Book marking a fossil

They are complimentary

Inseminating lust
And
Comatose cadaver

The shadows that are ripped off
Are age old ones
Sliding playing cards.

Dig the corpse
And
Grab the rotten flesh.

Strap her nerves around her lungs
Let not her panting fans off
The pace of their bloody sweat.

Tilt her head or break it
It bores you with its eyes bulged

Count her pulse
For the climax.

Spit on it
Puke on it

Rip it apart
As body and soul
Pickle the body and drag the soul

Dry it
Butcher and bookmark it.

Forget it!

Let’s meet this fossil/ed it
Years later…
In a feminist anthology !

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Insult

Suddenly, one day You become a weed on a courtyard wall   The wild green that nourishes on the intrinsic bliss of his domesticity.   Their murmurs of yesteryears gather on your body, hanging down the dilapidated concrete, and write new epilogues for a play, that ended much before the first Act   Your hapless nerves become, the scorching summer intruding, their frozen corridors. The melancholy whore, You spread like evening rays over, the impending silence.   Your words Your skies Your cuddle Your newfound womb, shatter over a forbidden land, mutilated.   The snake bite on their moonlit nights, You ooze out, from a million pores.    
Read more

Tunes you play for me

The tunes you play for me are brown. With souls walking in head scarf. Short and hump. Climbing hillocks of round stones. Faceless, like extended life There is a tunnel of rails Murmuring the distant pace Heartbeats in summer. Folks of the altitude. Strolling children from heaven. Baby curls Like swings of amazons. A single bloom, yellow in a pale grey canvas Thick skies Heavy like void, of your pangs. Burial ground. Silver moon. Withdrawing lives. Slumbers of yesterdays. Glow worms. Wind. Strokes I fail to play.
Read more

Now that I move on

Gradually I fail to fall in love so do my attempts to write poems It's not that they are connected, love and poetry you and me now and then. But they conjure,  haphazard evenings and revolting senses.  The void, that takes over like a weed looking for excess.
Read more