The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 

On the Eve

Image result for snake mouth art

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.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Photographed by Tim Walker

on spinning wheels
and the factory of smiles,
half-a-doll of infatuation
half-a-doll of love,
oh perhaps, of Bovarian dreams.

I would have absolutely despised writing on
but ordinary things contain cosmic affairs,
and now my heart,
is merely a misspelled smile.

A gentleman sitting on the stairs
kind eyes,
the wind rattling behind the palace gate
that surrounds his soldier-shoulders,
kind eyes.

I say,
do fall upon “looks”,
for you can read
eyes, brows, and tips of woolen hair falling over the forehead,
and not
the words that often betray the book.



In the stretch of time
I await, shivering
Let it pass
Without injury
Into the other side of
Blood-let sorrow stream.
We’re Soulmates: Not a single body knows.

You look at me
And I look at me
I am sour when bitten
Dug at
Sharply, with garden roses.

Like an egg
Every fucking day
Building inside me.
My womb is yet weak
To push you out into the world,
Like a balloon
Filled with the knife-cut trains
That smother my heart

Out of my dungeon you go
Above my system
In the eyes of God,
You leave
To let me sow myself in my own soil
And germinate at once,
Like garden roses.

I bloom. I shed. I bloom.


[The above picture was my prompt.]

I am a missionary on a wavering mission

And I like the way you tie back your hair

As they slither in the storm,

Upon my own,

thirsty pale throat.

I would be a liar if  I said

Love is on my mind

For It would crash the moment

I would cross your, sorry threshold,

Leaving my mind

but to the,

merciful devil.


Author notes

Sort of forbidden love thing. Or you can say- Complicated.

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