When he climbed upon his usual bed
after the noon meal, summer time,
the memories of his unusually long life
didn’t come out to render him a shade,
console him with the dream of a bicycle.
Rather he saw his dead sisters had
appeared from the crypt of his old sorrows
and hanged themselves from the roof;
squirming their vapour bodies, wiggling
their shadowy limbs in the air like they
couldn’t wait any longer to anoint him.
Appropriate not to repent then, he thought:
this, going from nowhere to nowhere, really
an abrupt dream between the dreamlessness,
mingled with blood, bone and the vagaries
of light, shadows and the economics of life.
Why worry then, with the making and seizing
of thoughts and the Sense of I: an aloof
property of the body at best: an unnecessary
burden, till the sense dies, till the old sisters
vanish in the meaningless waft of sky?
With this hope he opened his eyes
not to see the same orphaned dream again.
Is made of marijuana maze,
Dreaming the flight
Of a dour faced boy-
Hunched over a nude
In an old Playboy.
Smells of money, small mark ups-
A steel trolley floats on
The floor, pulling a Czech girl,
Belying the drag of a
Cheap daily skirt.
Is made of none, smells of none.
None in the name, none described-
The thought of none, the dream of none
Son of, daughter of, none!
Created this day, boy and girl.
Is full of drama and doors-
Open and shut-
As if a human heart, a rose bud-
If only, one could see.
The girl did not hear it, the lonely girl,
Wrapped in the winter in a Kashmiri shawl.
Biddy nostrils in white fog smelled a musk
Of a strange, burly man who softly asked,
Come to the woods, girl, there we laugh
Soaked in the moon, to the sounds of harp
Dizzy we dance to the frisks of life.
A bolo dance, under the spell of a knife.
Splaying your boa skirt, swaying you in sleep
Over the stones, atop a stone of the deep
Piercing your hollow in a gurge of blood.
Merry men stray where in merry men’s flood
Floating in a smell of the crude things done.
The scent of an icky glue in the beret sun
Came to her nostrils and stirred her up,
Deaf to a cranky Borg in cold stirrups.
It screamed, “Bloody hell!” Screeched for a halt.
A witness told the TV, “It’s the girl’s fault.”
Hit by a tram, torn, quietly she bled.
Lying in a morgue, silly, dreamless and dead.
Why weary now, friend, the white bell
Rings. If we breathe in hush, the stale
Corpse won’t let out the scream, the
Dreams won’t feel like birds, sea shells-
The old, foamy sea when muffled the cry
Of help. And hid in a petty man’s sty,
When the storm raged, breaking the sills
Of the bay, making the brave ships fly.
Home is a harbour, in a coherent play
Of love; torn, silly ships, in which stay
Till the storm dies, skull-crossbones
Adorns the navy blue sky. A pirate bay.
(I found a very old Greek poem -around 800 BC old- by Daemon Hipocritus. If you don’t like it, blame the poet.)
Gimme a moment, angel
Gimme a minute or two,
That what is taken, angel
Will be back to you.
See, this is a crazy dream
We are on th’ demon’s side.
Let Gods live pious lives,
We are heathens, don’t abide.
A lull and the battle wounds –
Every pain is worthwhile,
Tube rails blow white skirts;
Dancing diva, Monroe style.
It’s not about love, angel
Take sweet clay home, angel
Leave the fire, red-desire –
No! There’s no burn, angel
It’s a dream in purple, blue
In the morning when you’re back,
Everything is back to you.