Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Naked Thief

Vagabond irises drifting closed,
Burnt with a little oil, bleeding out of both palms.
Floating, disturbed and irate
And so very disdainful.
Curling and cursing into hooks of melancholy oddity.
A shallow dweller in the eyes of a sorrow-headed woman,
Corrupt and agile, animated plume of mortification.
Guarding all spades in a crumpled fist,
Too open-ended and naked to be valuable.
And they laugh-
At her thief's cloak.
Her shade's feet and eyes,
Running over everything in her world.
Touched and untouched.
Fucked and unfucked.
Loved and unloved.
Done and undone.
It will follow,
The sprite's shoes bending over the roof of crime.

Hold her hand and pinch the flesh,
To bruise reality into the childish skin,
In all the places left without scars.
Everyone must know the artwork of a thief's body,
Her lovely naked edible mistakes.
Her lovely naked edible misery.
And they must have a trifle of the fount,
An immortal fount of circular supply.
Eternally lovely and edible.
That leaves only faint traces of decay on the corners of the mouth.
No price to pay for the lovely nakedness
No price to pay for the thief's crime.
A punishment in glee to naked, vagabond irises.
Drifting closed.
Burnt, with a little oil bleeding out of both palms.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

The Memory Ruin

She was visiting the ruins for the first time since the death of her dream. It was so vague and yet she feels like it died upon her lips. Her lips. They were the colour of unspoken memories. Those memories a mixture of the sadness in her eyes and the cynical lines around them. That was their colour yes. The ruins looked like ethereal ghosts now as she touched them with her gaze. Standing mute with their decaying footprints on the edge of the world. At least the only world that she had ever known. But it was far-away now. The world. Gone like an absentee parent. Like adolescence. Like the first kiss she doesn’t remember. It only existed now, looming like the place between death and salvation, but not quite. What were his words again? Yes, she remembers he had spoken like the void that filled her now. His voice was like the shadows of empty tins that clanged but were never heard or seen. She could not even see his voice anymore, she could not even picture it in her mind’s eye. Because her mind was an abstract thing now. An abstract, metaphysical, non-existent thing ,unlike him. He was never non-existent for her. He was her blue vein. The one that runs deepest. The poisoned one. The fatal bleed. And God knows he had bled her to a million deaths already. Always blue. The blood was always blue.

She always sought the ruins when he bled her like that. Though the ocean reminded her of his blueness, his vile beauty. With those eyes of his, like the azure horizon. A pale thing of immense splendor almost pagan in their shamelessness. she remembers the blueness now like a vague and trivial detail. Those colours of humanity are long gone. All that exists is this weightless temerity. The vaccum has turned inwards and echoes the weightlessness. She holds the sounds of her mourning in her mouth like a pregnant mother, but like an aborted anomaly they are never heard. She is peaceful like the insane are. With no ties of kinship to man or beast anymore. Their significance long lost in the webs of her inner void.

She remembers the faint essence of prayer. The sweet bitterness in her mouth ,every time she took his name before the travesty of her supreme illusion. Illusions, how do they exist with the non-existent? How do they create their identity with the salt of nothingness? She thinks about it. About the salt of her nothingness. Does she even care now? Care. What does it mean? Nothing in the non-existing specter of her memories. And all because…..She Loved. He Lost. She died

Monday, February 7, 2011


black holes of sensation
painted with invasions of velvet and a scream
and key holes of dust and fear
into rooms
with the
cavernous decay of rain and wetness
inside, surrounding,
Alone, not lonely.
In togetherness
in illness
in stillness
in caress
It's a mess
Yes such a glorious mess
It's a blur
Of black-hole shine and heat scrapes
and abused thighs
and love letters of the body
incomplete anticipation
and clay centers
moulded, folded
goaded, exploded.
Running pain of the blood
and the madness thinning it
within it all
in a mausoleum
of history
and futures
of spread legs
and two fingers
tracing your lips
and a restless
sheet of bed
soaking the cyanide
sweetness of feeling
and confessions in the darkness
of innocence bartered
and battered
and scattered on the wind
gambled and lost
to adult hands
and moans
that never give freedom
but only fountains
of reluctant affection
in a memory
disturbed and raped with
holier than thou
and whispers and
fingers that
are profane.
More than a whore's trade
a shallow grave
more than
and less
than love
and pure
in its corruption
and conquest
flower of nubile
growing under the
belly button with other
golden cabaret flowers
and the eulogy
of love.

Friday, February 4, 2011

World Pin

feels like a thousand hands plucking
your skin out of your ears
the jarring noises of the living dead
walking dazed
under the wounds of the world
and the sun and dried aging
meeting points of time lined
little streets of churlish possession
under bombs and limbs
and desert hearts
and what does faith have to give
what indeed does the disease of the mind
have, to call me names
of selling and sold
and fleeting kisses in the rain
when I've drowned and died and
and seen everything
in nothing but blood
and a scream

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Black and White Rain

I said to myself tonight
there will be no pain tonight
there will be nothing
just clutching of pillows
and a blanket to cover me
black and white
it covers everything
and there is a sheen of black and white rain on the table
on the street
on the neon sign of this night-time animal farm
black rain and white
staining my pillow
staining my bed sheet
leaving traces
without colour
just a sheen
nothing to notice
nothing to know
where it fell
on the dog's chin
near my feet
making all that is there
into all that isn't
like a vineyard of age
it's eating through reality
a starkness
a way of the eyes
a way of the mind
a way of wishing
it is there in these
the hollowness is heavy now
with this rain
purity and decrepit non-understanding
a solemn end
and deadness of living-ness
reflection of
a snobbish knowledge
of bourgeois death
i said to myself
i will live with this rain
this primordial creature
this only being
of honour in a dirty shuffling place
to be or not to be
is in its non-purple or non-pinkness
nothingness and its anti-thesis
cut out so velvet
and dearly from all knowing hands
kept aside like sugar cubes from chaos
there is black and white rain falling
you cant see it
you have covered your eyes with sleep
i wake up in puddles of it's departure
waiting for another cloudy day in the ceiling and numb mind.
black and white
there will be no pain tonight
there will be nothing.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

A Picture of You

I will draw a picture of you.....A picture of your petulant,socked feet. The black shadow of your nose ring...Your noir eyes of luminous contempt...Your full lips that are the curves of some anonymous fantasy.A little too full i think. "Don't tell my husband", she said.

Your artist's hands, with their colorful scar tissue and rivulets of veins....Your musician's hands,holding onto manifestations of the world.....Your self- proclaimed skinny body with it's heart falling to it's feet.....I will draw your ears,that await a question mark ear-ring. And your black hair....that is an ordinary black...with an extra-ordinary history.

I will draw you....The dual arches of your nose, flaring with the scent of a woman....Your neck, holding a head that is always floating.... Your teeth that have bitten lips..... and a pencil....maybe. A mundane tongue that has devoured, destroyed or amused with a lick....or a word.

I will draw a picture of you.....Your jaw-line and chin that have been stained with the misery of a lover and have slept in the womb of a pillow.....or a woman's breast....I will draw a picture of you, painted in the colour of flesh, of a pseudonym, and a pinch of smoke.....A picture of words sewn.... and.... erased and.... re-written in surrender to the thought of drawing....A picture....Of you.

Your Eyes Are The Windows To A Secret Gutter