Reclamation 2

There is nothing for the sparrows here.
nothing.
even the crumbs have been lost to ants.
so the sparrows leave their white wash droppings here
and the dust makes a silent coup
the next coup will raze again.
the sunlight enters on its belly
colour sucking everything.

soon dimensions will retract to a single digit
and there will be no need for names.

Pandroid

A short while ago my beard grew a face.

Intensity, the envy of any self-respecting visionary,
has finally tinged my eyes.
I now stand updated:
Copywriter, Singer, Songwriter,
Poet, Prophet, Lover, Teacher
and Failure.

All rumors have been confirmed,
all facts denied.
What is wanting now is
a cross and a handful of unwashed Phillistines
to tie up the lose ends.

IDENTIFIED

A short while ago my beard grew a face.

Intensity, the envy of any self-respecting visionary,
has finally tinged my eyes.
I now stand updated:
Copywriter, Singer, Songwriter,
Poet, Prophet, Lover, Teacher
and Failure.

All rumors have been confirmed,
all facts denied.
What is wanting now is
a cross and a handful of unwashed Phillistines
to tie up the lose ends.

Falling Star

Your promises were the stuff moonbeams are made of.
Maybe that’s why i didn’t see through them.
Now I sit here in halves
while across the harbor
the winds change
and the sea ripples underbelly
rounding of pebbles, small as planets.

Did you know the star we gazed at
is many times the size of Mother earth?
And by the way do you still wish on falling stars?
Because the last time i did
it turned out to be a burning jet
with 200 aboard
screaming their heads off.

Synonym – 3

I built my road inwards
‘neath a colour of slate.
Weeds sprung from my footsteps to obliterate.
Within walls i have a baby grand lying on its side,
its plexus in methodical confusion.
Here no feet-fall fathom
no birds drop,
only the walls crack with a knuckular sound
dribbling slow sand.

Through the only window facing west
a weak sun swabs a sky of menstrual blood.

22 November.,1977

Burial at dusk

(For Freddie)

Along the asphalt path
autumn shot leaves rattled like dice.
In double ranks, with heads bowed low
we prayed.
A handful of relatives
six coolies. And a poet at dusk.
Aves fell from our lips like tears.
His Mother almost twice his age
proffered her arms as if to give him life,
her brows un-wrinkling his childhood days.
Clods of earth hammered
the coffin lid like fists.
Beneath a mute sky we bowed our heads to pray.
At dusk we turned for home.
A good simple soul had passed away.

(6-11-79)

Blind Cat

……Feline poverty
pressed against the wall
Are you afraid of man?
Come now, wipe the blood of your face
And let me console you.
You who thrive in darkness know that
Man was born in it and it will be
His winding sheet when his breath
Grows weaker
And the rhythm of his pulse
Begins to fumble.
He is afraid of it. (Mark that down).
Since it was his beginning
And will be his end.
It is this darkness he worships
Not God.
And it is this darkness
that will triumph in the end.

So the next time he kicks you in the face
Mock him for what he fears the most.
Precisely!

Asylum Fragments

My facial muscles are secured with twine
But only I know which ones to pull
because the face is mine.
– – –
I started off with my toes
ate them unsalted for a day.
Then broke a molar on a sudden pedal bone.
Today i polished off a knuckle.
But tell me
Do I qualify as a cannibal?
– – –
He will visit me no more
He now observes me from outside the door.
The last time he visited
he left screaming, wiping away blood and saliva.

It is really safer to keep him out.
He is getting more unpredictable by the day.