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…