POEM: Birds With Gills.

We rode to the banquet
like the harlequin of death,
in a piebald stallion of jest—
we made shame where shame couldn’t make itself—
we danced around a stump
celebrating the betrothal of fire and ice,
of flesh and sword;
and like madmen,
we danced on the sinking titanic—
And down we went,
on waves of their screaming—

We rocked their uncertain boats and their sodden cruelty
till we breached their sallow liveliness
And all these branches
stood out over the driftwood of our supplicating hands
where we struggled like ghosts
haunting our own shadows.

Crying like birds in windless—cloudless voids,
our wings were basal, daunted by sturdiness,
And we dreamed of a fall, we flapped our gauntlets,
and filled the silhouette of infamy
with the leather landscape of our dim argent moons,

We were Icarus—flying past the sun—
Buoying towards the smoldering ash of
our own contrition—
we were the birds born to swim,
birds born not to soar.


POEM: “As If You Were Gone”

I like you here as if you’re gone,
distant like the tribe beyond the horizon;
Your presence fills my humble quadrant of solitude
with the clinging tincture
of your laughter, your cry, your moaning—
your everything that’s nothing now.
The nostalgic fondness
is very much a thing of piety
for it reminds of a God, not who is bitter,
but apathetic.

And your eyes hold the
sly triumph at having given my hold the slip
and here, the bed is filled less with
the scent of lovemaking, than the soreness felt
in the loins, starved of promised mating,
of deprivation.

And your voice threads the slew of
listless syllables
echoing only because it were expected.

But I’d rather commune with your silence
that thing beaming dimly around the shadows,
like the clouds above a dark lake of thoughts,
reaching out to me, slowly, inaudibly,
then it springs like the unfurling sea awoken from dreaming,
and it consumes me with its poison of syllables,
“Maybe we should just be friends…”
Yeah, maybe.

Dream of a Ridiculous Man

I suddenly dreamt that I picked up the revolver and aimed it straight at my heart—my heart, and not my head; and I had determined beforehand to fire at my head, at my right temple. After aiming at my chest I waited a second or two, and suddenly my candle, my table, and the wall in front of me began moving and heaving. I made haste to pull the trigger.

In dreams you sometimes fall from a height, or are stabbed, or beaten, but you never feel pain unless, perhaps, you really bruise yourself against the bedstead, then you feel pain and almost always wake up from it. It was the same in my dream. I did not feel any pain, but it seemed as though with my shot everything within me was shaken and everything was suddenly dimmed, and it grew horribly black around me. I seemed to be blinded, and it benumbed, and I was lying on something hard, stretched on my back; I saw nothing, and could not make the slightest movement. People were walking and shouting around me, the captain bawled, the landlady shrieked—and suddenly another break and I was being carried in a closed coffin. And I felt how the coffin was shaking and reflected upon it, and for the first time the idea struck me that I was dead, utterly dead, I knew it and had no doubt of it, I could neither see nor move and yet I was feeling and reflecting. But I was soon reconciled to the position, and as one usually does in a dream, accepted the facts without disputing them.

And now I was buried in the earth. They all went away, I was left alone, utterly alone. I did not move. Whenever before I had imagined being buried the one sensation I associated with the grave was that of damp and cold. So now I felt that I was very cold, especially the tips of my toes, but I felt nothing else.

I lay still, strange to say I expected nothing, accepting without dispute that a dead man had nothing to expect. But it was damp. I don’t know how long a time passed—whether an hour or several days, or many days. But all at once a drop of water fell on my closed left eye, making its way through the coffin lid; it was followed a minute later by a second, then a minute later by a third—and so on, regularly every minute. There was a sudden glow of profound indignation in my heart, and I suddenly felt in it a pang of physical pain. “That’s my wound,” I thought; “that’s the bullet …” And drop after drop every minute kept falling on my closed eyelid. And all at once, not with my voice, but with my entire being, I called upon the power that was responsible for all that was happening to me:

“Whoever you may be, if you exist, and if anything more rational that what is happening here is possible, suffer it to be here now. But if you are revenging yourself upon me for my senseless suicide by the hideousness and absurdity of this subsequent existence, then let me tell you that no torture could ever equal the contempt which I shall go on dumbly feeling, though my martyrdom may last a million years!”

POEM: Plunges Into Pathos

History holds more than its seams.
Its truces are hemmed by the tatter of abandoned ideals,
the nightmares of the sightless,
hobbling upon the dark leeway
of pale ghosts and dim street-lights, to
break the loop of passing,
if only for its begotten wonders.

With eyes turned from the future
I walk towards the past and dream the
dreams of passing solitude,
dreams colourless and longer than I want remember.
I notarize the passing,
the transition
with words I feed my mind
and the gestures that mold my reality.

I’m my past, bereft of my present
no scribe can tell these plunges into pathos apart
no do I want them to.
For, I’ve seen the eyes of promise in a
newborn’s blind eyes
I’ve held my fate in the tepid caul of its birth.
I’ve seen the same cold enthusiasm in the eyes
Of my senile friend Alfonso.
I’m the leeway, between these two extremes
I’m the large boulder upon 
Which circumstance places the lever
And my will skewered, seesaws between the
Squealing baby and the sighing Alphonso
And I balance my world through theirs—
I’m Archimedes of finitude
I’m history that is yet to happen;
A faith collapsible under the burden of waiting.