flesh on stone lives its opposite
the daily grinding of hot or cold
looking to warm dead shoulder
hoping for her fire to break out
life not easy dry stone on flesh
the colored rocks opaque-eyed
strike against them blue bruisings
strain against them rose shrapnel
collect thence welts as textures
framing the skin in dead sparks
trying many a way to steal fires
hidden in raw lines or icy cracks
looking for flashes but not burns
in fungal spaces the tinder glows
straddling gaps the time-twins spin
friction yet the pebble-lipped sister
marble corpse thrown to sandy floor
rests waiting for the lightning stroke
Why do you seek me?
I am ivory, elusive vowels concealed
between the teeth of judgement,
because imagined partings are parings
of nails, those red memories
joy-scratches, scarlet birds, we have declared
new vows of silence, allow the spaces to sing of what lives
red ink on pages till rain botches it,
slaying, sting all, greying blotches.
Keep seeking the vowels, the jewels in sand
unseen, substance of sunshine and stars,
swirling and swishing dew inside my kapala,
leaving earth and heaven, rich sediment.
Seas will disappear and walled Babylons fall
under fierce erupting volcanoes of love,
while fire-beings swim alongside dolphins cool
in golden lava where the secret vowels rule.
I tick you tick we tick
small ticks alla tickin’
the tock tock tocking
chipping off the Rock
tottering on tinny feet
ticking seconds i sinne
tucking up behind furs
the tick under the skin
ticking in the wet meat
tick tocking cogs clocks
taking this time tocking
in wooden chair rocking
i tick you tick we ticking
time teaching a tricking.
IN THE TAVERN
Beware the leaven of the Pharisees
who lay upon all heavy burdens
instead of carrying the weary on iron
shoulders; who excoriate, cast out.
Beware of angels of light, the Gabriel
who paints no golden Annunciation,
whose watchword is: “Write them off”,
belabours all with both rod and staff.
Beware of false apostles, the Mathew
who exacts taxes after salvation
and wears deceiving cloak of humility,
bowing, scraping, a whitening grave.
Better to leave the vomit of these fancied
wheeler-dealers in the rotting temple,
to know the solitary in caves of Adullam,
a valley of Baca where pure rain falls.
Beware, quick, flee the City of Merchants
hungry, divesting tithes off Innocents,
a Purple Harlot disguised as Christ-Bride,
Enemy of Sinners, faith of Krishna.
“So if anyone tells you, ‘There He is, out
in the wilderness,’ do not go out; or,
‘Here He is, in the inner rooms,’ do not
believe it.” Flee the Cult of Holiness.
Now, listen! A dead dog quietly barking
may seem a flea is singing; but watch
holy kings, self-righteous angels collapse
in the Valley of Decision, Armageddon.
And in that New Jerusalem, a Simulacrum,
woe to the whisperers beside the fjords,
money-launderers, dealers in real estate
on earth, swiftly comes your desolation.
Beware, for outside your fortress is One
Pearl, Mystery Friend of Sinners, up,
away above Stone, the Rock, the Hourglass
in which all Sand turns into Red Wine.
Out of sight.
Un. Be. Coming.
leylines fall like knives
across iris my songs flit
bats escaping caves.
is to harass
a fool mule
Thus it is written:
do to me?
SLAYING THE ANGELS
the fruit of the tree in the garden of knowledge hews asunder the human
all who make love beneath its shade are sorrow damned duo man-woman
gender overshadows them sing havoc they fuck and fall apart O selfish
inside the body-cave they are dark wandering stars they can’t lighten
the catch in the swift disintegrating cobwebs of nodes traces lingerings
wailing notes in the gaps between bleak angels and good white is black
each opposite is let loose a bull in arenas the raging red rags of contest
argue and subdue to get God to rule over devils and human rule animal
try caging yin and yang in circles do good to placate evil then laughter
over the fallen falling from the risen apex of heaven seeding rot earth
do not subtract seas from this mix yet see moss be separate from rock
when you have analysed it all well and know you’re on the side of God
remember all that is seen outside lies hid as spheres within cold spheres
there are none saved none damned this was the treason under that tree
the story designed to drive us mad break us in two schizoid or paranoid
but we restore all if we slay with songs sin-angels guarding Tree of Life.
SHAPES IN THE CLOUDS
the milk-white teeth sharp as broken pearls
rush all-devouring the flesh-eating machine
scratch-hungry nails upon the waiting trunk
the peeling of the skin by ten parasitic claws
the licking clean of the viscous eventide dust
by tongues rough as big cats a raw bloodhunt
a silken neck drawn back ready to be stroked
or by black fingers that veins awaken choked
arching back bending bow-lithe near breaking
sucking in the arrow for the marrow’s drawing
or sacred the buttocks rising parting thrusting
and melting the body sweat salt surrendering
and the eyes and ears are one in the entwining
of cries pure gods or goat-demons apt envying.
picporcined gelatomulatto stockings
liplash ankletinklet trinkletemptress
dodapoets excretafellas flucked
filchedfed flipgymgodzilla blurbs
unostanding falsiedentures flapslaps
corpsesad singulacrummy emptyhoo
mamaembryo mustardbe drearbed
leavehalli hoalleyvalley tillthesnow
friendsnitch backsnatch underweariness
liebackdonuts sleephollow palmincrevice
WILD BLACK SHEEP
“Come to me, all you wild wilderness sheep,
I’ve left all those safe dirty whites behind,
I’ve not come to thrash you black or blue,
add stripes to those you piteously flaunt,
twas not from me, but the raging enemy.
See, my back is torn stripped ripped wonder,
blackened in death, I’ve death plundered,
between you and the old accuser I stand,
separating you and harm by a crimson band.
Come, return to me all you ugly black sheep,
and with my staff I’ll turn your night to light,
you’ll transit the spheres as twilight or dawn,
zebra-striped, you’ll find yourself again born
between the poles and then all of it will pass,
thunders and lightnings, swift fires or floods.
Come, turn to me, all you mule-wise sheep,
and I’ll give you who’re too hoarse to bleat
angel voices within adamantine foreheads,
two-edged tongues, strong horns or heels,
crush all that comes your way to fine dust
a wild, wilderness wind will carry far away.”
O herd of tamed
rain in ears
of red horses
riding one another
upon and across
O herd of tamed
VALLEY OF DESIRES
No time at all to examine
the settings of my soul
Far less time to excavate
the hid warp of my sex
All goes round and round
and settles in the balls
Slipping out my hot third eye
down to lowest muladhara
Sway backwards or upwards
the snake is always alive
Flexes not around one or two
it’s quick-light many-fanged
it settles sting it’s burn-sparks
fire all and sundry it alights
alike on grass doves donkeys
tongue thighs navel vulva
It’s natural it’s the questioning
eruptings of all that’s strong
the angerflames flick-flickering
around edges of pool-self
it does not allow for askance
things like hunger breathing
these my desires engrossing
exacting waxing not waning
as it was above and is always
below now forever more.
