Literature

Fruit Ninja

There are two knives
and there is a battle for the Lieutenant General.

From the oblivion of Plato’s roof
a golden fruit falls down
and out come the knives
for outcome of fight
and outcome of fight
decides the seed:
the book.

In the book,
the bloodshed of the other
knife has never mattered
In the book,
the meaning is owned
from temporary (matter)s.

It is so dual
my mind becomes its weapon,
because how do you preserve linearity
with multiplicity?
Every second, the knives sharpen.



The Second guessing

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold”
– W. B. Yeats

You omit
before you write yourself
lest you become
the colossal weight of
what lies under the ocean, that be,
the weathered face of the mad king,
the woman who had jumped off the roof,
a past lover of your lover,
a past-lover.

The ocean is no man’s alone
and yet it floods us all
with it’s seismic wreck,
spinning:
it batters old and new structures alike,
it eats men alive
and leave them language.



A moment of bliss

See the source image
Engraving by Johann Ulrich Kraus c. 1690.

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,
neither to sow
nor to sell;
but the snakes soon unravel.

Lady Macbeth

Image result for dystopian surrealism

By Zdzisław Beksiński


On my hands,

what have I become
the down-browed man
that stays low around his shoulders
when there is noise at the road of life, I hear
the escaping of the nine to six time
at these bent hands
allowing themselves to be taken into another
absurdity of those
that call out for revolutions and genocides
all alike.

where are my eyes?
In finitude, I had scouted for thirsty bugs
planted a tree
and earthed my life
but today there is blood

On my hands.


Occasional Corridor

Image result for medieval surrealism monk

Varo Remedios – Les Feuilles Mortes 


There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all the words,
until they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply in love
and to be found at this gate,
it is a segue
doubly-enshrined
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.

Midas and college books


45/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


Related image

© Mary Evans Picture Library/ARTHUR RACKHAM

Tyrant stains within the spaces of my fingers;
If you will take a ship from my wrist to these,
Astrologers will sing ‘no’ in a chorus
for my market value was next to none
and the production cost alone took a small library or a two.

Turmeric thumb—
snap like the summon of a magician,
I tainted my books
With a strand of myself into immortality;
Drenched—
it rains upon the hardcover of my Murakami,
I’m buried.



The Mistress


43/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image
Art by 
Von Vera Boldt hochgeladen 



Dedicated to Sylvia Plath

A tarry pool of crows settle up near your feet, molten,
From a fire in the prison of recklessness
That surrounds bees and beasts alike
‘I can’t
I thought I admired your face’ till calamity
Met us in embrace
Gurgling out seaweeds in her night robe.
Fine,
I had fine sapphire knives
Waiting for you—what a cliché
But there she was
I fell in love with her face
Because you loved her so,
And that was my fate when the lady pastor clucked
About life and his seductive lover,
Death.
Death
Wearing a savage coat of mud on a fine summer day
On which lilies were burnt on stake and were dried like bedroom sheets,
Underneath which
Lies the bald moon
Rising in a soliloquy of
She and me—me and She
A lullaby.




The Savior

35/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

{Alternatively titled: Bedtime stories}

Image result for it will be not death, but a dream
It will be not death, but a dream by 
Victoriia Kharchenko

You have been full of dread,
it has been your primal function;
“dormant” it is, they tell you,
now, why don’t you excuse their civilized lies.

Fear is a drive to sleep,
an urge to close your eyes,
it is a leaving
when the cat catches you a death
and you deem no way to survive
in the fumes of a future
where the poems must die
and the man must churn out numbers for the rich.

But you’re not dead 
and sometimes you wish to wake
a masculine fantasy of breaking at your own coffin 
and yet you sleep,
so you might as well leave it to someone else.

Messiahs, Prime Ministers, Presidents
Fascists, Lieutenants, Gurus,
Nymphs, Princes, Lovers,
Parents;
Often just people who carry you 
while you sleep.