In a dream,
an unconscious town
wrapped in the dusk of a cheap motel
where lights circled like afternoon houseflies
–alientation–
this is your name.
Like an arc
of time
spread upon a bow
and with each malignant touch
the veins open
and the room rings with an effort of a Darwin
‘adapt lest you die’,
but I don’t
and I won’t
die
for I am to witness
–alienation–
Things keep happening
O what is new to foretell–
scratching his soft beard,
Tiresias slips into his twin-bed
and dreams of a shepherd
in a song of reaping,
that is,
no more to sow
no more to tie and keep;
the snakes unravel.
Fire launched
inside a capsule that was laid underground
where when potato seeds grew
in rain–
there was one
life
and it’s time-trodden objects;
poet’s words.
Must I announce
in bleak pages,
what the resting man in his pocket-grave,
once told me–
of a fool
who falls in love
and calls it liberty
He told me of closed hearts
condensing into closed spaces
where minds trebled
and the melody,
siren-ed like a police car
passing away in the damp of
a night turned pale with cold.
I looked back at him
like a fish betrayed with dust
and thought of philosophies
of eununch-ed-heartbreaks,
sparrowed with words.
But a book grasps upon my throat now
for I have known what I had rejected–
the tyranny of my blood-forged hierarchies,
borne of those girls wrapped in timber,
smoked from the fog of waiting
–past the clock–
for the kettle of war to go off
and a return home
towards welcoming back the enslavement,
for the fullness in the braids
to rubber-hold
Then, I ricochet,
twist and turn under the sheets
in a boomerang
I return to what I have outgrown
and what’s more,
to see it while I do that.
I think of a snake,
it’s opening jaws,
I think of an unravelling,
it’s anarchic arched back,
I think of giving away to myself,
whenever there is a war
for the love can be full
when it is moon.
There is a violin in my throat
and many a times,
I am a beginner.
I try to land my sentences
like a chef mastering his babied-bread
like a batsman who could score a bounce
like a man with his palms open in a prayer
It is a prayer–my sentences–
for meaning,
and the masses hope for a miracle
whenever the poem arrives.
My life lays scattered on my bed,
the objects, the body parts,
a hand paired with a bow
a foot strangling the leg of the bed
a hollow-eyed German doll
a bastard-colored coffee mug
a pillow of some delicate virgin
the aged ash in a steel bowl
a floral rice cooker
a snooping miniature of a black cat–
In disbelief,
I (real)ize
into things.
There has been a dousing
of all the tumult
that blows our way
for all our castles overhead,
we submerged a little bit
and slept without sorrow with the may flower–
without sorrow,
O without sorrow.
Without sorrow
we were home in our chests
and the wind began to feel like water,
for this is strange;
the mind sleeps
when the body fights.
“It’s going to rain?” she said
and stood looking at the sky
from behind her door,
the door–her curtain-dress
of waiting.
