You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. Joseph Joubert

Saturday, April 10, 2010

1.49 pm

This summer afternoon,
A rally marched up my curve
I stretched out my self to
wind you up my waist

besides corals, gems and seas-hells…

There was a song
licking underneath my

and your voice like ink filling my nerves…

at this circle where
planets do not function
and stars raise their
roots upto the sands

I want you rowing down
In a canoe, past wolves
and weeds

into a lake that’ll take
you to my ribs, my
flesh, my organs and
split beans…

each end of my veins
shall sprinkle colours
earth has never seen,
each pore shall bloom
redder than they did in other autumns

my flesh like an anxious doe..

I shall hold my breath
Like a flickering lamp
Away from the gust of your
like you would c r a w l up a satin floor
bent on hips over my

the first matchstick
might burn out
but I’ll hold till you
out of water into my
that surrounds my intestines

I cant see the mirror
drifting you in its wave to another
for all that in you
-are my fruits

Inch by inch, the whole orchard
I have buried all seeds in you.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

in a dizzy afternoon bus
I caught the brown boy
By his wings

And now ii drink him often- his pollens
Stirred in my white tea….
Wont you come and see
how I am shrinking
like an elastic too stretched
…and the fragrance of loveless tree

my stem is drawing from them

Nails to fit me in a coffin!

Monday, April 5, 2010

Tulips I

Today I know
There is an error
In the sum
at the east of my pelvic

something making me a fish for air
to barter poetry
long time since I wrote something
so the body broke into a rebellion
waiting to be gauged
under electric moons
and tape and camera

and scissors that espied
the healthy, now dark intestine within
with an antelope

schhhh- schh—skree- screeching

no. cannot remember the hyacinths
cannot remember the story-teller
of the giant inside my body

cannot think of gulping
the remaining vodka
cannot allow noodles to caress
down my throat
or his love to moisten the tip
of the broken mound

suns are over, and all naturals
so are all flowers and leaves of my book

so I fear the page
where Sylvia got her Tulip printed…

the doctor has to determine the rage
of a meaningless punctuation within