Ants

ants. a whole bloody lot of them.

when all of them cry at midnight

the earth swells up in waves

and many think that the earth is crying

but it’s really the ants.

there’s one climbing up the grandfather clock

through the round plate of time

with memories of forgetting in its mouth

and a pistol aimed at its heart

because it’s at that tiny blank space between the dot and the stroke of i

that funny things happen

I have noticed them happening lately

ants creep and crawl along timeless tombs of moss,

cross Rubicon

and march away to crude, ancient eternity

mist eat up old elephant

six seasons of longing,

nine rings of rectitude

lash out of angry eyes of blind judges

the phantoms act their parts out,

the puppeteer takes out her trombone

and tigers turn to their own shadows for mercy

And all these happen

because dogs in dogged coitus on midnoon swelter

take us through sixteen million eclipses

and to sparrows who wanted to be Bach

but settled for crumbs instead

like our blind maestro who burned his violin

like the anger of Caliban when Orpheus looks back

like heartless roosters hooting for Cinderella

like Laika, blessed, boiled by the specter of science

like mother and father who make love every moment to create time

like you looking at me now

like me writing of you looking at me now

like our seven mirrored mirage

like the fox whose oversexed uncle died

like the music of hemlock

like fury, madness and slaughterhouse miracles

like Jupiter mauling Juno’s breasts

like hatred

like terror

like this relentless monstrosity of decay and defeat

but there are more ants on earth than things worth knowing in life and death

and when they start weeping

the world drowns every night

To the Girl with Mad Fire in Her Eyes

This house this sleep this bathroom this woman this music oh to be bound, bound by the restless nutshell of eternity,

tiger-shadow on the wall

the sun in you, the moon in you

weep as they burn.

This is when you wake up.

Between the seasons of wisdom and monstrosity.

the neck and a guillotine

maybe it’d be better to wake up by some shore

and see lost children fighting the phantoms on the other side

it’s an endless duel. Bitter rain fall on sad people. No rain for the sadder.

The sun is rising at some latitude and longitude right now.

“did the branches not protest?”

Child, you said you wept inside

when the doors were closed

and Samson had his hair tied to two poles – one that said “Eternity” and the other one, “Eclipse”.

And the archer ran from star to star, like demons bounding for the fairies and angels of moon

that slip through your childhood yolk, through the hearts of heresy and guts of plenitude

your first fright and your first fall

I’m looking at you through all this

Are you looking at me now?

I am far away now. It’s nine minutes past ten. My mirrors are stuck in a mirage.

Your colours in harlequin riot.

Well, that three headed hound – it was weeping too.

And when things are quieter and as lonely, we all weep. For sorrow shall dangle from our fingertips

and pain must show us the way to the ship that sails tall and proud.

You may speak to the clouds that adorn the nape of your neck

I may tie a red rag or two on the eyes of the bull that stare at me every night

So, let us move from town to town

with our big black empty suitcase.

Alone With A Gun

i painted you a green picture

it had the germs of life, 

oaks stood

kittens purred

like all ancient establishments

one old man singing at night

when the city is a forest

and the forest is a city

and both of us must drown

for autumn steps in

like an auteur, to wave

at our little flags of kindred mercy

and threesome is best in the snow

and women come and go

and so does Michelangelo

all in quaint motions across your forehead

where the sun burns like aimless dots,

ambling for the salt on the shores

for the blood in the skies

thus, i painted a green picture

it was the night of the vultures

it was another jigsaw puzzle

and there was no way to tell

the lonely who die

from the dead who are lonely

and now, from town to town

my golden monsters be blessed

send me postcards from Babylon

tell me of the lion-edged maps and charts

that point at the last tram

before it wipes off the frame

and the ghosts of the mist

who smell like childhood

and taste like death

tell their tales of conquest 

to the kind Emperor

as things grow cold 

along the curves of your tiny wrists,

and the green uncertainty

and pendulums and shadows of certain cool rivers

all add up. Narrow whispers surround us. Thus, we wait.   

Lion Rhymes

Lion-man, take the streets

Weeping for the dust

Lion man, they read out loud

From books of gold and lust

Your cage is strong, your claws are long

And pilgrims throng the tombs

Lion-man, hear them chant

Words lost in wombs

Lion-man, shadows heave

Bolting sky through sky

For the moon is down

The sun’s a clown

And angry arrows fly

Lion-man, heed the spring

And heed the cherry tree

For the stabs they stab in guts of heart

Are ever and never to be

Lion-man, pastel hues

Touches wilt in frost

For the war he fights

On lonely nights

Is meant for the truly lost

Lion-man, you know my name

Your coat of arms has blood

For both of us had lost our oars

before it came – the flood.

Your cup of gold, they’re filling it

With poison till the brim

Lion-man, I cheer for

the drowned, as they swim.

Lion-man, you saw the child

You saw the bomb of god

But did you see Homer, blinded

by his very own nod?

Lion-man, your iron mask

Our duel wasn’t true

For water flowed like water flows

And left its traces too

And through those traces

I tracked them down –

Food for the loveless lore

For salt and chance had tricked us both

into this lonesome shore 

So now we play our games of chess

And sign our benign pacts

Lion-man, sing to me

of dreams and other facts.

And now we glide from death to death

Begging for some rain

Lion-man, his hands are full

Of all that is to remain

Lion-man, take my soul

Turn it into gold

And then I’ll know what to do

When everything else gets sold

Lion-man, the knife’s so sharp

The steel’s so cold, my fright,

Every ladder leads to snakes

Through blinding streaks of light

Lion-man, Lion-man,

The shadows sing a song

Of matter, spirit and other places

where I do not belong.

Lion-man, when the music stops

And the disease hits the stars

Hold a mirror to my face

And show to me my scars

Lion-man, clouds come home

Like birds lost in mist

Close the rivers, close the eyes

where veins & highways twist

Lion-man, this treasure-hunt

Shall toll our mad death knells

But Lion-man shall ever live

In endless fairy tales

Lion-man, he eats the clocks

He shits them out as time

And then he eats this poem of mine

pissed by the lousy rhyme.