To A Friend Who Reads.

No colour in your
Soul
Hides from me.

The length of
A night
Blanched in
Altercations
Is longer
Than all the days
We have lived
And known
Together.

And when words travel
From your home
After unsure rains,
They form a
Dawn brighter.

Infinitely so.

Pick up the pen,
That hides behind
Those heavy curtains,
Rummage your pockets
And
Build your own
Cob-webs.
To breathe, cry,
Pray like
A poet,
The coincidence
Of living like
A Maugham,
A Rimbaud, A Baudelaire.

To place Life on
Your nerves
And drink its
Pulse
Like a soul melting
Into yours.
To feel love
In infinity of words
In tomorrows.

There is horizon
Still,
Stretched on your bed
Where your heart
Beats,
In memory of all
That went past
Of all
That wants to be.

Whimper

You were obsessed with mirrors.
Clearly.
And that yearning for finales
And dainty combs.
Laughter must arrive with cadence,
Moments with inverted commas.
Never letting your hair down
To brush his
Shriveled shoulders.

Clearly, he had no soul.

You never met a face
That had a heart
Attached somewhere,
Not even in the heels
That clicked around you.
Now smell the dust.
Clearly, they say,
Literally, they clap.

You sang, you proclaimed
History was your making
The Future too
Packed on your table
In quaint boxes
Dumb, deceiving,

Altogether wooden
Not ours.

And then
On the last day
That lay italicized and
Bold on your plate,
That writing,
Your writing
Peeled from ancient walls,
Passed you by,

Sigh,who shall tell you,
Who will ever tell you?

The bathos of the swan-song
Had fallen on deaf ears,
Mirrors, neat mirrors,
No soul in them,

That was the end
Plain, pure,

Not a whimper in the closet,
Bold decay,
Absolute un-fear.

Our Universe.

I woke up today
To set the universe in motion
With my pen.
The chain of my nascent
Thoughts promised
To light up
Your world, my world
My fish-bowl, your kitchen
Their homes, galleries,
Portraits and
Some flower-pots.
So I write.
Just so
That. This.
And other thats
And other this.
Many this and many thats
That might reach you,
And touch
Your cracked
Halo.
Wake up
My word tells you
And pass venom
From hand to hand
We shall drink
The last of the last
Suppers.
And raise a toast
To our fragile
Nerves.
I shall bake breads,
You shall prick flesh
And together
At sun-rise
The universe will
Move, then die.
My pen is
Fire,
Your heart
Will melt
Your heart at
Our Last Supper.