I sing praise to EVeN RiSHONaH
placed and laid as Mother,
Lodestone in the void, Rockface
where hang the pupae of futures;
herein rests all that is to be revealed,
many living stones, fiery precious gems,
rows of lit-up pebbles in chaos of darkness,
this ladder of flickering soul sapphires
fleeing upon a skywards trail;
the ascent and descent of live and vile angels,
the river of ilmenite illuminating space
and the Stone of stones upholding all in all,
the winding queues of pilgrims
each one inscribed inside the hollow
from where falls the honey of a call
to be the rejected one, the accepted one.
her sudden silences
like a kite’s talons
punctuate my skin
when it is unmarked
my mind too placid
waits like a wet rock
or as water quieting
itself i breathe less
frozen like a dolphin
pinned upon still air
eyes frozen body
sculpted blue stone.
Trickling down her spine
finding the secret crack
spill of salty sweat
parting her swollen moons
falling the waterfall
stream of relief sweet
dampening velvet thighs
crawling down whitest calves
river washing feet
flowing under her swell
spreading round the well
filling her satin pool
waters tangle her mound
havens slippery found
womb fish flashing silver!
i will make my arms longer, stretched louder
i will push my thin horizon wider, elastic
pinned upon the wood behind my taut spine,
raised straining as mature teaked, stolid
holy effort pushing up higher, low, deeper
the pushing to get out the box, frame
the canvas crimson painted, tearing itself
in the rain, a rose freeing self of nails,
each slap a kiss, each scratch black bliss,
each stab a look, every eye gazing in
i’m going to take me outside the picture
i’m going to put me outside the walls
i’m going to wait for that invisible painter,
splash purple over me in happy strokes
where rose and butterfly safely, frail circus
on the pin of a thorn, linger not yet torn.
never be afraid to investigate
whatever you desire, do it,
find all out and in by yourself
smell your body as if it’s mine
ugly confusing strange mad
sudden gasp inside cold water
refuse the standard position
“it’s beautiful, it’s romantic”
let the dead bury the dead,
Jesus and Buddha shed it,
bio-flesh, the urges, death
my experience, just personal,
a poem, a jotting, a moment,
18:22 edge beyond standards
always outside, push the boat
further from the shore, down
the deep to where dolphins stir
whose stand to take? resurrect
the gentle fist, disperse clouds,
lay down all prehistoric burdens
therefore, disruption of systems
therefore, emergent patterning
therefore, dynamic, never static
come, everyone’s weary, loaded
with queries, we’ll serve bread
and fish, an easy yoke, now rest.
all day long, all night long, i meditate,
eating of the fruit of the Tree of Life;
all around me are the broken vessels
who delight in the Tree of Knowledge;
these pendulum minds go ping, pong,
right or wrong, black and white, good
or bad, god or devil, heavens or hells,
all the time spent in circling confused;
making the right choices, acting moral
high and mighty, except poor or lowly;
what certainty sifting wheat off chaff,
always separating and divining a light
of their own made from the vivid dark,
the fruit is stuck in the raucous throat;
and the world reels with the cacophony
of binary assertions, dissertations, still
this Tree of Life remains behind swords
and wings that cover and the Holy Fire;
so i’ve calmed my mind with emptiness,
the gates open, O new creatio ex nihilo!
be happy in all those unasked for serpentine coilings of life
let each lash strip away the superficial skins of the i-snake
with each day or season of trouble, let black hides thicken
let the welts excavate hollows in which to hide the molten senses of love.
each winding harsh mountain climbed makes my stronger thighs
thus to satisfy with maelstrom thrusts the knowing priestesses
let flammable arrows sent forth strike down those fleeting flesh-spotted does.
in whose dying eyes may you and i touch the fears of the hunted?
each victory won is both meat and wine, also emptying intestines,
the sign of the Cross embossed on all vessels, the roiling elementals
so he who offers himself as dove to vultures is himself endures never diminishes.
alpha lambda omega
floating inside a vast blue bowl of dissatisfaction
a white stork or three gulls abbreviate the spell of placidity
something is aflutter with semblances of living to be
when this upturned shell turns black with indifference
i am still; cross-legged, breath-held expiating
the sins, repeat-errors, sullen ashes of christian theologies
that short-sighted belief that Death stalks to reign only on Earth
and yet I travel beyond those closed irises into denser universes
i watch flash-born, damned glory white dwarves yellow zoe orange red giants
billowing with, from light, sparks of indefatigable human pride
puffing up birth moons planets asteroids cosmic ice-follicles
a pregnant vacuum that swallows up all in its swell liquid black belly
every star is waning yet soughing longer than i can faintly burn
and in my inability to comprehend time-lies, eternity skulks,
and in my ignorance resonates the subtle sacred a-u-m and amen.
TO THE MANGER
Sometimes a bottle can fall and shatter
and clean shards rack into waiting flesh;
yet, accidents are different from action
that’s deliberate; the dagger of Brutus
or a wounding in the house of friends;
still, where knives have sunk in will rise
Sharon’s rose, fragrance of forgiveness.
It’s a privilege to be scarred like St Joseph
but, unlike him, I don’t await their return,
the ones who buried, gagged, tarred him;
poverty comes of its own making, famine
swallows all who don’t discern innocence,
lost in bleak deserts of doctrine, they fail.
What then do I await? The Magi and camels,
humps laden with water to survive the dark
trail under an unblinking Star, a journeying,
living the wisdom of a search to arrive with
gifts for a Child in a manger of a meek heart.
LAW OF SIMILARS
I place you in my glass bottle
and a little alcohol I sprinkle
into sweet pores, open doors
i shake you shaking you shake
all the round parts are rolling
rearranged swelling themselves
dilute it dilution again dilution
succussion and potentization
my blows on your elastic body
she writhes like water rippling
off her erect green leaves,
the memory remains, in veins
suffering alike in our miasms,
similars haunt the forests
we distil new remedial spasms.
in every inanimate talisman
an inquisitive spirit rests,
awaiting its due awakening.
one must never be afraid
of abandoning Buddha,
fat belly shaking laughing
when that image disappears
he knows it comes, a kitten
licking roughly at thresholds,
upon the windowsill of your eyes,
drenched in rain and despised,
it sits mewing: let mew, mew in.
when the trumpet-call of the writer has failed,
when words mean one thing and then another
and reading between the lines becomes trivial,
when a red-eyed koel lays eggs at night-times
and the bats awaken to their nocturnal feasts,
and the caves of the soul are filled with regrets
and palace gates slam shut on starving beggars,
pre-empting abandonment, the priest abandons
blue jewels that beckon, black thorns of delight,
and winding his way where no way was known,
he waters with sorrow the sand of his journeys.
