down done sold out nothing attempted nothing done

has earned my perfect repose all that has been is vanity and all will be vanity always so look on
all the beauty and ugliness goodness or evil spit in its eye do not give it more than a moment sigh

that’s all there is and that’s all there will be idiots and widgets the morning and evening one day

SIGHT

16 October 2013 at 12:52

consciousness and form

appear disappear reappear

 

never the same features twice

never the same space or place

never the repetition that jars

 

only the jars of stored heady victuals

only the books lightning-struck

only the drifting wooden rafts

twinkling or sluggish images in soil or water

 

swollen-bellied pauses

silences

consciousness chews her own cud

grazes through the Milky Way

meteor dust is her wake

her dung human beings

her coitus with the fire of many suns

a molten stream of light flows from the foreheads

of those who’ve watched consciousness watch itself

mirror to mirror their faces meet one another as one

this whirl of the unending dance of the grey dervish 

this prayer of being unto itself through no-becoming

this uncoiling or going forth as a new emerald serpent

this purple throat of a cosmos poisoned yet multiplying

and many suns rise and many suns set

and many moons wax and wane

and the stars are always too distant

 

and everything is

as it was

in the beginning

is now

and ever

shall be

world without end

consciousness 

form

both a single seeing eye

THE BEGGING BOWL

15 October 2013 at 03:51

There is a delicate vessel marred

breathing out an unheard prayer

through hairline cracks impotent

though some sky-blue porcelain

gleams.

Look at it closer closely kiss it

the stains of age erase value

all that once was now forget it

the rim of the bowl is jagged

ragged.

Put it to your lips put your lips

to it for she will taste of blood

my handle is fallen broken off

wrenched from this sad body

hurled back into a sullen dust

reject.

Pick it up, O Lord of the Wheel,

though the clay again bitches

throw it once more, warm us

inside two soft-pierced palms

moult.

Breathe into sky-blue porcelain

the breath that melts the part

into a whole new bowl, bubble

the golden champagne sunlit

overflow let the brook babble

pearls.

THE MUD OF NIGHT

2 October 2013 at 23:31

The twinkling gems

that make or mar

the quickened day

the unsealed lips

a burning kiss

the empty eyes

some red thing

darts back and forth

forked in and out

flickerings sinkings

settling into a swamp

memory-moist mud of night

 

TIME PIECES

21 September 2013 at 21:47

the less you’re written

the shorter your shadow

the sun a golden sword

the day is red meat

the road a white oven 

my mattress is well pressed

the scream is muffled

the sky is a cupcake

everything just crumbles

hips rolling sphere ring

sand dripping upside in

narrow rope bridge breaking

my sleep is a clock

wake me up put me out

tick tock ding dong mouse trap

the less you’re written

the shorter your shadow

pungent moon slice of lime

 

LIGHT THE SWINGING WAY

24 August 2013 at 09:24

a breached grey pitcher

breathing through a jagged hole

in his pierced side

the water is black

the clay rises a black sun

the blue pain dissolves

the mercy-vessel

remains a rocking little

boat with holes and beached

there he lies waiting

until the potter woman

comes heals his sepsis

upon her hip he

sways and with her ride he lives

light the swinging way

MOTHER SUN

28 July 2013 at 11:13

i saw 7 billion bodies

packed in trunks

black marble

smoking earth

pink lipstick

yellow dawn

splash upon these

buckets of milk

bathe them all

in purity of ghee

a snowy blanket

shear the sheep

the sap will fill

tomorrow’s throat

the flaring nostril

smokes naked lust

the weary mouth

catches blue flies

 

i saw 7 billion bodies

awash in milk and butter

smooth and slippery

a love large enough

coffins them all

a virulent force

smashes the teeth of death

with kisses of resurrection

softens the thorny

nipples of mortality

bayonets the flesh

waiting for its receptacles

laughs out loud

in the moment of extinguishing

in the snuffing out 

the meteors of passion

who can lie quietly in the lap

of Mother Sun

golden egg-womb Mama

who receives whitened snakes

swallows the birds and nests

the birdlings and branches

leaves the breeze swinging

full of delightful monkeys

like those three bodies

silhouettes on a hill

quietly the middle one

puts forth the tender

green shoot in a dry land

 

i see 7 billion bodies

emerging from trunks

white bones as tendrils

snaking back quietly

to Mother Sun.

THIS PEN IS

20 July 2013 at 22:38

i dig and i discover

gold-inscribed nuggets

fire-deposits in gray grooves

i toss-roll them around 

on this whitening tongue

washing them the walls are ears

knocking aloud these scents

moist-cloud motifs on cream-sheets

these folds undulate uniform of shrouds

this body is silk-wrapped 

this navel is a bronzed ink-well

this penis sears only when erect.

 

THE KITCHEN OF LIFE

11 July 2013 at 11:06

G-d the wooden pestle 

G-d the stone mortar

I the humdrum grain

G-d’s face grim

pound pound

the grin and gasp

steel-tipped pestle

sparks

in the bowl of time

marred

moon and blood

nine months

churns the spherical pool

births

sphinx and chimera

destiny is a drop of water

welling up with dew-hues

rippling like a ticking clock

the meat fries on the pan

white rice bubbles boils

a machine whisks clothes

eggs or dough are mishaps

the erect phallus of the daythe children study and play

the newsroom spits out lies

each meal is a conversation

night arrives as dead breath

pounding is silent

grinding is coitus

the sum of each hour of sleep

the final snore in the cell

the next mute unknown

the white flour is sieved again

G-d the wooden pestle

G-d the stone mortar

disappearing again

the grain of purpose

the powder of defeat

disappearing again i

THE WREN

6 July 2013

loosen yourself like a wren in a hedge

there’s no need to push that chest out

a song sings itself even if eyes are wet

the sun is a keyhole in the broken fence

a rabbit in the clouds is a torn mattress

or brambles are home and nettles food

the sky is a plate to lap cold soup from

loosen yourself like a wren in a hedge

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