January 25, 2011

I am the rider of blood-red war horses

I am the reins, the bridles, the saddle,

Beyond every male and female, I AM

the Father before all empty beginning,

and, at my command, mares dismount

I cast them away, my hairs fly free off

my flanks, my machine-flesh, peppered

embers, haunches, hooves that splinter

rocks and spew fire, this is where I AM

mounting mares that dare to take touch

wreaths of desire upon furnace breasts

or on hungry tongues setting the match

to satin skins and inner folds. Come hold

the bite of my laughing teeth, bite hard

on the blueberries of pain, dark wounds

of war, I betroth you to all that is living

and I softly continue, storming and wise

o’er every leveled place and stony fields

to leave you behind with braying donkey

and mule. Go, fill your years with gravel

while my violent whinnies rend green sky

and draw close to me those I am allowing

these rides with red-winged spirit horses

and blue chariots of fire. Or how can you,

Philistine-mare, maid, coolie, serf, slave,

ever learn to run with those fleet-footed

as wind, or await the nuclear spaceships

that left Earth long ago, fast returning

to burn up with sulphur all things again?



January 21, 2011

it is hailing burning arrows

and the snow is hissing,

the fog lifts but a moment

ah, next a sun is missing,


i walk weathered in clouds,

watered well within,

i piss rain on people bowed,

under a grey ceiling.


do i feel like you tonight?

a bit haunted or hunted,

so then i shrug, i’m older

as i outgrow the stunted.


watch the sky hail arrows

of fire that are swift

to burn up all my sorrows,

judgment, flames sift,


hot knives slice into living

wombs, love-children

die unborn, the undying

stir stir stir a cauldron


i watch three frog spirits

rise slowly up, up

the skin bubbling bigger

two ready to burst


i watch a blow descend,

i watch a face darken,

i watch a star plummet,

i watch a comet burn,


crash burn crash burn

comes around, fate

comes around, late

comes around, hate

comes around, late

comes around, fate

crash burn crash burn


the pit of fire is there

in the bosom, take

the hot coal to press

it into nonexistence


what you sow, you reap,

why then do fools weep?


agree with your adversary

or else, lose every penny,

watch the sky hail arrows

judgment outlives sorrows.



January 18, 2011

a torn and tattered chasm opens for me

into an unasked for impending vision, or

visitation, the walls are jagged, blackest

the arrow plunging deep into underworld

and i, teetering upon serrated dim ridges

summon up snapped bodies, writhing hot

ice wraps souls whose worm will ne’er die,


and at the centre of it all, a dead couplet

is swirling, two panting discerped leaflets


descending slippery silken spidery shadows

that swivel drunkenly, now shatter wheels,

limbs and torsos exploding like worn spokes

with no rims nor radii to roll, broken circling,

flailing, sparking wings, scrabbling at rocks.


is this what i have condemned them to reach,

this being abandoned to Abbadon‘s mercies?

and am I to see it with my own singed eyes?

is this what they call the blind poet’s insight?

is this intense enough, burning to excoriate?

is all extermination asked for, well received?

You fear, damn couple, gifts of punishment?

You fear, damn couple, an end of everyone!



January 16, 2011

There are souls that syringe

out your living and refine

my body pliant for maggots.


eat me, friend!


i am the sort that doesn’t know

or feel the entry of the needle

for the slow oozing out of love.


drink up, friend!


what replaces that which spills?

drones laid in dust by queens

inside the labyrinth of sad ills.


lie low, friend!


there is no harm in being dead,

there is a dissolution, disperse

yourself into flowers, be a-bed.


my blossoms are red

with the juices i bled

crush the dandelions

on the winds spread


everything’s right

like wine-light,

if my impulses

soar, sweet flight.



January 13, 2011

Each day I look into muddied eyes

once-clear, now blinkered, dank

holes that’d seen, shone, spoke,

revolved, spun! O coracles, leak,


sinking fast like the failing of a sun

awash with twin litter of memories,

two kid kittens mewl as abandoned

wondering where the hot milk goes,

raise laser-thin voices higher, howl

o’er the day-burial, the mocking sun

swirls curling into a darkness of time,

all these stiffening in-visions, yearn,

she is dropping dew-red, as pin-drop

icicles on empty ground, her wet feet

slew silently in her watery wilderness.