Sometimes sadness comes as the eyelid
falling shut over all, curtained, touched,
the air is shimmering, expectant of what
can no longer be breathed, a wine-wind;
a word soothes awhile and speeds away,
comforts another supine, suffering soul;
O winds, come, blow me here, there, off
caresses, thorns, the wet petals, i blink;
each flutter flames darkness to sunwaves
flowing cool swish, knowing embrace G-d.
BREAD OF HEAVEN
All bread is bitter and sweet to one hungry;
stolen crumbs, holy wafers, or given freely.
David stole it from a sacred altar, on the run,
Jesus broke it as a body in a secret chamber.
The Magdalene was the softest feather-bread
to pay for, body for bread, bread for the body.
Bread soaked in rain or porous with hot honey;
bread wracked by bites, on the Cross in agony.
Bread begged for at midnight from false friends,
bread granted for pleading upon grizzled knees.
Bread that’s bloody with the loving toil of a wife,
bread to save children from a fungus of poverty.
Bread unleavened tasting as good as fried fish
baked in an oven upon coals of life’s ignorance.
Bread that falls from heaven and then disappears,
rotted by dark beliefs, damn curses, dread fears.
Then there is bread that tells us that humans must
live by each word of God, lest bread become stone.
And when the Host turns red dipped in white chalice,
bread becomes flesh in which spirit subdues malice.
Listen, all night long, His winds seethe with worry,
cradling our broken pieces tossed on the waters.
His arms are not shortened, His net is not broken,
on a distant shore the crumbs become One Loaf.
a mouse grows in a mouth
as dark as chocolate
a raw purple orchid
it moans and is suckled
eyes closed warming lips
the veins thrilling
the molten pulse
a slide and fire-measure
then it spills eye to eyes
the key fills the socket
orange moon black skies
mouse sighs in a trance
a rower in a boat on a becalmed sea
a dot on a becalmed sea
wrapped in a grey shawl
the unrocking boat sits
upon the slowest ripple
two arms are flapping on
oars that beat the liquid
a shaft of light descends
upon a broad back, bent
the only motion is circling
turns the boat on its axis
a point extends as a radius
silent cage, sphere, bubble
DANCING WITH THE GOPIS
Every soul seeking celestial purity
tries every which way to be permanently free,
Why blame them for methodologies and theologies?
Every monkey seeks to become human,
some see a shortcut is Jesus, or tango with the Octopus,
evolve sublime to the ridiculous as the worshippers of the Platypus.
Dao and Mahikari and Buddha and Krishna
Socrates and Sri Sri, Amma, Rasputin, Hanuman and Kali
blah of a way, many ways, the way, all ways, any ways, only G-d knows
perhaps, it’s not theoria or nirbana, but the How
to be awake is to quietly blamelessly kiss the cords of being,
shuddhi, embrace the 30000 hip-thrusting nadi-gopis dancing in my body.
i am ugliness, that form of beauty rare,
a mating of vianegativa and affirmativa
i am coiled into sexual folds of flesh
i swell, i decay, i crumble, i irrigate,
i am channels of life in throbbing dust
i lie submerged in conversations, i am sex,
i come as a hint, a whiff, a misdemeanour,
i’m shrouded in cloak of misunderstandings
i am the dirty words that ignite secretly
in another’s breast, forbidden frenzies
i’m a thief, i enter with brush strokes,
let her wetness linger on the canvas
i am the musician’s rash, distorted notes
when a song is ended or voices are stilled
i am the remains of the beauteous and strong
i am known as the passing away of the dawn.
AT THE SEA’S SHORE
why am i wanting so much?
gnawing at me, the mice
scurry in out my arteries;
my name is now,temporarily,
Snake, but still I don’t know,
can I swallow my mice or no?
between lust and love i flow
to pulsing shadowlands, row
this boat, water filling below
holes of time, tattered sails
and tied to the mast to foil
the sirens’ songs, be flailed
all night by storms, salt sea,
wet beasts of red sexuality,
MY BHARAT MATA
My dearest ultra-spiritual Bharat Mata
I bow to your malodorous filth, your deepening sores,
pustules of tradition and modern eruptions that eat away your nipples.
Your arterial-streets are rubble-full,
the camphor of indifference burns in your temples
where oil-blackened blind idols crumble, condescending, culpable.
Every neighbor puts up holy obstacles
to the golden rule of loving one’s neighbor as self;
and everyone’s shit, pee, garbage litters another’s sacred thresholds.
Your ministers in starched white attire
are ever stoking up the universal corrosive fires,
the stray dog populace increases daily and licks assholes and wounds.
Your middle-class is building with straw
upon the skullduggery of real-estate dons, servile souls
and liars meet in cushy offices to conspire silently against the poor.
The green forests and tribes are offal for Kali,
the million lakes are evaporated, the rock-beds thirst, songbirds
are disappearing into grey mist and the blue mountains are broken-faced.
Taller, bigger, better, faster, uber, super duper,
let the Jagganath-chariot wheels in strange gods’ names roll
to pulverize, pickle, mangle the hapless succourless millions underneath.
Pathalam and Yama are singing praises
of all the principalities and powers, the entrenched malaises
that turn people into pigs in a dung-pit or dogs that selfishly hide their dirty bones.
My dearest highly exalted Bharat Mata,
these days I indifferently, detachedly watch your sewer life flow
as deformed, empty promises and accursed menstrual trickles into the ocean Samsara.
When He stands on the mountain
to stare out over stray kittens,
He sees there His Self, scattered.
From a fearsome mouth proceeds
live-tales, sparks, manna-corns,
but still they are hungry for more.
These embers do not a fire make,
He knows, flickering, ill-lit wisps;
can one not forge flame-tongues?
Five barley loaves and two fishes,
twelve men and strange hopes,
women giving of their substance.
How was He to fulfill these many
sweet mews seared by new light,
set them adrift to dream futures?
“Gather the fragments, the remains
of that day, bind the words, verses
in cords that blaze; see, none is lost.”
Only one who is crushed by the high mountain
falling on his head struggles to forgive Nature.
Forgiveness is not exactly the word, it must be
something else, like the speech Jesus invented.
It might come as “Take up your bed and walk”,
or it could be spit and mud bathing dead eyes.
Forgiveness always disintegrates weighty laws,
the holy Shabbat freed from religious curs(e).
Who is this who forgives? He who lost himself
in a crowd is found by Him, searching for Self.
