The Recess

Between the rooftop and the treetop, there's

a fine recess where Zeroes sleep until

they're woken by a man in love who dives,

a zygote and divides himself to die.

The Zeroes rush to bring him death at once,

like nurses who've to get their sooty hands

back home, so they just choose to speed the scene

up, killing easy men or children or...

da dum da dum da dum da dum da dum,

the beat, the note, the heart, the stick, the drum.

Between the treetop and the rooftop lies

the fixed recess that carries nothing, but

contains it all.

Between the treetop and the rooftop,

ovals purse ova.

Between the treetop and the rooftop

is a reverse Supernova.

dum da dum da dum da dum da.

The mouthing by Zeroes is coitus.

The fetus, lost in the recess, is bait,

to be contained until Life,

chooses in Death, a surrogate.

At the Cobbler's

The philanderer
got his boots licked everywhere.
But at the cobbler's,
they were beaten and nailed,
and sewn to new soles.

At the cobbler's
they were polished, blackened, rekindled;
their craters were reformed,
the dimples were killed
and the perfect holes
healed, sealed.

At the cobbler's
they were not chased by mongrels,
that circled poles
and swam about in dregs
and muck.

At the cobbler's
they were not racked.

What's in a Name?

Shards everywhere.
I'm blind to the sound, for I
see him there, still
aiming the empty bottle
at me.

I see him there
arched like a flower,
a shame-shrunk bud.
I see him
aiming the bottle at me.

I turn to the shards,
he turns to me.

He drinks me in,
refills his heart.
I sweep the shards
away.

What if he'd showered
pink petals
and not the wanting
bottle?

What then,
would I say?

Petals showered,
or a bottle's shards?

I keep them,
as I sweep them-
the shards that go,
are the shards that stay.

Intersections

Horns honking outside;
the room's drowned in yellow light;
beeps keep me from sleep-
I'm found on a yellow page
where horses trot in my book.

N(ice)ties

He brought me a cube

of his reason,

a solid block

to hold,

a shape-

angles, sides.

A squarish lucidity,

served on a paw-

simple, so simple

that it melted 

into my palm,

just in time.

An ice-cube that it was.

Voodoo

The daughter came, nine yards

of shame around her,

as vile as red meat

in a black plastic bag.

What if the neighbours saw?

Mayonnaise dripping from an eye,

and white grass on her head,

she uncorked a gold earring

and it fell on the bed.

White grass on her head,

she'd floated home,

a toothbrush-

wildly bitten plastic, the bod.

A twig in her chest,

she didn't look her best.

The breath that had outgrown

her lungs, choked them all,

yet they buttoned the windows.

 

She was almost

a porcupine, shooting at them

these quills, these breaths

she didn't need any more.

Her intimacies had been inked

on her; the drape flickered

and they could read it all.

"Go back", they said.

Another prick was it,

another trick?

They swept her away

into the dark

like a consumed can

of something.

And outside, the dust

dolled her up for her

departure.

Free Fall

I

Last night,

my thumb worked

a silhouette on the

bed.

The wet stillness

lent it colour

and it evolved

into you.

I blew it

an unreal kiss

and bit my thumb,

and then I woke up,

woke up to a free fall.

I have been falling for years.

II

I have been falling for years-

going up, somewhere,

uncoiling rapidly.

I've been stuck in a free fall,

the cocoon of reality.

I still wear the dream

you'd spun,

for I fear nudity.

How did it begin,

you, me, and

you and me?

III

4 a.m.

February, 23.

I'm falling, falling, falling-

falling free.

IV

The silk sheet

has lost the contours

of your being.

You're free?

You're free.

I bite my thumb

and I suck the blood

that's there

but won't come out.

V

I'm away,

being stirred

in a cauldron of blood.

I know not

what stirs me.

The Dune

A bloom, crimson
in the white sand.

A dune driven
by Time's hand.

Empty space,
traces bland.

Winds race
and they stand-

a log of life,
a lip-less face.

The White Coat

                                             Picture: Google

I

A white coat
stares at me
as I reveal to light
the empty wardrobe,
its keep.

I stare back at it-
I stare until a
moth-like memory
begins to
devour my eyes.

II

Long ago,
they had said
that It was inside me.

So I had stabbed myself
one night,
clawed at a heart,
that had bobbed
like a dead bird
upon the breast of
a sea that snored
in slumber.

I had lifted a forkful of It
and sealed it
in the plastic of my eyes.
And then I had set
my hands to sewing the corpse-to-be.

Don't you call me a murderer!
I was a scavenger, perhaps,
a salvor.
Don't you chew on me,
you bastard!

Yes, yes, I will go on.

Then I had wiped clean this coat-
this that stares at me now,
and thrown it upon a hanger;
I had hung it until death.

Next, I had pumped air
into my patchwork
and set the body free,
free like a balloon in the sky.

III

It's all coming back to me now.
The coat is clean,
perfumed and indifferent.
The memory is mean,
persistent.