Those eyes peered into my abyss

consuming him who dwelt therein,

having had a full-fill, disappearing,

she will hang in Poseidon‘s hunger.


Lights that devour whate’er they see,

following some dark desire, be empty,

be despised, be destitute, downcast,

become groping beacons, horror see!


I would’ve saved their dismal beauty,

but seeing she sought sightlessness,

hearing, she could not hear the call,

she must, flying without wings, FALL!



January 6, 2011

(POEM FROM 1983)


my yellow bird

is sitting


pecking at

a ripe yellow



beak open


prising apart

a part

cracking up

the shell


a lean neck


it cheeps

my yellow



what is this


in the eyes

that peer

from within


a broken egg

a brown nest


atop a tree

that sways

like my yellow

bird’s hips.



January 6, 2011

(POEM FROM 1982)


pinioned in a hot chair

(the handed down

terrors of bygone

generations bind me)


currents cross to criss-cross

like razor blades across veins

(break them, we must)


neither the flushed face

nor stiffness in the loins

is uncommon, in these

taut thrusting moments


(dare to look the horror

in the face, in the body)


my eyeballs shoot out

those long greedy

tongues of slick frogs


(images stick to retinas)


swallowing the sticky

in atom-thin seconds


our looks have fused


sweet pus


between us


caked flakes.



January 6, 2011


my closed Bible

bound in Black

worshipfully I

open it


with folded


bright white

pages leap



dark sayings


every candle

that is

lit from inside.



the sun is rising slowly, lifting

herself up over the far edge

of a weed-choked temple pond.



what care i for big dark shadows

in the crowded temple porches?

the light is not there here where

the mindless herds are grazing.


and with expert masseur hands

the sun kneads her warmth into

every pore and pole of my body

till ravished, i fall, asleep, open.



a gnarled old man with white

smiling strong staring teeth

had chewed over life till 75

when one day his 32 teeth

clattered, he also shuddered

with dread

the chill shiver crept up thighs

like a red ant creeping up to

a crystal of sugar, he flopped

into his bed.


a grey-harried woman rubbed

the cold feet with hot alcohol,

wrapped him in the old blanket

of marriage vows only to begin

the longest watch, watching a

bald pate shine, the strangest

light shone in a merciless night.


the cold log lay still there, till

the shivers, and the old man,

were gone in a merciless dawn.



January 6, 2011

(POEM FROM 1980)


we tunneled into inner spaces

for ore, though He did not

make us moles.


we boiled our finds filtered in

hell-borne furnaces, with

knowledge of Fire-purifier.


we beat the dull metals soft,

cut, trimmed, etched, folded,

molded pain into a polished

monster with shiny wings.


we placed inside atom-heart

pouring in molten lifeblood

drawn from deepest vaults.


we have then hurled it skyward,

higher than any stone will go,

the gleaming dragon that roars.


we have soared upon its breath,

pregnant with the hurt of many

thousands of clawed makers.


we have by now forgotten well

He who did not make us birds

for, behold, we fly but Heaven




the echo

of our




January 4, 2011

“ye are all gods to whom

the word of God is come”

and so ‘i am’ too with God

burdened, chastened for

my need to make babies,


something, out

of  nothing,


breathe air into clay

make the dawn day

slay night bring light


“behold i make all things

new”, such creating is

the hardest of failures,


for in each creature lit

up by the flame of life

lives an angel of death


and each breath drawn

in joy carries in itself

bubbles of black void,


and in legs, two or four,

that walk two miles or

none are aching muscles


hey, is anything worth it?

Yes, in that thin moment,

the spot of the orgasm,

all things go blank, blind

ejaculation consumes my

sigh and our screams do

drown cawing like crows

wet-bleak in earth-sweat.


all our trails lead there,

to Forests of Nowhere,

animals of golden dust

frolic anew to eat rust.