He is a punch in the solar plexus, slap in the face,
a fist of acceptance, palm of compassion, Action.
Compelling, this crushing; one is broken to receive
shoulders to lift mountains, white cherubim wings.
i have tasted your kisses they taste of mud
you have left me a goat tied to a door post
the jargon of love you whisper is dog-vomit
i push you up against the wall my fuck-bitch
you scar my back scratches mark territories
blake and alcohol and acid or hashish enrich
when i penetrate you i can understate truth
with each thrust i remember what it is to kill
be dalit woman communist muslims children
but the day’s coming when the guns will turn
upon the rich ruler-pimps christians generals
the camels will remain to douse burning suns
you think making love is about tender loving
it’s about cutting down green trees in spring
leaving a hole that bites devours everything
the PhDs have made knowledge unworthy
of knowing and poetry the wine of masses
and thus i learnt the taste of muddy kisses
A rose by any other name
bent out of shape is scent
of poetry; all’s well that is
ambiguous and dexterous;
the old staid explanations
are farts that fill becalmed
seas; the heart’s not fonder
of what it knows, familiarity
is deathly; or all that is seen
must be turned about-face
if the truth of many matters
is to be hidden well; extract
spells that twist, turn, shout
out alchemy; Boojum snout.
Some of us are celebrating
of each other and everyone.
Whatever, how I’ve entered
and you have gripped me
mar our tongues, inter-mix.
Saliva exchanged by lovers
feasts on an intelligence
enriched only by absences.
Meet stark naked as opposites,
you and I can eat, abandon
intimate portions, ink embraces.
We taste and then we release
scents that are foreign, yet
flower as resistances to death.
Now spent, lying apart, one leg
over a thigh, forests wet,
the stars are snuffed out, blind.
Still, in the seeking, our limbs
asleep ask for interpretations.
somehow in the dimness of my cold sight
i’ve woven trails an untrustworthy snake
with relentless eye shining gleaming head
and life has been my forest to slide through
low green grass or moss wet with her dew
between roots in strange-scented shadows;
feel my golden-black skin, cold to all touch
feel the inner muscles now coiled to stroke
or strike, enter her pitcher trough fissures
or break into her eggs, an intense roaring
that though silent with ullulations shrill in
between shellac hips, the breathless night.
Even if you confess your sins
and know you’re driftwood;
you ask for just a hen’s egg
to ease your deadly hunger;
what do you get? a stone
and words that are empty;
beg for the measly crumbs,
you’ll be bitten by a snake;
getting the opposite of what
one hopes for gives wisdom
beyond that of god or devil
the wisdom of being human.
an argument is a pointing finger
a gun with the safety catch off
a thorn to impregnate soft cunt
a voice: “You’re IT, best like IT
or not, get down on yer knees”
every argument is white-faced
weaving of an irrefutable logic
pretext to burn witches wogs
sift black from yellow or brown
dogs barking to cage blue sky
an argument takes flight as god
tyrant who subjugates or wars
leaves behind widows, orphans
crushes disobedience, difference
or dissent, forces a homogeneity
an argument is also imaginings
lies as truth or history of turds;
it’s the last resort of scoundrels
coating tongues that fork-flicker
a monologue that favors murder.
i ask: who is this woman
whose face, pale veiled
she will not un-curtain
it even when i’m inside?
i ask: who is this woman
who enjoys the slapping
so in the pain she earns
knowledge, sex violent?
i ask: what is her beginning
of desire, scorpion of want
that enters her sacredness
with sting, gives her wing?
i ask: what are the stripes
she wears as kohl, mouth
open in those moans that
are searings; softly trust?
i ask: who is this sex-saint
who despises the feminist,
smothers a striking palm
in orgasm-smeared calm?
i ask: who is this woman
behind this rare curtain
allowing us the mystery
of two that become one?
THE LAST MILE
O my chillun I’m a single thrush
sitting on the chill parapet still
sullied and bullied because all
are none and see not solitude
We sit here, mice in our hands
likelikelike like like likelikelike
licklicklick click click licklicklick
the backs of pleading stamps
let’s meet as tongues-in-screens
sing sing sing sing sing sing sing
sing aloud praises to all queens
and kings, pat-a-back pat-a-back
do not unfriend do not urinate
do not spit do not shit on dry
flowers do not laugh or kindle
the charcoals, be not enflamed
here we sit lonely thrush mice
likelikelike like like likelikelick
clickclickclick click clickclickclick
friend fiend friend fiend friend
just practising content and form
before it gets famous, let it end.
THE HAND’S BREADTH
A hand’s breadth is where once
there was none, between you
and I, this short, abridged space
where dances incandescent love
that woos to woefully afflict,
breaks bones and wounds eye
fruit of a chastening that fails,
lending to distance, safety
measured in a hand’s breadth;
the vessel of love once raised up
drops, tossed into shark-seas,
or dented suns of my yesteryears
awash in a light beyond all use,
sinking, my being is rejected,
floating downstream, escaping
the crushing hand of invitation
flourishing its rain of blows,
filling soul with bloody waters
can this vessel of dishonour gladly
leap into binding omniscient arms?
no, i will now keep a wise distance
perfect measure of a hand’s breadth
just outside cycles of punishment
carving gift of Faith into rod of Fate.
A WAY OF DYING
I’ll tell you why I do not join
the groups where they caw
as crows, in covens or ovens
I am not a poet
I’ll tell you why I can not fin
through the narrow shoals,
I like fish netted, deep-fried,
I am not a poet
I’ll tell you why being other
than what everyone wants
is being a sting-struck flower
I am not a poet
I’ll tell you why I cannot lie
so well, or say every poem
is really beautiful or a rarity
I am not a poet
I’ll tell you why I cannot love
amateur squiggles, dry twigs,
I bury them, I don’t reprove
I am not a poet
I’ll tell you why all the trying
to buy an image or to rhyme
is but a deadly way of dying
I am not.
In that night that seemed lampless
with only the shushing of waves
around and underneath, sky rolling;
In that next dawn, muscles aching,
a boat with nothing inside, a shell
on the shore, sands that stay still,
he looks back at the spittle, froth,
he thinks the next wave’ll come,
it already has, it gently passes over
sun-shore and there is none waiting,
no fire to warm, no fish for grilling,
a fisherman waiting, shark at dawn.
The moment you see my eyes
I am come a sword to destroy
that moral tone, superior voice
what you believe, better cling
to what ghosts you’re used to
out of my navel goes my angel
comes bringing sinking feeling
better not read this and that
it crawls up the hole of crotch
it will fester in your soul, glad
that you cannot pluck it out
in the end you’ll seek to erase
all the pieces of ear-confusion
spikes I nail into empty heads.
