BLACKNESS

Of a morning’s rampage through the mute night,
An abrupt unsheathing of sense
With bullying headlights scavenging among stillness.
Of such mornings that prophesy dead ends,
Days unnaturally begotten, dragged forth by flight schedules and clock-sirens,
When stubborn Purpose measures moments whistle by whistle,
With the ardent heart bonding illusory narratives of a time beyond Travel;
Then shall her prayer-head knelt over steering wheel relinquish the Present,

But body-bags of triumph remain,
To usher in darkness, of interrupted nights swarming back into the skies,
Asserting-
'For she died, with black sleep in her eyes'.

THOUGHTS ON A LEAP YEAR.

The perfect day, Today, for effecting the perfected death;
Blanch walls been stamped enough with black-lettered noughts and crosses
Battle-pits all, crayoned and grid-locked, sprouting designless.
Some such comical chronicle of inane violence
with gallant noughts and crosses playing fillers to a four-yearly wait,
shall finally aid in charting out a death-sentence:
This death, self-tuned and demanding reverence.

Thus today, when your shadow is rolled up with finality’s flourish,
you know the memorial shall be grand,
divested as it is from the everyday of the every-year;
Celebrations of your absence, to be observed with overwhelming relish.

BREACH

What to make then of this breach made manifest?
A breach ever-distending
Across a fabric caught disrobing;
This fabric: scripted with precision, meant for decorum
Now nursing a hunger homewards-bound
With defector knives and forks ploughing through my disciplined Self;
Myself, disheveled.
This Self, cracked from end to end,
Brooding at stubborn blind lanes for Your self’s coherence.

DREAMS

All you thoughtless thoroughfares erupting under laserbeam awnings,
Yawning forth billboards on a whim,
With disembodied voices fashioned to mock a private prayer calling from boom-boxes perched atop telegraph poles,
Selling you dirt cheap that life across this street; pretty as a pamphlet-
Your neighbour's retreat.

RAIN

....And then you laugh into the austere night;
Militant nights tutored in stoic abondonment of passion,
Till raptures labour forth here, there, everywhere,
A night raining tear drops, of delayed restitution.

FEEBLE FABLES

Towards Time-crumbs they fly, salivating crows, sparing not a feather for this fable pieced together;
Of fiery tricksters, all pretty rockstars:
Slipshod murmurings of a heart steaming pink, haloed a quater times over with night-bulbs going wink! wink!
....And then to bemoan,
that my spectral star has sped, to gyrate in caustic abondon over planets not my own!