Momentary Eternities

The eternities were momentary.

Intuition would always wake up
and spill distances between them.

Love, when it seemed to run out,
would be replenished by her 
cutting a vein or two.

Tears, when they would
hint at colourlessness,
would be dried,
prevented from achieving an orgasm.

Distances – 
how pronounced they would be 
within entanglements;
how visible in the eyes
when they looked at each other.

She dropped kisses on his eyes –
snow that befell a roof one winter,
only to melt as he woke up
to the suns of their times, together... 
And away.

The eternities were but momentary.

I Have Nothing to Complain

I have nothing to complain –
the illusion contains me dignified,
keeps me occupied.

Our love’s without a stain!
All the blood out of sight,
the illusion has me dignified.

Words are all that remain –
what of the unspoken tide?
Thinking keeps me occupied.

Mornings never bring rain.
Now that you have died,
the illusion has me dignified.

Brute

Yellow, with a core yellower –
the slice looked a petal on his palm.
Perfect manners, he consumed 
with a spoon –
a fruit fresh from the farm.

Translucence, the residue,
tossed away in a bin –
decaying as he gets ready
for new appetite.
 

Public Figure

High tide,
your cheek against
the moonlight –

does it matter
that I am not the spire
you fly towards?

A grain of sand,
I cannot capture your
mighty moon-shadow.

Your laugh
is for the eyes –
you flutter, because light.

I crawl to the shore
as you soar to the white
that cannot be had.

You Killed The Artist

Pierce stars,
slip them into an abacus.

Let them twinkle
but on a cactus.

Between the bars,
the sky would linger.

Let it exist
robbed of its status.

As you adorn each finger
with the torn stars -

as you bow to Mars
and plunge into Venus -

think once of the galaxy,
think of all the stars.

Did you steal from a womb,
its sleeping foetus?

Thirteen Lines for 'The Poet'

Of course, everyone would be there but you.

Crawling into the ‘lit’ mouth, converging 
to the tooth that bites into your poetry.

Smiles would be thrown, aficionados shown
the restless tongue of the coterie -

Of course, ‘candid’ moments would be caught
by an unpaid amateur,

an aperture twinkling to tinkling glasses.
And you won’t be there

the anonymous loser of the lottery,
loyally by a book about death,

talking to your late father - founding a therapy
in the proud madness of rejecting reality!

Why?

Why to touch what has
settled into a coil -
why to add to a stagnation?

I see you crawl
around your point -
slowly you’re inching away.

Not further. Not behind.
Elsewhere, on the finite globe,
the mind that has us, two thoughts.

Why to look through the same lens 
when I want it further
and you need it larger?

These venomous trails,
that were once our ballads
are broken compasses, that’s all.

I don’t mind waking up to a blur.
Why do I care to clean
your glasses?