(C) Ampat Varghese Varghese 2012
Did I lose anyone the other day?
Will I lose something across the dawn?
Loss is less. Now.
What did left behind mean at all?
What ought the forever to mean at all?
Loss is less. Now.
Fools lament the blue bruises of yesteryear.
The blind gaze into the red cauldron of next year.
Loss is less. Now.
Some say they were full wineskins in the back of beyond.
Some say the abandoning angels are just round the corner.
Loss is less. Now.
The skies were once clear and clouded by turn.
The earth births and slays each one at will.
Loss is less. Now.
The unhappy lock up their bronze memory chests.
The unhappy think of tinkering with new trinkets.
Loss is less. Now.
A friend may appear with the stripes of an enemy.
The woolly lamb may lie down with mangy lion.
Loss is less. Now.
Know that ether endures in every bubbling moment.
Know that breathing is the key to a fuller emptiness.
Loss is less. Now.
What your heart held was useless pumping fluids.
What you sought to buy was a white sheet or body bag.
All loss is less. Now.
i’m wasting time like dripping rain
outside my window waiting to be
caressed by words awaiting a sip
of milk of comfort at swollen tits
there’s no milk? i’m satisfied still
with tea or acknowledging smile
for outside in a tree hangs a star
that prefers to die of loneliness
her light hangs dull on the gleam
of leaves bowed as a requiem
to the man sitting by a window
watching a star fold her wings
Each evening I pass by the living cemetery,
it’s holy in its silence, very catholic,
and a setting sun daily blesses it with an orange funeral glee.
The whitewashed walls burn soft-skinned, cheerful,
No red Indian spit or yellow pee or shit upon or beside them.
There is a sign: “Jesus said: ‘I am, of life, the bread’!”
The words echo over rows and rows of unmoving joyous dead.
Lo, I am the coal-black Bull of God, testicles swollen with the blue flames that weld the stardust into planets;
I am the sturdy Bull of God, my iron penis ploughs the Golden Cow and starlight milk streams to distant moons,
I am the war-shod Bull of God, my metal hooves spark dissent and divisions in the galaxies and skies,
I am the fire-spray Bull of God, I evaporate princelings and kings, lords and gods bow down and low lie;
I am the full-humped Bull of God, I fill the universe with bellows and snorting, timid clouds part for my meteoric passing;
I am the muscled Bull of God, Shiva rides me and Shakti opens her legs wide to take in my burning brands of detached love;
I am the untethered Bull of God Mithras sought to slay, I led him on wings of illusion upon celestial pathways, I die not;
I am the proud Bull of God, mountains and pastures hang upon my broad shoulders, my sweat flows as rivers of delight;
I am the horned Bull of God, the dear and glorious physician took me out of Egypt from a sarcophagus as emblem of Ptah;
I am the sacrificial Bull of God, sharp-edged lightning-machetes disembowel me and piece me, I fall and rest as stone on folded knees;
I am the generous Bull of God, my spurting blood births flora and fauna, food of humanity, all is well in my abundant pasturelands.
To fill your wanting pores with love-wax was
a vision, to catch your ragged breaths drying
in the wind, flapping tattered butterfly wings;
my passion’s horse canters on; love pauses at
different wells on journeys beginning in eyes
that slowly grey over and the tears fall slowly
over the ridge of eyelids, unseeing, pearly flow
rolling away painted stones behind dead irises,
scratches in the flesh that’re lines of burnt ash.
Why do I seek to daily live, properly?
To keep the hungry wolves of poverty away
From the hearts of those I love wonderingly, dearly
To earn that just in time, just enough package, salary
Earned from the useless garden-accursed sweat of fiery brow
To sustain with full, hollowed hands the loving family
That they might not touch or taste or know unrest or lows
To shield and guard them from all envious gods or devils
Locked in their sinister wager over human destinies, bestowing ills
To labour and fight for the passing transparent happiness of many others
Crucifying with metal hammer and long steel nails my own expansive liberties
Knowing there can be no reward or gift-mercy for one who has stolen the fire
and brought it to earth, no place in hell and no rest on the incessant heavenly way.
This I do to live daily, properly.
each word is equal in the balance:
it’s only bias that tilts it this way
or that is how this universe spins
one comes another goes it snows
it thaws the leopard sheds spots
the snake’s tongue becomes one
those who see with natural eyes
can never see the reflected star
in a navel or how a lotus flowers
each word is grain of sand, sugar
that melts with the tasting of it,
turning slowly to salt in my tears
a bone in the sepulchral throat
a song that is but a distraction
a tongue to be shredded soon
it’s wise not to ask for anything
anyone ideologies beliefs a tribe
a nation see all of it as deceased
before the bell tolls and you are
no more or nothing or no one
except a name a word no-being
or being a palm-leaf manuscript
on which are written star-tales
each word is equal in the scales.
Found an ‘other’ brown-butt Asiatic
traveling to the colder hemisphere
sucking on the globalised snow cock
reading only what does not disturb
the Bible, the Euro-centric classics
or some Asiatics famous in London
angry over deaths on the TV screen
in far-away, cedar-wood Sufi climes
force-fed WASP Ku Klux Klan flames;
what one can not see is a comfortable
satin-red with the blood of innocents
life squeezed out like toothpaste swill
the Yin always weeps over the Yang,
a way of living inclusive of life-death,
Halleujah bombers, en route to Iran
after Libya is laid waste, so too Syria,
as the Crescent is painted bad omen,
the Cross is the sword into earth-soul
Star of David in the Cross of the West
combines and mutates to deathshead;
all dissension will by fire be ever flayed.
blue streaks set her hair aglow, a near-naked
blue man comes closer to her in the eve-light
tousling blue hair with lucid fingers that fall
off the edges of his palms burning like silver
syringes; a forgotten passion is lighting up
crevices he holds, elephants go by unmindful
of the sky and water of mind drip drips inside
his body; soft dusk rises, a thimbleful of light
in the shuffling blue of night, now returning;
but the road is covered by a blanket and old
paths are erased since no traces of lost time
or deep bottles have ever preserved lovers;
every movement searches a black wind, not
here or there and, thus, everywhere it isn’t
his way; locked down in its blue emptiness
a blue owl hoots a warning: Sloop! Sloop!
A trance, follow. Leave no footsteps, blue.
(collaborative poem with Anoosha Gopinath)
LADDER OF LOVE
Every stupid soul scrabbling, seeking purity,
tries every which way to be hobbled-hoy free;
why blame them for sattvic or other methodology?
Some gabble that the shortcut is gentle Jesus,
so why are they entangled with the Tentacleopus,
or tribals whose way is of worshipping the Platypus?
The way to be free is to cut the invisible ropes
that leave the being plugged into wet electric earth,
30000 gopis, the nadis dancing as breezes in erogenous bodies.
