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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.

Grandma

Seventy five summers
weighed down on her
as she stepped out
of the home
he was laid to rest.

Not a drop could contain
the sea, she left to dry
Reminiscences
now lost to termites
and her progenies other worlds

She, the alien
to be forsaken, earnestly.
Her hunched values,
broken limbs, sagging breasts
and vague senses

The door, closed
behind her.

Silence
the gaze
wind, and
the road.

Vanish

Vanish
like an unwritten poem
Word by word
Letter by letter
Breath by breath.

Like an island,
embracing the current
that spreads over her body
the poison blue.

Vanish,
like the sky
Carried away to the south
by the birds

Like people
walking out of lives
unassuming.

Vanish
like God

Like a love
Unrequited

Confession

I may not have done this
if you had, held me close
for a moment or so
before walking away into
the chores of indifference

Leaves holding on to the wind
before the fall.

The morning dew,
droplets of diamonds
On my face, pale white.

Vindication of an Irrational Psyche

On those days you walk out
of a recent love
You feel like a woman
in labor.
That moment
of sudden calm, comes unexpected
as you push your despair out
and lie back, tired.
as if in a post-coitus carelessness.

The nights come back
like a recurring full moon
spreading silver, As you see
time, spread out
like a fisher man’s big catch
of the day.

You become
Spring, infertile
as you bury deep
the desires
from that nether land.

Only to sprout
alphabets, poems
and silence
in your eyes.

When I am gone

When I am gone
do not close down
the day
Open your window
to the rains
and senses, to twilight
Do not sing me
your loss
Listen to the poems
we read together
and smuggled each other
Words, unuttered.

Take long walks
through boulevards
of autumn leaves.
Watch the boundless horizon
and lives, un-loved

Remember me
as flashes of lightening
over the night sea
as the breath that pause
amid your work and home

Remember me
as your favorite lines, in solitude,
as the sharp blend of shades
on a canvas
or, the rhythm
of an eternal dancer

Do not hold me
a memorial
or a farewell party.
Let the bygone melt
as ice-cubes
into the sea
in a beer beaker.





Burial Ground

The man
who kissed me last
kissed, as if
I were a
Coffee bean

The million kisses
he planted
on my face
as the moon hid
behind grey clouds
in a hurry
have grown
in to a yellow desert
left to the sun

Flashes
Moments
Long buried
in a grave
fresh and bleeding

The Peculiar Silence

The peculiar silence
of the aged.
The entirety of the mountain
before the dawn.

Time, frozen and meditating
Over hard earned memories
Adrift and unabsorbing

Gazes, dry
the dampness inward

The fragile steps, one
against the other, watch
the earth moving underneath
and the wanton world
rustling, beside

The inquisitiveness, the laughter
and the slices of sky, move
from an armchair to bed
and to the
rainless windows

The tragedy of being alive
with a child within

Self Portraits

Frieda Kahlo butterflies on her hair.

Brush strokes of

green, yellow and brown
fill the canvas, as if planet earth

Her eyes and the bridge of salvation, above binding one stream

to another.

Veins, roots, spread over her body and the ground beneath

Holy crow down her chest
The black moors of the jungle
Reminders of sin
Leaves, wings
and forest
a free zone
of primordial mirth.

She is her own Buddha,
Enlightened.
The desires of her body
fertility throbs of red earth

Every woman is a Frieda
in those early hours
or quiet afternoons
As they look at one’s own body
Spreading like a weed, in obvious oblivion,
With tentacle spine.
Thus formed jungles,
Amazons and ecstasies.