A love a nightmare
at the first hint of
from the kitchen cabinet
in poly packs
A new day has begun.
Its warmth wins new territory,
its aroma breeds salubrious peace,
its froth bloats.
Tall as hope.
Only the bitterness doesn’t go.
Twenty sugar cubes wasted- a life
that’s swirling like a nightmare
is a nightmare
Where are those girls?
Who carried warm water in their purses.
Saving for later, for a whiny day.
Dipped tea-leaves in it and splashed in the faces
of the child-men who came to them timidly.
Memories of them
petered and lost in my heart.
In correct times impermissible, unwise, perhaps?
So, whisper, whisper.
Benevolence, one part, and lust, another- a meady concoction of the seventh heaven
and, thrill as their bait.
Thus the trade- oh the trade is so onesided that I’d trade my house, my cars, and the damn dog away for I could be thrilled instead.
Where are they gone?
The lithe girls who carried perfumed water in their crotches,
would raise a war with the lift of an eyebrow- or a titter storm?
Are they done now, gone now, even now, coward now?
The children of a norm?
I stand nearer to you. Not you.
The you that I adore.
Will give my life to-
My love will shine like the blinding drops of summer, will parch us,
and will overcome us like rain.
Greasy strands of memories would put salt on our wounds.
In the bitter rain I will cling to you, to you, to you.
You will be there when I am dry.
in this indecision I live
whom I both hate and love.
Charlemagne, the Holy Roman Emperor watched the cathedral burning. The Crown of Thorns had turned into ashes, and the old relics were gone.
The brave Emperor thought what more could be done now? As his horse, his vassals and he himself were legless- a bronze piece of fiction.
While the wind around him gushed terribly, thick with smoke and embers, stiflingly warm.
The old Emperor grunted, turned around in disgust, and asked a horrified tourist to carry him to the Rue de la Bûcherie.
My whims, my whims, live-
You are paid- you are paid with my time,
A time that’s paved with blocks of lightness,
Live, so that you and I align.
My sky, my sky, spread-
Metered with clouds, fickle, a rain-
Wash my inner streets, my inside-
Lissome wet, come to me again.
My bitter, my bitter, stay-
We are naive, we are pure, who?
In a love feral, blood soaked and infinite-
I am dog-tired, if you only knew.
A man who had known me for a long time said encouragingly once, “At fifty, if you keep fit, a few women will surely be attracted to you.”
He was driving. I don’t drive. I waited- uncomfortably- beside him, pretending glee. While my eyes were on the windscreen watching on the road a cow licking a wounded bull. Who knew who she belonged to.
The man shifted the soliloquy to self-driving cars. Two thousand twenty five was not so far away. Robots would take our jobs. AI would write our poems. Money would be hummed out of a million servers.
Feminists would destroy families. The surly sisters would take our children away and make them eat kale breakfast. Why? Because, they can! Men would not know their place. Love would be disastrous for personal ego, et cetera.
“Only cows’, he said,
‘only cows, if free, if they so would desire- in the small hum of sweltering asphalt roads- would unflinchingly adore the bulls. And that would be a sight of hope.”
Happiness girls are standing on the tarmac of a red plane- bare teeth, pulsing. Their breasts are proud like upper class- their leggings plump boast like hope.
In the dream of a dream of the edgy runway lights. The turn from here is a stroll. A norm-bound, debt-bound a port that devours. Despises a man who’s drunk one too many on the flight. Cheap and on the red eye. Now leering.
From the nose to the tail of the plane, as fleet as fluttering flames. Ebullient nymphs. Women who know no bitterness. A sea of plain and contrite men who’ve lusted but not made a claim- burlesque!
The girls’re giggling and raising my hope.
To stop now, to stray from the path. To forsake the edicts of monogamous love. Or be by the book. To live on without a hope of a lay with happiness girls, is good perhaps.
But, heavens, I am so sad.
is not an honesty contest.
The time value of truth
wanes so fast that
at the silver jubilee
either truth would survive
or the man.
Or both would be at the bar.
The woman, gulping down the truth.
Truth, gobbling the man.
That’s how I learned to inhale long and deep
and exhale quick.
In a bed for forty years, one small bed, we one.
I could have chosen (Could I not?) to follow another man
Or lived like a fairy, sans
But, God, it surely felt good to make him mine.
Not in a quest to find love. No, no-
As it happens in dark halls, pages, in glitter rains-
With him- I- freed and tussled in a crammy bed-
Shredded each other for pleasure and pain.
I will walk out and
go with love.
Don’t tell me how good that would be,
the consequences dire.
Or, how good should I be, without it, free.
I won’t listen, no, no.
I will stand up, hold her hand, forsake you for good.
I will walk out and go-
go with love.
No preacher has told me so.
No rocker has swayed me (my heart) with sad crooning at those oblong nights.
But this, this feeling that gnaws a pit (in me)
that I am nothing-
nothing without her.
Before I forsake this feeling, I’ll forsake you, naive.
Before you say a word (and wield a weary smile),
I will walk out of this place.
And go with my love.