December 31, 2010

New Year’s






Gray beats

the artists’

Black party


at interstices






at a junction










Raggedy Ann.




I am.




2010 flows,




loiters in,



of sex,















December 27, 2010

i create good

and evil,

the dark side

of goodness.


it is wearing

a cloak,

a device

of disguise.






spic n span








on this dark side,

of goodness,

windows zip up,

doors flip shut.


so one must be

thief of hearts

knave of mind

king of nothing

queen of shit.


on the dark side

of goodness,

one must be



take all blame

upon oneself












on this dark side

of  goodness,

we let flourish

we can nourish


the wise dove

the quiet lamb

the burning tiger

the sleeping lion

the nesting eagle

the homing bee

the Damned Man

the betraying She


on this dark side

of cannibalistic

goodness, I

have learnt

to forgive,

not forget;

my memories

form the rope

that will hang


airless airless


on this dark side

of my goodness.



December 27, 2010

in my stygian forests

of words lurk lusty

wild animals of dark

sayings and meanings


they are always awake,

alert to smells, signs

of alien life-forms that

must end as prey, meat.


if you would lure with lies

any of my subtle beasts,

ensnare a word in woven

black tresses, leash them

domesticate them

place under eaves

as echoes

literal beams

common sense



linear balderdash


i would still appear to you

with my spectral army

of sinuous beasts, tear

you apart limb from limb

with shears of multiple


twists and turns





all that is taboo


we would just rip

apart your bowels

with non-sense

that sets alight

forests of words

with dionysian

delicacies delicate

desires damnable

daggered delights.



December 25, 2010

i have discovered what the Magi see,

that being born a King is to be Poor

in Spirit, though a Soul may be rich;

and then to wend one’s way across

deserts or to dwell in caves is wise,

it is the Man’s path, trail, a Calling;

and to settle down will be dwelling

in the House of Mourning to avoid

Laughter, that Dimension of Fools.


We have seen petals of Red Roses

fade into bluish thorns destined to

crown, a Stripped Back, or plucked

hair off the Chin of Rejected Ones.

the Man of Sorrows on donkey-back,

a Stumbling Stone, Rock of Offense,

the Nails piercing the hands of One

Who Can Only Always Love All And

Nothing, a Bright and Morning Star

everyone rejoices to see defeated,

and His Dying is like His Birth Pangs,

a Nova laid in a Manger with Fauna,

animals hanging in a sheet between

Heaven and Earth await a cleansing

I can burn with Him, within, without,

on a quiet Christmas Morn, holding

Cross, Death, Grave, Resurrection.



December 23, 2010

did she know some are hermits

who have come down tunnels

of sulfurous travails? i tremble

midst multitudes, and am cast

as spiky shell-caves on shores

open in keening virtual spaces

where blue fears do not tempt

as much as in the blackest dirt

i tread under daily; a serpent

hurts my heel but i keep flying

up on clouds, on winged feet,

i am a messenger of dark ires

for women who can not read

the codex of the hermits, my

hermetic canon, herpetology,

the formulae for love potions

and the mixing of death ales;

so the deep intention is that

my serpent-woman’s head is

crushed in the sweet moment

she fangs my luminous heels.



December 22, 2010

to be a giver of pleasure to all,

allow the flower’s bowing pistil

first to be upripped, torn, spat

tossed into the sewage, swirls

a healing water, yea now flow

where it leads to pink river, so

then, cleansed there to dance

with many-coloured fishes you

become a rainbow that slips to

slide under and between every

other body that’ll sweet receive

each wet kiss pure tonal touch.


to be a giver of pleasure to all

allow them the lick deep inside

a frame that lets them remain

what they are and will always

be, static motion, dead twigs,

and when their broke horrors

arise, i will be theirs to stroke

the dryness away, let greens

eat up the dirty brown, black,

as hot sands fall off between

welcoming thighs, thinner lips,

let cream seep soft into buns,

let empty tears set into suns,

erase in my head smoky joys

given, embraces taken, offer

everyone ever-day everyeve.



