WASTED II

To know that the heart you spill remains ungathered, congealing on stone-cold floor, fossilized, touched-up with rude foot-stamps;
To know that Time lies surrendered, sundered, the finer half playing to a deferred response;
To know that Power has been delegated, that it shall revel in cheap puppetry:
A theatre of your heart, the heart turned inside-out, now theatricalized;
To know all this,
To know and yet, to wait on,
To know that Poetry won't suffice, that finally, all shall be trivialized....

WASTED.

Wasted you think were the words wrought,
Ripened a million fortnights since; ripening in solitude between sheets stifling-
Prejudice's terrifying foster care.
Wasted you presume would be words returned,
So build papery airplanes instead,
... Your flights of puerile thrill scatter forth words wrought-
Publicized, my thoughts intimate.
And now Rot begins to yawn and stretch as Stubborn Silence pricks into awareness,
A heart ignored, a heart lost, all gravitating towards Nothingness...

(A)WAIT...

Built a little hut, left to rot and rain,
Walls nude blushing for cover, while builder-painter-plumber play at lazy cards;
And peeping prying into each train-bus-plane rumbling roaring through a shifty dust terminus,
Expectant key in hand, I await coherence.

GAPS.

…Because winter shall be upon us soon,
a perennial lack licking at juvenile wounds slashed open annually
with ceremonial envy-fomenters hiccupping forth an airbrushed snow :
snow-rugs on windmills archaic, on street benches ornate, on church roofs, upon reindeers’ hooves;
longings for belonging,
... for worlds alien stamped into elusive desire-postcards desired in this part of the world,
where under sheets smelling of grandmas and prayer-beads old,
desperate eight year-olds weave fantasy-prayers for the white man in beard and red, carrying upon his black buckled boots, a hint of heavenly snow….

BUBBLES.

Hope-buds nipped by keen-edged breaths sniffing out warmth
And dishing forth stiff leftovers dragged across your porcelain platter,
Dragged by the tresses, by tresses cold-congealed;
The tresses, now a mirthless smog lapped up by broom bristles:
Love-less\ Lust-less marriages all,
Rehearsing virgin kisses on apples plump while teeth-gnashing choppers even out wrinkles on wholesome love seats.

So…
A grin-plastered battle face awaits foetal-like,
Awaiting within copy machine bowels ink-flushed,
Awaiting maniacal replication-
When You shall be I,
And I the Almighty,
And Us, thus reveling in illusory proximity…

CROPPED. ALL.

Steps infinite, each stubbornly disallowing the compass of a foot;
Shears plow through excess flesh,
Delirious frugality shooting crimson residues at uninspired designs;
Prodigality stuffed unceremoniously into death-cold dumplings waiting out nothingness at roadside shacks.
Censored tales grope for romance,
Tales fancying splendidly vintage flea markets selling ‘made in China’ replicas:
Taj Mahals all, nicely whitewashed;
Recorded Love screaming ‘U and I, Forever’ in piercing pink,
Infinitude atomized,
Raising a toast to the ‘now Cute Minimal!’
Shoulders patted over just-forged Five-Year-Plans: ‘Chalo! Let’s hoodwink!’
The Steps infinite,
Boasting of years vigorous, years of tap-dancing by a rebelliously misshapen sea;
The steps,
Now, stumps,
Simply…

MOONSTRUCK...

Sighted tonight, an angry Angry Moon
Happy Passion-blushes for those cordoning off chill with arms a-weaving, Love-braids all;
Yet for a solo thread undone, the Moon rages on
An angry Angry Moon spleen-spitting through concrete, promising retribution by dawn....

RANDOMNESS

Skies respond to randomness,
To random queries of space
To random queries of space scribbled upon post-its;
Scribbled on afternoons of gaping worthlessness…
Worthlessness of a Self gone cockeyed in concentration, concentrating upon the hand-me-down flap of sky-identical blue-
A hapless flap of blue ripped from above, fluttering against Big Bully scissors, quivering in anticipation of its’ own genesis,
A one-dimensional shadow Self ballooning out with each hefty tug of baby-blue-braided fabric trailing at shadow Self’s absolute end…
Like hand-pumps’ exhibitionist exercises in obedience.
Random assertions of space,
Skies respond to them at smug Art Movements
Dog-eared-skin-shedding walls conform to form rooms… art rooms robed in arty paraphernalia that embark upon mighty voyages of confluence
Haphazard confluence of paper thighs and cardboard arms stamped into fatalistic togetherness…
With Super Glue of course!
Shadow Self basking in exaggerated existence directs spit bubbles at sky blue,
Memories of sky-identical blue flushed down tunnels of forgetfulness as shadow Self plunges into brilliantly mythical pools of brick-red-life-blood and pulsating life flesh…
But remember, skies respond to randomness,
To random forgetfulness of flimsy origins
Of brilliantly mythical originary tales sprouting in black-robed-Times Roman across the fancy face of magazines, of arty magazines contemplating Art in practiced baritone,
Of arty magazines substantiating existence, ballooning out….ballooning out paper-in-Super-Glue creations to encompass Nature. Itself.
So. Skies retaliate.
Hapless flap of sky-identical blue glued back to blue.
To sky blue.
To the thing itself.

A PRIVATE AFFAIR

We all deserve the flourish of a Flag…

A private Flag, stitched with precision along the terrain of pulsating skin;
Causing the furtive flutter of coarse fabric upon a private heartbeat, with the release of a private breath, with the unholy exchange of paper bags of Heaven across windows stamped on to weeping walls embracing dank private alleyways…
The flourish of a Flag. Private.



Rucksacks of paint inflict perforations on the self, spewing forth polychrome rivulets of Choice.
Shreds of white may be soaked to their bare threads to arise Phoenix-like,
to arise in tremulous Blue, or somber Green; to slip underneath stiff public portals cryptic assertions of Democracy, of Peace…of a violently homogeneous polity in a Future foreseen.



To parody Conformity in impish delight,
weave the Flags.
Don them like a Toga or a seven-yards-wonder perhaps.
Emboss on to Official Paper your mock-resignation to the colossal Theatre of Symbols which stages nightly vaudevillian puppetry;
The puppets of the Nation- Flag, Stamp, Anthem and all!
All! Lashed into agility by the frayed ropes of Geography…latitudes and longitudes fast fading into fragments of fiction!
And while Fiction is forged elsewhere, continue with the weaving,
Of a Private.
Of a Private, private Flag.