If alive, you’ll feel 33 million gods and goddesses
as twitches and threatening and unsought-for intuiting,
a dance up and down the ladder of love, my 3-channeled spine.
At each chakra sings the sacred colour of the moment,
I am Muladhara, red as an engorged cockerel, lingering deep
in yoni pools, and turn wheels in vermillion secret febrile fountains.
When the hood is peeled back, there explodes the yellow tip
of burning Shakti and I am eaten, consumed by hot unlocked thighs,
my hips rise and I am Anahata – agape, eros and bhakti – coital mantra.
With my eyes closed, I can speak in primal voice, moans
and gasps that burst as silver crescent slices in a pale blue sky,
the indigo eye opens upon her breasts; I am awake, she has swooned.
What shall I do with you, O Sophia, multi-limbed, fragrant
white light lotus blooming beyond my skin that lingers in your sweat,
my sandal paste, I’m laughing; my coal-hard burns as one in your petals.
SPERM OF DEATH
such a change is coming,
3 big, black mushrooms
are opening up sky-cunt
spurting sperm of death
turning light to shadow,
skeletons on drear walls,
ghosts excreting clouds
that are whitened faces;
these masks are not now
but then, they will again
be the bringers of storm
to end angelic laughings;
these demons come from
snow, and scatter frost
and ice on all the happy
flowers, the primal hosts;
their masturbatory fires
are like salt sprinkled on
open wounds and buds,
they erase even stones;
what a change is coming,
3 big, black mushrooms
are opening up sky-cunt
spurting sperm of death.
poverty of spirit
poverty of soul
poverty no merit
because i desire
a post-dinner ciggie,
filling the mornings
like red birds trilling,
cracks a joke
only you understand,
talking to wife
love in corners,
who ate my meals
and bit my heels,
a dead soul,
poverty of spirit.
I’m growing old, hair is greying
now, I see under beauty’s skin.
The nostrils that flared in wonder
are now wrinkled, and collapsing.
The eyes that blazed with anger
are sliding shut in sad emptying.
The lips that quivered upon lips
are quavering lines, ashen tips.
The breasts suckled are sagging,
I slide no longer between peaks.
And the shapely calves or ankles
can’ t raise up for easy entering.
The wide hips no longer call out,
inciting wombs to be child-filled.
The body lies supine on stomach,
breath stilling, buttocks flopping.
Now, I know the body is not “I’,
now, I see this body isn’t mine.
I only use the limbs and senses
to climb my ladders of pleasure.
At the top of the rungs, outside
the body, an unknown journey.
Yet, while heart and lungs swell,
and I’m in bodies inscribed well,
swing the sexual blade I bring,
divine sword against all dying.
DOS AND DONTS
Do not waste poetry on virgins,
instead spend it in dark alleys,
pour it, molten wax into cracks
in walls, in haptic, tight tunnels.
Do not spin erotic haikus either
for middle-aged women whose
lust has been lost under saris,
all vibrations must be stanched.
Do not, at any cost, detonate
images of erogenous zones
in the minds of mimsy pujaris,
lingas or yonis are unwelcome.
Find a jungle full of hot tigresses
gambling in heat, teeth on skin
and tongues down each other’s
throats; there, drink wine, sing!
Monday, 13 February 2012
“It’s very easy to be a poet.”
these days, with the rising
of transparent twin-moons
blessed sisters Monomania
and Graphomania, hungry,
night-ogresses who screech
donning necklaces of rotten
verse, dangling skulls from
sagging milkless, infant-free
breasts, these sisters dance
the unending, excretal song,
“It’s very easy to be a poet.”
LYING TO SELF
falsehood is the plastic rose
the empty poet waves
pretending it has fragrance
falsehood is a concrete dam
the empty poet builds
to bind the mercurial waves
falsehood is the distant star
the empty poet hopes
will light up uncommon skies
falsehood is the vegetables
the empty poet eats
never tasting the red meats
falsehood is the sign of peace
the empty poet carves
upon an unfrowning forehead
falsehood is the graven image
the empty poet makes
of Jesus and the imagination
falsehood is a forgotten grave
the empty poet enters
where never the Lord was laid.
A New Woman, strap-on cock
struts a bold, barren quim
oftimes shaven, trimmed,
or shaped according to whim;
A slavering bitch exchanges
patriarchal chains for whip
or leather and willing butt
of perverted strangeloves;
For all her crackling of tongue
or fevered orgasmic screams,
she longs, by nipples to hang,
but, still, of Husband dreams.
I am listening to your silver payals
tingling up these mountain paths:
“See, my feet are red and bruised,
come down, Lord, carry me up!”
“Do you dare, dear dancing Radha,
to disturb my closed-eye dreams?
Do you dare, voluptuous maiden,
to penetrate un-pierced drums?”
“I’ve come to laugh and waken,
serpent coils round your neck;
I’ve come to gently linger, lift my
flaming skirt up , burn my bower.”
Tantra sits on invisible mountain
peaks, feet enfolded in the lotus;
Tantra waits and lets all build up,
lava boiling and thunders rolling.
“What you found in old Vrindavan
isn’t what you’ll find in dark locks;
Little Radha, cast off your anklets,
return home to effeminate lovers.
Here there is no flute, no blueness,
it’s cold and grey, a strange clime;
Here a serpent and a death’s head
sway to the beat a damaru thrums.
O Radha, climb not up this mountain,
your shakti is faint as soured wine;
but if you lust after purple domains,
leave Krishna’s weaknesses behind!”
Desiring Shiva, woman, is sure death.
Eleven bars of grey
window, a dried up
plate, waning silenced smile.
The window, the widow
of night, this glass harp
of mine is out of tune.
Peek in, curious moon,
disrobe me, come, light
up your star-burnt eye.
A black-maned lion roars alone
striding the naked savannah,
sonic light for flickering stars.