December 21, 2010

I am rising, I am rising, I am rising

I’m floating, I’m floating, floating

winds to touch the roofs, houses

and tiles I’m placing beside aside,

I am building veins, thin capillaries

and arteries to travel, journeying.


i’m flowing i’m flowing i’m flowing

i’m rushing, i am rushing, rushing

into the thrusting of blood rivers

dividing into streams, i’m crossing

cities, towns, countries, galaxies

of explosions to have no ending.


i’m singing i am singing i’m singing

of leaving i’m leaving i am leaving

rocks, stumbles, enemies, hurting

behind, buried as sand, dry fossils

and in my travelling hither and fro

remembering and doing the magic

trick of forgetting, i am forgetting.


i’m drowning, drowning, drowning

and rowing, i’m rowing, i’m rowing

the boat of pleasure onto islands

disappearing as suns, or winters,

or pulling up hard oars of paining

like panting wings, the oar- locks,

quietening, i’m coasting, coasting.


i’m painting, i’m painting, i’m painting

my white clouds, slim dagger-curves

of musings, aggrandising, accusings,

i am tearing, i am tearing, i’m tearing

up shrouds of blue skies to approach

the green i am greening i am gleaning

gleaming harvest sea of life speckling. .



December 13, 2010

Love is a sea of crystal in one’s palm,

bells toll within, yet all is serene, still,

you can do with it whatever you will,

you can give it to whomever you will


animals haphazard come drink their fill,

they dart off, this sea remains so still

and open under the green film of sky

where my speckled bluebirds flit or fly


becalmed, bereft of a buzzing of bees,

static and singular like wine on its lees,

watching with one eye the peripheries,

lying widely spreading widely, my lovely


Love is a sea of crystal in one’s palm,

bells toll within, yet all is serene, still,

you can do with it whatever you will,

you can give it to whomever you will

you can give it to whomever you will

you can do with it whatever you will.



December 10, 2010

Black is the solid color of my penitence.

Red, the mad hues of my lamentations.

They couple like snakes on my palette.

Fall, white burnt wax drops from eyes.

Watch, now the world is rendered anew.

See, how from snake-cling brown is born.




Where is the blue one hid in the dust?

Where is the green beyond sky-trails?

Where is the Diamond Sutra that lies?


I am willing to melt, dissolve all that is.

You, me, she, we, us, them. Asceticize.


Black is the solid color of my penitence.

Red, the mad hues of my lamentations.


What was, what’s not, what is, what will be


White is the sweeping clean of the heart.





December 3, 2010

There is a last gift I leave on the sea-shore

and all will rejoice when I am nothing more

and I’m gone, you will have good cheer as

before in Gethsemane, you were my kisses

stuck into my heart like molten hot knives

though I’d taken you to be my living wives!


But now I know, indeed I will leave, just as

you left me before i left, and you will be

happy with absence when I only wanted

to gift you my unwanted, ugly presence!


My dis-appearance is a 1000-petalled lotus,

the wisdom beam of penance, not easy to

hold up the many pillars of a big household

together. Ah, you will not understand tilll I’m

not, you value the dead but ne’er the living!


I have given all I have to give, tried to leave you

riches so you will all thrive, but I see, understand,

all is vanity, you can give to void, give it pressed,

till there is nothing that can return but memories

like cigarette smoke that beckons to a sky that,

in turn, is full of snakes whose subtle trails leave

behind only those wild burning superficial burns!


I have much more to say but, no, I won’t,you

will never understand, yet when my Comforter

is gone you will stand alone within the fortress

I built, well preserved,and wonder at Nimrodean

grandiloquence, magnitudes of everlasting ruins.


December 2, 2010

All the harm done by a woman,

this Woman, other from above,

can un-do, erase, re-cover, do.


The ink-flies flit, bottle-green,

cruel creatures of composite

heavy-lidded algebraic desire,

flitting from an aromatic dung

heap to the next, feeding well

off manure, manicured, slick,

fertilized, pregnant, time-flies.


