Monochrome Ariel

Mare Zebras in floral rain-coats 

flood past Sir Ladyfinger’s ship.
I had never seen so many stripes

Hunkering past the local skirt-shop.

And so my shoes garbled out few vowels to

The ocean-bed,

Hot with pregnancy

Of neither pink nor blue.
 In life

I chewed on sea-apples and grew up an Eve.

Started tying serpents on my neck for boardroom-meetings.

Lended my fingernails

 to a knight upon a sea-horse–

off to the colour-bind land

I went

to wear frolicking babies; 

one on the basin

The other on the stove.


Until a mismatched rainbow hatched the monochrome ground

From where I broke


To birth myself again


In collage. 

In Time

The moment I was clothed in sheep-wool

And put out to bah with crowded language,

I strayed, I strayed

I dug the graves the vultures had ploughed

And made a song to amuse

The charade called joker-faced destiny


Marx said you are too good

In markets to run, all the stable boy parades

We ran, we ran

Inspecting the pulps found in the tomato cans

So exotic and bloody, if that be true

We thought we had seen the very last of you.


It is a love letter to a reluctant lover

I pray, I pray

Listening through the metallic walls

Into absence

Of history, time and space.

The mangrove older and taller than us all, 

Has never and will never say.

Cotard’s syndrome

The very breath I take

Thins my blood

Into delivering an existence

To the brain

Which does not exist

And so the mirror-image

Shall cease

Because bricolages are no keys

I refuse, I rot, I stop thinking,

Heads turn into tails

And the chair next to my bookshelf

Sighs at last

Calling me to the land of stationary

Where egos go back to their eggs

And I am once again,

More than a language trick. 

Slumber in the woods

Sometimes in life, you peek into a forest
And find out about the absence

Of manicured conversations, against

A sense of rudimentary—primordial

 And speechless nature

Of woods, paralytic in their growth

Of savage shrubs and all aloof,

Off the trail

An orchid under a frozen lake.

I step-step

It thaws and derives me

From my parched roots—

I am growing away from the blood-raided corporate altars,

Changing the way I think

When a lily drops upon my navel—

 in her modest sorrow,

She takes away my hunger,

Of people and poetry.


Into a pitch-black pool without my spectacles, I fall

I rest

I sleep. 

The Golden Age

The Art of holding space by Nancy Bright


The wombs have high-powered juke-boxes

Where celestial music plays at night

For babies who are not babies yet

In a bleeding time—a slit wound

Within the folds of null

 until time itself shall began

For these sleepless creatures snorkelling past the sea,

In blind.


The mothers keep a stable of sheep

For these creatures without radium watches

Or a train schedule,

And as her own clock approaches the time

She tugs at the anchor and tell them to row

Because rivers often look like seas

And damp caves are no home.


They kick with meticulous gestures

Fancying the river which the mother has denied,

Ignorance and agony, writhing 

she cries

And so flushed

Are babies, indignant 

Into the land of exile.


Photo series by Gabriele Viertal

My nose is a Spanish bull

It takes about two dozen full-breaths

To growl upon the painted signs

Against windows that are not supposed to be windows,

Neither, anything else.


I look away.

My fever is the beat of

Two notching drumsticks.

A cracker. Outflanked. A red fish.

Do you see your heart slapped out often?

Sometimes I feel them,

These sea animals of the red waters

Trapped inside a—

Bottomless tank,



He slit my throat.


Scarlet mixed with some southern blue

Trickle down upon my neck of a

Never-ending wound.

I see you

Making me leave me

Into you


A phantasm

Of existing

In an un-manifested non-material space

Of an absent presence

Like the sky above the mountains

That comes to me in dilated scents;

With distance,

I’ve learned conjuring.


It is a dark art to enjoy a gash

Of uncertainty

And wear it like a necklace,

Tell me,

If that is poetry?

Sphinx’s tale of evenings 

On a bench sodden with invasion of ice

Back from the evening street’s burlesque gait, 

I step-step with a dog 

and my cup of tea drools upon the air, 

smoking light whiskers of cinnamon in its ascent. 

People like to nibble upon beautiful things, 

they munch upon red rice-cakes that drop down after sunset,

To sediment in their drunk eyes 

What is it about the evenings that conjure up bar inns in vicinity? 

Like a sleight of hand , 

the man,

 digs deep in his shoes

 and begins to grow upon a pubescent liquor counter.

 Lights begin to take his youth over

Ultra blues that dissolve the lemon pinks 

into a downward spiral of vomiting

Need a girl to hold your midnight hair

 Around the damp floral patterns of the old man’s least cliche bedroom 

‘How beautiful’ 

Is death. 

The ice cuts my tongue.

 So does tea.

The dog-eared evening is licked close.