anxiety

Groundwork 


There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               

                              

      
I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

              
                
Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 

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Desert snakes

image

Let it not rattle like a cup
Slipping out on your
Tabby cat
No longer smiling;
Such is the crowd of madness

I sit in a room full of porcelain,
A spider whiffs
And the whole room is awake
With people who speed past you
Like horrid torrents
Up for gold in athletics.

Say what is your worth?
I am sold solid in the squalid markets,
I reek of myself
And earthen dust
Out of which I now
unmake myself
And so, sandcastles do not rust.

Children of the mind

 

Come close
Knock
Come closer,
No more.

Do you know when they opened up the children’s park,
they had a war
with little children running in circles–
trick’o treat!
Do you know,
I have those little children
Running over my forehead
bleeding away

What a Syrian war–
trick’o treat!

I usually write slow songs
Otherwise my fingers pluck themselves away
And I’ve to look for them over the ceilings

‘Ugh you are so dramatic!’

Bang Bang I go
into the moon
my hands fly, so does my words
Vis-a-vis my temple,
where little–
monstrous children play,
deluding
the writer and his muse.