Or now, as circling, hungry gulls

they sweep, these my predators,

down to kill many-colored fishes,

peck suckle, suck empty all hues

or consign these prickly bones to

the swirling vertical gutter-gullies.


Or as an executioner’s new axe,

she hews herself the hard logs

to be softened, Helen launches

raging waters, warriors as offal,

slaves, funereal driftwood ships.


But then comes that other One

with a wooing, wine-rich voice,

as a cooing whitening sad dove,

pecking her new name in flesh;

she has known being abandoned

by the manipulations of the Old

Man, the pharaonic taskmaster

who left his weals in a wanting

heart, waiting eyes, year-rings.


And when such ones have met

they sing of sin and judgments,

or the deadly hopes of betrayal,

or pin-kick pangs in lonely beds,

or of beats, rhythm, rhyme, end

of that afar possibility, visioning

an impossible unity in universes.


Upon the stone-hung shoulders

of all such hoping against hope,

in sin-hot androgyne wombs lie

our still silent starlit cold morns

or angelic bombs of Christmas;

they come as songs of surprise

to stir up laughter, lullabies, life

surreptitious, yes, serendipitous.


Know that only that Woman from

above, in each barren being, can

revive the Deathless One in ours,

we, the murderers, murderesses

the forgiven, ignorant or innocent,

we can be transported to a place

sexless, bodiless, gaze-less, freed

from hurting, hiving, hidden need.



November 23, 2010

i can be standing on the Stone

and still feel that all is moving

in a disquieting, aching quake

or the jar-jarring of late trams

or, perhaps, night-bus purring,

like pet soapy Kittens of Deceit,

red-hot jets burning gray trails

or strains i cannot touch, hold.


So it is. My moments are past,

to din no more in the present

except as unwelcome stirrings

of something old disappearing

into a raw Maw of Exceptions.


We grow up to be swallowed

by the Ocean of Unknowing,

and as we float upon waters

like a Moses, Kabir, Perseus,

to see in many moving stars

signs of unbecoming, undoing


all that is written in our stories,

live the lines that oceans erase,

now feel the Futility of Embrace.



November 20, 2010

On the night that Delilah Deville

cut the Rasta hair of Samsong

Salomon, I was there, singing

the song of the weevil, ringing

with the snip of each snapping

whippoorwill, she said “Now it

is, he’s circumcised, I do will!”


Twelve years, he ploughed well

with the Ox, (oxen if you please)

he grinds pubis to pubis, ease

was the secret, eyeless sleaze

oil that he churned, squeeeeze!


And Delilah Deville spurned hot

future spills, took out her lease,

rented a lover, ugly lover, rent

out a slut, rent a tease, errant


the scissors, cut off his balls,

shaved the wires, let it erase

the purple haze, open space,

harlot days, circumcised ways.


She slept him upon a fiery bosom,

warmed him and fucked him free,

Suddenly; “Rise up, O Samsong

your enemies are OOO upon thee.”


Now he circles with those Oxen,

he follows their hooves, cloven,

before him a harsh tail lifts up,

downward the hot dung driven

become his fodder, unforgiven

Delilah Deville, he doth imprison.


So round, round, merry go round,

go the Oxen, the divine Physician,

and he begs the guard to let him

go, slip out one night, “Let me go,

I’ve a throat to cut and disembowel

the woman I love, to get her off.”


Samsong Salomon returns upriver,

Samsong Salomon death delivers!

Samsong Salomon: “I hold pillars”.

He crushes her, O he crushes her,

and they all fall down, tin soldiers.


On the night that Delilah Deville

cut the pubic hair of Samsong

Salomon, I was there, a-singing

of the oil that comes a-crushing

from the going round and round

the mill, the oil mill, old oil mill,

his hair grew long, also his Will

to destroy a mocking Philistine,

to punish the fair Delilah Deville.