They’ve heard him in Judah,
the ones bereft of praise,
those whimpering cousins
Your celestial eyes
of light, streamed
from kind fingers
to lips, you spoke
dried drunk tears;
remember a hush,
no pious kneeling
at that high altar,
and Jesus watched
those empty pews;
Bruckner was gone,
the stately pipes
but soared up to
the stained glass
in colored waves,
our sidereal altar
housing the Mary,
help of the needy,
i touched in you
a womb of love,
thus without arms,
within Her breast,
you held me with
a light entered into
Linz alter dom that
ravaged this grave.
in a bowl
a new soul
size is equal to
daily, said Paul;
that I unto all
life of mine may dy,
before thou diest,
to all nama-rupa,
middle and end
as one, encircle
the sky of being
flight-lines of crows caw
carp in fuzzy nests
worries sing new grooves
fish rise up for supper
reflections of a hand
crumbling gold in air
the woman in the mirror
washes her ugly face
the lover in wan distance
drinks water out of stone
desire’s flame cutting
the woman in the mist
hopes are nagging pinworms
tilling fertile soil
drought lies there
And what then is a Christian for he who calls himself one is no one
The Tree springs up from ineffable roots in the Void
We utter Babel-words “In the beginning, G-d”
There is war in heaven and earth too is Vo-d
The Devil is without a gap or hyphen, complete, defined
with no possibility or potential but to run the fixed tracks
of the planets and loose the stars cast down adrift in air
stratosphere and atmosphere, gas amorphous solidifying
The earth replenishes rejuvenates as moss animals reptiles insects
conjectures and conceptions that wheel about like twittering birds
A hybrid image of spirit encased in flesh appears tripartite, lateral,
three wills in the crucible, great churning in the great Ocean of Milk
Now he who stirs comes with wrath to lay waste to forests of humankind,
palms filled with the Fruit of the Knowledge of the Tree of Good and Evil
rising up as high-towered cities, alleys of piss, sky-machines, dissected babies
Homeopathy is also at work here, do you see through the butter and mirror?
Waste conquered by Waste
Death defeated by Death
Suffering eased in more Suffering
Ego above tangoing Ego below
Yet, still, the unanswered in the Cyclical, cursed Paradox
Whom am I or Who are You
What then this enigma, Christian?
Mayhap it is the Tree of Life bearing the scars of twin axes,
Giving up the body to the Devil or the unknown G-d of War,
Both blows shake the Tree, the leaves fritter away,
Flowers dismay, petals are stripped, forced astray
We stand bare of branches, how we stand spider-legged,
spread splayed naked clawing for space in a bleak red dawn
But even the branches are broken off to feed G-d fire,
Two beams remain, X-ed, twisted trunk and corkscrew arms,
A blast burns as black light, darker rains fall, the belly of Hades heaves
On this Tree is etched the features of a Thing of Beauty Joy Forever
but it is No Form, only the Marred, secrets not sought or desired
Is this a time for the Wound of Time, the gash of a Woman, to be staunched?
Can one give and receive beyond the beatings, the Blood, the Bread?
Enmity and divide, slash and burn, metamorphosis makes a Tree a creature
He walks, he sighs, his roots move within and with him
He breathes in all toxins and spews out oxygen
He spits and the mud mutates into medicine
He listens to the Mother and the water becomes wine
He sends forth fragrance of roses and lilies from his sweat pores
From his genitals he waters the virgins the whores the barren the widows
From his anus he expels all the uncleanness that makes earth weep
From his mouth he sends forth hot kisses of peace
From his nostrils flow the wings of the Paraclete
and his throat is blue from quenching the worms of hatred
From his navel flows honey that evaporates and falls sweet dew of dawn
In his forehead the hidden Name, the diadem of the Kings of Cipher
See how the lowliest of the earth stand before the White Throne
the leprous ones with their broken skin and flesh, from broken masks,
from the cracks in their skulls, streams the unapproachable Light,
from their eyes fall out the diamonds that reflect unmined colours
And what then is a Christian for he who calls himself one is no one
Lord, when you robed me in sackcloth and said “You are sin”,
I quickly agreed and nodded my weary head: “I am the least.”
When you slapped me on my right cheek of rebellion,
I turned my left too, I sought the finger-scores, my pride.
When you struck yet harder to break the jaw of the ass
I bowed yet lower, my knees are broken, I crumple to the ground.
I accept the crushing, the foot on my head pushing me down
under to Pathalam, because even there, you never let me be.
You allowed locusts to eat away the grain of my labour
and the black scorpions sting me with flailing tail and tongues.
Then the serpents came to bite my heel and confused
with hissing in my ears dark blasphemies, I remember mercies.
And I dream and my empty sockets stare towards your comfort,
the Ladder I ascend and descend, and the gentle Dove that alighted
upon the Man of Sorrows sits upon my shoulder and coos me to sleep.
Those prayers are always on their lips like lipstick
so all can hear and know they pray
My prayers call out from the coiling depths of my nightmares
Those prayers are anaesthesia so they can dive deep to escape
My prayers refuse the wine and choose the vinegar of clarity
Those prayers are fulfilled and all they desire is granted at once
and they sing with all their limbs askew
My prayers are cries that slowly turn to screams inside a body-prison
Those prayers lift them so high and mighty that insignificant
human realities be even smaller or as dank smoke
My prayers hurtle me into depths where I live your forsakeness
Those prayers are songs of the rich and full in the belly of the well-fed
My prayers are the wailing of the barren, the widow, the leper-orphan
Therefore, forget me not when you come into your kingdom,
O Man of Sorrows, for I will keep silent watch with you when all leave.
whose absence is verily presence
though he breaks you on the rack of sadness
when he shatters the strongest inner bones
when he gifts you asses in an unclean wilderness
though he sends Satan to imprison and torment
who always sees your eternally etched faults
when he drowns you a kitten in seas of darkness
if with fire he scarifies inscribes tattoos and wounds
when he scatters all your hopes upon ill winds
when he instigates his people to mark you outcast
though he sends toothed worms to gnaw the flesh
when your lot is pain and defeat and thunder of turmoil
if he sends evil spirits to silence voices of innocence
and send him bouquets of peace and forgiveness
for he is lonely in the highest of the seven heavens
for in his hurting eyes we are all sheep gone astray
for it is a god’s privilege to be harsh and very cruel
for he uses an alien language we cannot translate
for it is our lot to to accept punishment as goodness
And since the Holy One by nature deigns to be separate
Let humans build a bridge from sylvan earth to golden heaven
Let us bring god sprigs of joy and glad hosannas to set him free
Let us help him forget his anger and sorrow and disappointment
Let us comfort the maker bringing him sheep with throats slashed
In bloodiness all that belongs to the Light will glow as one glorious One
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost
as it was in the Beginning, is Now and Ever shall be World Without End
UP FROM HADES
Tell of the true Brahmin,
He descends to Hades;
Yama is afraid to espy
Him who seeks escape,
slave of change, decay.
Three nights He waits at
Yama’s dim threshold
bereft of grains of food;
When Yama returns, He
the script has changed.
The Fire-God is silent;
Yama whispers “Stay.”
3 nights are nought
to Him who sought
a fast for forty days.
“3 boons, O Brahmin,
I’ve power to yield,
so you may forgive
all the intransigent,
I pray you, receive!”
“Then let my Father
allow Prodigal Sons
return, let no wrath
still sour or impede
a wanderer-wraith. “
“It will be so, my word
I keep, though so hard
it be to grant the boon,
rare it is for unsullied
souls to swim the Styx.”
