Tuesday, March 18, 2014


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

Monday, March 17, 2014

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.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

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.   

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

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.