Blessed.

At the signals
The crow-eyed woman
Visits me:
Beti, God will do you good.

Clink. The transaction is made.

Fading

In small, newspaper boats
My life travels to you

My hands and yours
Dragged on dirty tables
The unsure edges seeking
Shelter of your imaginary shores

Meanwhile

The newspaper
Screams reality of the
Day before.

I do not need you.
I do not.
I drink the smell of your
Skin often in my mind
I seek out your dark soul
And push Time.

Your breath, your words,
Those spurts of abrupt
Laughter
Nights and days and nights and days
And this life and the next
And all the gestures of love
Bursting out of nowhere
Stirring this faded Universe

Mock love, mock pain

The drama of little souls
Travelling in little paper boats.

Noises in the Head.

Silence is not
My cup of tea.

Inner Silence
That must have
Descended like
Cumulonimbus
Paratroopers
On blessed folks.
Promising nothing,
Yielding nothing,
Saying nothing.
Blank,
Deep,
Blue.

Silence,

I do not go to you
You never come to me.

Smug

The intoxicated Fragment
Giggling and
Babbling
With many
Nascent brothers

Irresponsible,
Ruthless
Unanswerable
Drunk on the
Belated,
Never here,
Never there
Never for
Tomorrows.

Fragmented
And smug.
Beating with
Anger, Pride,
Broken, Unspoken
A Fragment.

He breathes still.

Like this.

If I dive inside
My fish-bowl
Where Pablo swims
Towards the Atlantic
How will Pablo feel?

Pablo,
If you ever dive out
And write
All my papers
Especially, the one to the Journal
of Commonwealth Studies
I would feel happy.

Oh, this is Absurd,
This is clap-worthy.


This is Life,
This is Death
This is Poetry.

Finitude

To those paasages that do not listen to me anymore
And have become part of Your slave-empire
That bends and breaks hearts
Kills histories
And silences folklore
To those mysteries of land
That humble Being
Cut out posters of crammed ideologies
Ideologies Idols Idolescence?
To that daily Life
That you tell me is a gift
Wrapped in culture and anarchy
Trashed with jargon and
Stashed somewhere that is
Actually never really out there
To those many voices yelling from
Heavy books laden with
Promises that we can talk, we should talk
We should write, we should fight
Who is listening?
Who is out there waiting for you tonight?
To that comma that has been bidden adieu
In hopes of finality of period.

Periods of indefinite
Quest, knowledge, discovery, discourse
Intellect, Happiness, Unrest
Oh happy happy hours
That see all things happy die
No longer at ease
No longer my own
No longer yours
And now
To die
To die.