a LONELY WAIL

delusion

I think the fairy stories have it wrong.
Good can't conquest evil every time,
and so the images fill my head:
blood
panic
contusions
tears
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
fear stained , flaming
a hand
an arm
her leg
in between  thighs
her face

All of this, you gave to me.
You gave me the images that
deluge my head and never leave,
no matter how hard I implore them to.
You gave me hateful words
and kind words
and words a 15-year-old shouldn't ever be allowed to hear
for they would only bring
pain
sadness
worry

and more tears.

Stained again

I think of these things and know
that they won't ever go away  from  me ,
these things that you gave me.

But then I remember the words
you've spoken to me more times than
I can count:

“You are not being on track”




Open your eyes and l o o k .

I'm opening my eyes, for you, and I'm trying to find the good.
And I'm trying to remember the good in you.

Eyes,

 tired and blue..
Your crooked smile when I say something
I probably shouldn't have but you laugh anyways.

And while it is the bad images that
flood me most of the time, that doesn't
mean I always pour over them, forgetting the good completely.
A
smile
giggle
kiss
cuddle
trance
flash
sensation
support

a zeal

Something to believe in.

You are not being on track, now its  my  turn

Take it or leave it.

backspacer....

I do not hope to see again
The eyes are not here ,
After the sapient silence of the trees
After the street light , pale on black grime faces
The shouting and the crying ,
T he dried voices of us whispering together
If we were endless and still in dying
But surely ,
with a little patience.


There are no eyes here
In this hollow of meeting places
In the eclipse of fading stars

There is sunlight on my broken lips
Lips that would kiss
There is the bird in the wind
In the singing of the wind ,
More distant and solemn like that ever fading star.

Let me be no nearer
We grope together
Just as the breeze behaves - no nearer .

When I count there are only you and I together
Looking in front on the path
I see another walking beside you
I do not know
If there was ,
In between
Real and the idea
Between conceiving
and the conception
Between sense
and response
Between moan
and that fondle
Between ,And , in between that moment of ripple.

There is no silence in those sullen faces of sneer and snarl
There are no lamentations
Over stone images
Over place which is only a place
Time that is always time
And on that trusted road beside you ……


I have seen an eye on that street
‘Half past seven’ the street lamp said
“Go back home”
I could see nothing behind these spaces of dark
Which opened like moonlit tongues.
A broken toy in anabandoned yard

She is alone
With all the nocturnal smells of
Musty books ,
And smells of streets ,
Cigarettes in corridors ,
With the smoke on his knees .

Buried beneath snow deep dust
Over drooping letters In words ,
the lamp sputtered and muttered
Hummed the dark song ,

It brought
A rose of memory
A speech without word
Of love unsatisfied
Word of no speech .

There were no more faces and no more stops
Because I was glad to be scattered
We Did reach other :
Then I turned and saw below :

Because I do not hope to turn again .

another one to miss

 The winter sunset settles down 

with smells of disordered papers in a dusty room .

Soft voice and small laughter
between leaves and rushing feet .

What images come back ,
go back
Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a breeze
a breath of plum , and the monsoon fog
Dissolved in place .

What is this face? ,less bare and barer
The pulsate in the arm, less strong and stronger
Shared or taken? more remote than the stars and closer than the eye.

I have trodden the doors alone
And I know ,
That it is hard to be really of use ,resigning .

Under sleep where all the waters meet .
We are thankful when the day ends, when the play finishes and bliss is too much pain .

I have made this , I have forgotten
and remember
this severing gasp in air ,
and the image rotten .

Between one noon and another December
this form, this face, this life , like death .

With silence I preserve this respectful distance
for I perceive
The Observer . The Stranger . That Celebrated unfamiliar face .
He who has seen
Who sees what is to happen .
The Spectator. The Censor . This Stranger... again
In whom the lost is reborn .

On this frozen ground , there shall be a solitary cigarette for two men
For whom two women shall share
On this ground,
Our demise
May not be mentioned in ‘the herald’.

The river still flows , the seasons are there to turn
The sparrows and kites have no time to waste .

Whatever time it is ?, I smile at my own plight of being trapped by the noose of desires
Wisdom against youth .
There being nothing besides the self , how could there be any desire at all?
Yet ,I was trapped .

She is an untamed river
There is no beginning , no movement , no stillness and no end
We assemble the meaning
A job for each -
Each one to his work of wonders in the same dusty rooms of delicacy

the uses of poetry .

 They  think  manliness  means  hard  withdrawals
 the  sharp  emptiness  rips through  me

 but this man ---
 hes not  afraid
of  growing  soft
in me. so im  soft  on  him .



i think of the  vast  betrayals  we live  under
why  does this   small one   hurt  so much ?

 the w ay he  left  me :
 like a  phantom like a  demon
restless and  cursing

neruda says ' keep quiet'

Some years  after he became  quiet

 The trembling hands  wrote  again

 Crawling  towards  making   lines  perfect

 The words  reeked  of rebellion , this  strangeness  well  bonding   with  time ,

 The  thoughts  spoke   in terms  of  his memories

 And  yes , his  voice ruses    my  creativity .

Wrestling  with sarcasm ,

I wrote  of days and   the night   hiding passion

 Little   by  little  , I left him

 Louder  by  louder, he  set  away .

Eden  was dead  as  ash  with his  smoke  lasting  on

Tears of  eve  played   with me

As  we, two, poured to  put the  cinder off.

Slowly , I etched   out sentences  with  doors  closed  to  a  lingering  insanity

‘rape me’ I  held , daydreaming  of beauty and the beholder

Tactile  world ,sensory  landscape  where  tangled in a  word , my  imagination runs  wild.

Muse  in me___   the not -precious  humanity .

A gentle breeze. Blue sky.

A time maybe, for  forgetfulness, remembrance , maybe .

“if  you cant  bring yourself  to put  anything  vital  on  stake   for your   lover- not your  right arm , not  your   left  eye, not  your  hypothetical heart ,why  embarrass  your body  with low  grade high voltage  interactions”

 Says  a  writer  indoor,

 People  forget  writers

 So  I  did  forget him ,

maybe

A little of  him was still  left  in   me .