“It’s fearless in Heaven,
you’re also not there,
no dread of agedness,
thirst, sadness, show
me homa of happiness!”
“Agni-vidya, I teach you
forged in abyss of Hell,
thus He who gives up
self for others delivers
and has His tale to tell.
Arrange now, O Friend,
as living blazing stones,
the instrument hidden
in this Cave of Buddhi,
use it thrice, ascend!”
“Now give me the key
to the Mystery, why
one is born and dies,
whence breath came,
whence ever it goes.”
“Know not such secrets,
they confuse the gods,
ask me super-siddhis,
long life or kingdoms,
“You offer many deaths
instead of one, O Yama,
I won’t be fooled, now
grant my boon or you
too will be a slain liar.”
“Sreyas and Preyas are
two miniscule ranges
and the Atma sits still,
Atma runs allwheres,
stability in instability;
Atma fires up the true
forms for a seer-poet
and for Her all is food ,
Buddhi, the wise rider
on Samsara, the road;
Beyond the sensuality,
the Unmanifest, then
O Snake, to enlighten,
Alpha, Omega, Arisen!
Atma is ever here, it is
whatever is there too,
the size of Tom Thumb,
an embryo in a woman,
a flame without smoke.
Prana, Apaana, Gotama,
beat around the Bush
is what my people do,
so they’re sold to me,
I embrace their souls.
No Sun there, no Moon
No lightning, fear-fire,
only Tat hidden Centre
it all depends on Tat.
A 101 nerves attached
To the heart, one runs
Upwards, find it now,
by it be released, go,
show this Gospel to all.”
Ascending by the single,
slender, sacred thread,
the lowly Brahmin now
arises to cut a 100 lies,
threads hang to dust.
I am singing daily
of the slowly dying motions
of one who’s already joyous dead
I am singing gaily
of the rotten flickering light
that unwraps itself inside my head
I am singing rowing
upon the sickly people-tide
the ghosts who come whisper beside
I am singing softly
of the valley of bones deep
where in lichen-grave to sleep I lie.
the ancient hard Rock
the ocean from before
the only beginning
tossing and dissolving
stars forging a Hunter
lit-up hearts dead fire
the maiden of memory
the pain, the stanching
the serpent of wisdom
hung on a tree to dry
waiting and watching
blinding sun burn sky
the parchment of life
pen poised, un-inked
the lines of the Reptile
etchings, desert dunes
the song in the throat
arid, torrid, alas,
a tongue torn out, red
by Avy Varghese on Wednesday, 25 January 2012
i am done
RACE TO SAFETY
O my small soul,
run, little mouse
to a safe house
huddle in darkness
its soft fur cuddle
O my littlest soul
here you are safe
far from the skin
that is like glass
the cutting knives
far from those eyes
that swallow stars
be afar, just be afar
far from that mouth
abyss, spit you out
hope, vitamin C sour
far from those limbs
that will entangle
on dead ways, stray
far from the smells
of a stagnant well
let a drought come
O, my stupid soul,
be silent, mouse
in the safe house
far from the human
rat race, find space
to rest, fill no place.
When they write of
creating dead seas
a Speaking Serpent
fruit that overturns
White Beard’s rules
an angry green-eyed
god, and other lords
Moses and a magic rod
bringing blood or toad,
slaughter of innnocents
Aaron’s budding rod,
Ur, Beelzebub, Dagon,
Elijah and his wagon
titans and anti-heroes
wise ass-head talking
a walk on cool waters
a dove drifting down
Pagans or the Elect
when it’s all finally
bound as a Book
of Mysteries, how
they dub it Scripture.
If I wrote anything
like those or these,
can damn it – myth
I say, fuck them all,
I am Prescient
I always can
tell how 1+1
I learnt the science
by reading well
that cannot spell.
I know beforehand
It’s long practice
and closed eyes,
I split the shell,
part fire and ice.
I live, deranged
in my small hut,
here I can smell
out ifs and buts.
You’ll fool others,
I’ll see through
Before you leave,
I’ll quit quietly,
that I am free.
I am prescient,
I always can
tell when 1+1
The blackest shell is closing in over me
this fading moon, sickle, a Stygian sea.
come, darkness, crop of darkness reap
less and less, I see, I talk, less and less
Dreams pass by, birthing dirty clouds,
a face scarred, cold-lit from above
my grey silence is ever gagging me
nothing to say to wind, sea or tree
smile, friend, each tortured moment
mauled by time, reaches an ugly end
from minarets tall, the mullahs call
“Get the warning out, get out!”
The dead moons broadcast shouts.
Do I have ears, in a behemoth shell?
Do I hear songs, strike a broken bell?
The bleakest shell is closing in over me
this fading moon, sickle, a Stygian sea.
where did you come from? why did we lie down
on the pavement? the grey stones a feather bed,
an unknown friend is trying hard to fix the ends
of blue tarpaulin over our heads while a corner
keeps slipping down, nothing to fasten it to or by
and people hurry around or step over our bodies
immersed in a flurry of red kisses or a breathing
of flowers mingling on hungry tongues, and i said:
must we live forever on this pavement?
kissing on the pavement turned the sun’s cheeks red
so we rushed home but my brick house had collapsed
with red kisses, empty sky was all we had for comfort
and our sticky underwear thrown into an airless night.
the only thing to do now is to travel, she nodded;
we stopped at a big chapel to take off our shoes,
while she sat next to me a nun in the pew ahead
took my left palm in hers and stroked it tenderly.
when we came out there was a lonely bright sun,
and across the wall of the church, the cemetery
burning an old man’s body laid on a golden pyre
and beside it a laughing child immolating himself.
i held her hand in mine and we went on searching
by foot, returning to a place I’d loved but had to
leave far behind and when I reached, there were
none to greet me, only the songs of many ghosts.
sink into the feeling of deep-sea desolation,
i look around for you but all i have left now
is the memory of red kisses and tossing hair
so do not allow people
to inhabit you
as flowers and thorns
the open mind invites
fangs and pricks
let winds in, enter in
but do not allow people
to inhabit you
let words seep in or out
always be empty clouds
the fluff of dreams
seen but never attained
empty it out the human
vessel; break, pot!
bands of flesh, dissolve
do not allow people ever
to inhabit you
let free everyone forever
always be water flowing
under all bridges
water snakes into holes
knowing and writing
two birds in a tree
the tree of death
a trunk grows wide
the branches arise
the root of desires
leaves are laughing
fruits are chirping
the music of urns
colored birds arrive
flutters the foliage
give me a sharp axe
to lay to dead wood
treeless ecstacy be
you can tell
ways to hell
try to bell
of the cat