Saturday, February 28, 2009
Different and the same.
With each the insanity is different,
With each the shape of lust is the same.
Darkness over the face of the deep
Earth, shapeliness forming out of
With each the lack of love is palpable.
With each the relief they get after they fall or fail lifts and buoys them up.
Different and similar?
Different in the end
Though the same.
I remain or have ended up sane.
Behind the seemingly shapely-shapeless shamelessness of my lust.
They still come.
Love is Elsewhere.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A bunch of pale-yellow, wrinkled Indian
Women wrapped in grey, cotton coverings
Chant-faded, wind-blown granny slokas
Worm-holing, eddying, meaning less and less;
Oyster-shell mouths, closing, opening
To drone a requiem for dull-clad Indian
Women dyed in yellow, orderly saris
pleating a culture of blind humming,
drumming up the ancient, spent, ashen,
sperm of routine, illusions and emptiness,
Voices drowning, bowed down Indian
Women lie down, thighs pried apart
by lusty, wheat-eyed industrial men
Carving up, fragmenting Sita’s purity,
burning, pock-marking, disemboweling
This bunch of cow-ish, cowed down Indian
Women bent down, beat low, eating dust,
Offering cold-spread buttocks to fascists;
Pink-soft vaginas speared by black lingams;
See now, watch how, the Third Eye opens.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
But how could she tell her mother
The room she saw a week ago
Had pink walls, pink toys,
A pink tape-recorder,
The volume peaked to drown her shock,
Give her a new notion of the colour?
Always think of pearl,
The beads that fell yesterday.
Always think of pretty flowers
Like the aging bougainvillea.
Always think of lace,
Always think of lip gloss,
My lips when you smile
And for summer days,
Think of candy floss.