November 20, 2010

I am a survivor of punishments

of love as they deem it to be

they are thus:


she smiles, but fearfully

for he may not like it

that she loves me.


she smiles, but misguidedly

for she too fears, firefly,

cold heat, ill loyalty.


she smiles, but guardedly

for he will destroy her

if she smiled at me.


she smiles, but deceivingly

for she cannot understand

what she wants to be.


i laugh, for i am flying free

of her chains, her misery,

stupidity, i am friendly.


i laugh, for i mock the birds

that are tapped eternally

in seas that clone sky.


I am a survivor of punishments

of love as they deem it to be

they are thus:


foam that is grey,

curds and whey,

promises, dismay

expectations, hey!


thorns greater than

roses, lying woman,

empty words, action

postponed, re-action,

hopes are destroyed


green spring, receive

death, let all deceive



abandon the taking

stay with a-making



dog  si evol is dog

evol olev love vole.


I am a survivor of punishments

thus they are:





lovesiovel love vole




November 18, 2010

draw the boats

upon the rivers

up onto shores

or low bridges


burn it all down

let it blaze wild

a dead passion


chop down green

trees of laughter

let the axes sing

let woods bleed


burn it all down

let it blaze wild

like oil on water


spit into the wind

let it bark angry

blow a soul out

damn it to hell


burn it all down

in inner circles

like coal in fire


kick at the waves

smash the crabs

eat the soft flesh

flay it, let it decay


burn it all down

let the skin singe

let the heart die.



November 16, 2010

in all, I have always met green doubts

about the undercurrent, that undertow

down under waves, then up up you go

fading or flourishing, all are, all, most

as good as the virtual thing when their

hands become mine, we’re all become

yours, snoring minds, heavenly bodies

the self sliding among cool fish friends

we get luminous hot flashes, collisions

or we think of only this one, or that one

responsibility,  possible irresponsibility,

they say it’s unfaithfulness, boxed well

inside old ethnic space-ways  in deserts

and, outside, the struggle to be another

but then words are the rope-tricks used

to climb phallic pillars that rise up high,

that soar up into a beckoning, skinless

sky knows there are no more territories

if everyone left behind the green doubts

about the undercurrents, that undertow.


November 12, 2010

i am the Amethyst Portal

many souls pass through

to thin etheric gene-banks

incubating humanity’s zoo.


drink my Cup of Innocence,

Liar, Hipster, Thief, Elfling,

Poet, Joker, Pious Nonsense

liveried in Poverty of Bling,


roam forests of my blackened

doe-eyed deer, i-imprisoned,

and doves nailed to tin roofs

cry up dins, flutter silver fires.


the King has been beheaded,

his Ink-people gambol freely,

the Queen is stripped naked,

between her legs a silver key


turns in my Amethyst Portal,

the flesh-pink flowers weep,

white pollen emerges, return

ragged to birth-tunnel deep


will you turn back from this

crossing, (the river is flood),

come to my amethyst door

to find a way to her indoors?


will you return from this sleep

in a surrounding fluid womb,

will you awaken as Janus did,

dig your way out of a tomb?


i have gone in and come out,

i have met Faith and Doubt,

i have erased Night and Day

and escaped a Circular Way.


i am the Amethyst Portal

many souls pass through

to thin etheric gene-banks

incubating humanity’s zoo.



November 10, 2010

how i read my Bible is from right to left,

thus,  i excavate dung that’s Servile.


i think it’s a joke turned inside out, to be

is to know the Vile, this world is alive.


i have deciphered the Rites of War written

in heaven, how devils descend to earth,


their angelic Ladder leads down to stone

pillows, great Exile, the greater Blessing.


but in one’s sleep comes the Great Awe,

the waking ground suddenly Sacred,


i hear the Oath, in turn i promise the Tithe

from one’s Loins, my descendants arrive,


lines and links of Coitus daily uninterrupted

forge upwards the rungs of the Ladder.


devils are cast down, but angels will ascend

upon clouds of desperate Frankincense.


what falls as Dust must rise up, Dominions

of Death are fast razed and plundered


and in the toiling Blood of Blessed Bozrah

the Tree of Knowledge is hewn asunder.


between Dark Sayings lie precious pillows,

i pile up fiery stones to raise up my Pillar.


he who reads the Bible from left to right

finds delirium, confusion, imperfections.


i read the Book from right to left, i leave

out deserts, despair, damned delusions.