Ma's Going Deaf

                                                              Picture: Google

Ma's going deaf,
they'd said
when she'd missed
the cooker
hiss its secret.

The clock had howled
and been upset
but she'd not tended
to it.

She was cruel
to the doorbell,
mean, to the phone-
wouldn't even quell
her child's moan.

They say
she's unwell,
had always been.

Ma's only a looker,
she hears nothing.

She's tamed the dogs
that barked,
she's tamed larks
into a muteness.

She's a brute
who's killed it all.

The sounds have gone
with her,
they can tell.

"Is it so?" I want to ask,
but I sell them a
'very well'.

I hear music
beyond the wall.

I think I know
what she's found
by achieving deafness.

The Womb

                                                                Picture: Google

I was born
with a child
in my womb.

Nine lives
and the child
was out-

out in the world,
purring.
I was proud.

I hurried
with showing
him about-

the child
saw it all
and purred wild,

left me
in a bout
of surprise.

His eyes
crawled back
when

he was ten.
His mouth
found home

then.
I locked them up,
I buried

them-
I have them now
in a tomb.

Long ago, I was
born with a child
in my womb.

Marvels

                                              Picture Courtesy: Google

Bare bodies, brown shapes
scraped by chisels of rain,
these marbles that
glitter on the road.

They titter
as storms tickle them.
Joy trickles down
their throats.

Clouds,
bitter, gray-haired,
cough admonitions,
Sky, red-faced
spills rage.

But they do not read.
They play until
they're clay,
and then-

one tumbles down
a looted cart,
another rolls
under a dripping bush.

There's room
for a third to glide,
hide, push-

But
the others do not bide
their time in litter.

They glitter in the rain
until the shattered sky
is whole again.

District of Discord

                                 Picture Courtesy: Google

A choir of crows
poised in black,
cawing carols-

cawing, as the
sun stares in awe.

Caw-caw-caw-
an aubade.

The temple's mad,
its bells buzz,
ding-ding-ding.
Ting-tong,
goes a gong
at school.

Smirks the kirk,
"Is that a song?"

The mosque,
has a masque-
but later...

Honk-honk,
the horn-
alarms the morn,
"It's all gone wrong!"

Footsteps now,
up and down.
The sun frowns,
"It's all gone wrong."

A heart coos
to another heart
in vain.
The crows in black
come back
and caw
their refrain.

Dead

                                                 Picture: Google

I picture you a prism,
splitting your
white peace
into a spectrum
of grays.

Why must you
dawdle in the air,
dear, dear
rainbow?

Eagles glide low
near, so near
this stratum,
nudging you
my dear-
you do not budge.

Why must you
be unfair,
to these that elbow
you?

You do not budge,
my dear.

Beyond Isms

                                                Picture: Me

And on an afternoon like this,
a moment ruined
by the rain, would have 
simply asked someone,
"What is the purpose of life?"

The union of
Earth and Sky 
would have happened-
a mild reflection
in a small puddle
and immeasurable love.

The arrow of surrender
would have struck a heart
and a dream would have
osmosed into
'letting go'.

The grave of some eye
would have been adorned by
plastic flowers of patience.

A tear would have dropped
on someone's lips,
proud of its own flavour.

Time is impotent, you know.
It realizes our fantasies;
they come true,
dreams like 'You'.

What is reality, I ask,
a popsicle?

Who should I give up,
You?
Hah!

Fishbowl

                                               Picture Courtesy: Google

You put me into
a fishbowl-
gold dust, was I
your gold fish?

Sham or not,
this world
where I swam
and was served
crumbs-
sham or not,
it contained me.
And I
still am-

still am there
unnerved,
numb.
The fishbowl-

is a puddle,
a model
of clay;

a riddle
you liked
to play.

Her

            Picture: Lady Hamilton as Circe by George Romney

Those are foolish things,

by god-

Bloated lies

that froth in a mouth-

fish preying on fish.

She left it ajar,

the door to

her mind-

it creaks

like a toad behind

her.

Tick-tick, the clock,

the door’s unlocked-
Life won't knock.

Death will find

her.

Mocks her,

the aunt-

loose woman.

Mother knows.

She’s trying

to blind

her.

It’s Physical

                                         Picture Courtesy: Google

Key it in-

strife, ecstasy,

life,

squeezed into

a vocabulary.

Animal passions

reduced

to tap-tap-

No, not a dance-

a mishap.

Tap-tap-tap, I go.

How have you been?

Key in

hope, strife, ecstasy,

life-

Because souls aren't pawns
and hearts do not invade.
Because bygones are bygones
and tomorrow a new shade.
Because blossoms await dawns
for all the black to fade…

It’s physical-

this tapping

to the tune of myth.

Key in.

Sin.

Like Love

                      Picture: Google, own handiwork.

Metal letters,

sonorous shapes,

sour sounds-

Silver.

A spider dangling

heavy, o'er the neck.

Scrapes the nape,

a snake.

Sacred bond,

a shape.

Fetters.

Metal letters.

Sin.

A synonym,

insincerity-

Sound, shape.