Keats and Blanchot lead me into an eternal disaster
of writing,
a return to the act of poetry
under a cloud of cigarette smoke
under the King’s words, that
the thrill is gone
that everything is over.
Return me to the state of writing
of enigmatic expression
of cryptic conversations with myself
that only the stranger can
comprehend
even just a glimpse of
what meaning he can make
to relate and enjoin himself to it.
The Bear
The Bear
Stuffed into its corner not
even on the mattress by
the frame of the bed
slumped over a tissue box.
With crosses for eyes
and a half smile
(the other half a loose thread)
a gaping hole
opens at the scruff of its neck.
How did you get yourself
into such a spot, I ask.
No answer. Silence.
It does not move, does not stir,
still slumped over the tissue box.
You have been neglected,
haven’t you, I say.
Again, nothing.
It continues, even persists,
in remaining where it is,
in remaining silent.
Beyond being a fool
Beyond being a fool
It is not like Lear’s Fool,
to speak the truth,
to speak lies,
to speak nothing.
The worst comes when you
have been usurped,
and without knowing it
have words put into your mouth.
Lone candlelight burning
Safely within the confines of the clay burner
Gentle lavender wafts through
The night air
Hoping to help calm
To help rejuvenate frayed nerves
And numbed emotions.
Rimbaud’s thousand dreams burn softly, whilst Yeats’, like mine
Are tread upon
As I long for an eternity unspoken of,
As I hope for your treading to be soft and light,
Knowing and appreciating all
That I have laid at your feet.
One thing about her that
he finds so enduring
is her jealousy, so fleeting
so coy
where a quick glare
and a swift withdrawal
of her hand from his
is followed by the other hand
in search of his,
a lowered gaze,
in search of his.
The rain dances on the
roof, falling down and
defying time
a youthful downpour on our faces
as we look up into
the sun that shines beyond
the rainclouds.
There’s no aging in this wonderland,
where every single day
with a joy in our step a stress-free
existence in a heaven
by an air-strip
we dance, and dance, and dance.
An Odd Day
An Odd Day
More of a heaviness
than any sort of turbulence
bubbling under my chest,
caused by a parallax gap,
the interest in that
liminal space
defining two (unnecessarily) contrasting
perspectives and viewpoints.
Mixed signals, teasing,
passing the ball from one court
to another.
And it has been a peaceful day
so far, a quiet beer
over a blazing afternoon
that has kept the crowds indoors
far far beyond the reaches
of the sun’s rays.
As though
there were a struggle
that the ego has just mediated,
and my conscious mind
merely seeks to absorb the remnants of
that fierce negotiation that
had taken place in the early,
dark hours of this very day.
Leading into queer openings
and a zombie sauntering
around.
Notions of love and beauty.
The correlation makes itself obvious.
A slowing takes place,
where time becomes elastic
like the supply line on an economics
graph
of a distant memory
and at the same time
heartbeats halt
breath taken away
by a single thought of a single person
who seeks a subjectivity beyond
the frame that covers all around
this particular canvas.
The stretching stretches me by the
ends of my limbs,
as I look to return to comforts
and satisfactions
defined by the simplistic
nature of a love so pure.
Night.
A lone taxi drives by
silently
in the distance.
I hear the whirring of
the fan in my room.
Papers and novel covers
kick up rythmically
and settle back down again.
A longing sits within me.
I dreamt of you, over and over
again through the
course of the night,
and with each waking sensation
I pulled myself
back into slumber
to return to you.
Hostage crisis.
They huddled at the back of the bus, as the mad man wielded his rifle over their heads. Negotiations failed even before they started. No one can negotiate with a man without reason. The mad man started firing. The police returned the favor. The hostages covered their ears. They did not want to listen anymore.
Eagerness.
He dashed across the road without looking, eager to meet his girl on the other side. Then, he heard a bang. And the last he felt was a warm, glossy piece of metal against his bosom.
Under the eaves.
He stands under the shadow of the eaves, readily waiting for the call to become a shelter himself.
For SH.
A single insertion rakes up a
blurring cloud of sedimented horror
sedation offering only a respite that
is less than temporary.
Lucid paralysis grips at one’s heart
finding nothing more than
a myogenic force that refuses
to surrender even a single beat.
Silent pillars form around
supporting and seperating the heavens
from the continuous stubborn thumping
day by day growing in numbers.
It is more than blood that courses
though these veins but a faith
that stirs gently and surely
bringing us all closer to miracles.
Never again.
Her unhappiness constricted my heart
drowning me into a regret
which I should have foresaw
in the pauses between her speech.
Observation 1.
The jazz music is too loud, in competition with the coffee machines and the chatter of the office crowd, people who seem to be able to get off work to have a cup of coffee. He high hat in a constant beat irregular to the noise generated by the surroundings, and in itself becomes noise. A couple of smokers outside. A few unoccupied seats. Tables stand empty. A sign promoting “daily offerings” written in an undecipherable chalk script, accompanied by the drawing of a white cup with a brown swirl at the top. Clinking mugs. A man across the street. Carrying two red plastic bags. Thought he was going to cross the street. But he holds out his cigarette instead to hail a taxi. No one stops.
One of two.
Between her finger and thumb
a drawing pen squats
in place of a cigarette.
Purposeful strokes emerge
out of a misunderstood randomness
by the unperceiving eye.
Her head cocked to the left
slightly, a concentration
undisturbed as her elbow
props itself on the canvas
supporting the angled wrist
in drawing,
in creating,
right here, in a room of her own.
Shadow.
Shadow
An azure glow from the
screen projecting
a soft hue of
light onto
the wooden wardrobe doors
in the blind-drawn room,
creating another screen,
a surrogate cinema
muffled dialogue goes on
in the background
amidst a chorus of
heavy breathing.
Onto the makeshift screen then,
a fabulous shawdow appears
as though straight
out of Aristophanes’ myth.
And more.
The tragedy of dispersion turned
comedy of reunion.
A bulbous shadow
fluid along the edges
dances along the textured grains
a gentle heaving
comes through.
An octet of limbs flail
about lightly, seeking
and probing
and pulling together
to keep the unity together.
Bigger than life,
it seems, this shadow propelled
onto this screen
as they roll towards the
glow in their lambent passion
spilling beyond the
canvas of the screen.
The shadow is a reality,
a tangible player
on this screen stage
where burning dreams
are birthed by the thousands.
disjecta 