November 9, 2010



to change




never force


upon oneself


let it creep

like wildflowers

or weeds









in small




one gags


or loves

the sweetness



change is


not will be


nor was








for love


or so


it seems


small changes


let you know


the one














no rush


it is


the Way.


The Mass

November 8, 2010

Partial Revelation

damages badly

an inner-soul eye,


seeing the trees

as shadows of

Aeons gone by.


Green is the mix

of blue, yellow,

a mash-up trick.


Only a sure Artist

can distinguish

Real and Artifice.


Only the Sheep

lost in the Pit

knows the Trap,


and the Shepherd

who pens 99,

knows that Gap.


The Ancient Father

could only wait,

ponder to wonder,


watch, gnaw, bite

ingrown nails

of weary surrender.


The Good Shepherd

leaves the healthy,

to discover the Lame.


He forges many new

trails to subvert

the Hunter’s Game.


The Ancient Father

robes Prodigals

who repent, turn;


The Good Shepherd

carries home one

condemned to burn.


The self-righteous are

dammed inside

their cold safety-pens,


the sore sickly Scarred

are rescued right

where they’re undone.


between the hard Old

and the soft New lies

a perennial gray Gap;


but every hapless one

experiences now the

One who did the Rap.


So, forget the Winter

ring in blue Summer,

Christ’s Mass is nearer.


Quaff those old Waters

turned into red Wine

He brews for the better.



November 5, 2010

Every Diwali has always been

not the festival of lights,

but harbinger of wintry nights.


Each red cracker explodes

with white light and heat

that the moments cheat.


Flares welcome extinguishing

in a void that is strong

to swallow rocket trails long.


Rama has returned with Sita

to Ayodhya, to prepare her

trial by fire for unfaithfulness..


Satyabhama slays Narakasura

but Bhudevi’s lamps remain

to celebrate a demonic domain.


An old idol of wealth appears

as a woman, false religion

hypnotizes 900 million poor.


Roads and by-lanes are littered

with tattered offerings

of happiness or love burnt-out.


Sweetmeats and gifts are spread

from one mortal to another,

none realize life’s short fickle flicker.


This Diwali too, like every other,

brings me the fate of fireworks,

thundering, flashes, smokiness,

colors blasts, stars, emptiness.


This Diwali too has not been

for me a festival of lights,

but harbinger of wintry nights.



November 4, 2010

i have been spun into

or spun enough webs

inside many sooty oily

tunnels slow traveling

upside down on floors,

ceilings, walls, e-doors

to reach that singular

window that can wash

me in a wet brightness

throw me aside, burnt

like a shorted butterfly

that danced on a wire

or earth me like soggy

birds who swim no sky


in this flattening out

of life’s sine waves

i regain my dignity

i renew my sanity


old things are passed

away, behold!

i make all things new!



November 3, 2010

wisdom is cunning.


the snake sheds

crocodile tears

while she mates.


do not be sad

when you see

her slithering.


hear her hiss


piss piss piss


into a Cunnie

of Darkness.



November 1, 2010

Have you ever been turned into a

wandering ghost by luminous life,

excavating erogenous memories

of wisp-insects that stung and left?


Are you curious why now there are

no longer any windows or doors

you cannot easily pass by, through?


You are a half-mad sleep-lost creature

of infinite nights, fleet and light-toed

as you cross jasmine pain thresholds

without a stronghold, a whitening stain

that is but the same as the whitewash

upon our empty walls and abandoned

graves o’er which the skeletal branches

of lonely trees stand a spectral guard.


And there is no one alive to speak to

in a lost voice except the dead wind

that slips slides curls around our void

and stony obstacles that like hoods

without holes to hide in rise to meet

you with the cruel greetings of men

or women who have forgotten how

to love and softly turn into blue-gray

shadows that fear to re-member me.



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