Sorry for sending you poems to read
I tend to forget that poems are meek
And the vagueness that pleases me
May not be pleasing for you

I forget, when I am charmed, I forget
To be quiet, to be quiet, to hold
The words firmly in my fist
Poetry is winged, birds I must keep

A gift for you, but you do not want
I know you want to, but cannot want
I dont get it, i forget it, I say read this
Then this and then this one too

Then you lie, impatient, hum along
And I cannot help but sag down a bit
Please do not begrudge my silence
I know no friend for words but her

Sorry, for sending you poems to read

What is wrong? Why do I turn
From the face of grief?
Why have the houses stopped talking
Their eyes droop, their spines bend
They are leaning as friends over each other
They are sleeping

Rain combs her hair through the air
Too long, they fold
As darlings on the ground
Then she shakes her head
And the chaos stirs the trees

What is this bored suffocating silence
Sagging in my mouth
It leaves a bitter taste, coats my breath green
I am suddenly ashamed to speak

Sun in the night sky
erupts like laughter
sweet, old
but not as loud
tips around in splashes
that scotch the sky
and turn its blackness grey

I am haunted through hours
by the grotesque sounds
of its pain
people gape and smile
at the firework show

But I cannot still my shaking
I am too quiet to quench
the growing silence in me
I watch the show like all else
I fear I’ll never speak again

Song, thaw me
Music, voluntarily gloom, I smoke
The turbid threads of lone
And let it stir the blood in me
Pills of ponder, the bottle
Of movement. Dance instilled
In my wooden neck. I am
Not astray in the moors
Of monotony. I am grass
Aged gold through days of speed
Blind sun stumbles, a ball
Shoved about in the faceless
Facets of the sky. The night
With its thousand vertices
Does not ***** me. What is this
This meagre crop, this
Dry highway of my skin. It gleams
Like a lake, and they mistake me
For a lover. Why do I tarry
So long before sleep?
Why does my heart
hurl itself about the room
I watch with a clutched chest
Fearing the fan would tear it down
And my mind with a thousand
Vertices makes constellations
Constellations too many
No room is left for the darkness
Noisy disquiet yawns in my bones
And they crack their necks
But God is dust on my shelves
And his angels are lit
In a paltry poignance
There is no lament or disection
Poetry is a slave to sorrow
And the sorrow is not mine.
This sorrow is borrowed, stollen
From a foothpath of grey
Ragged and tattered, used
Thrown. Stained with a love
That is not mine.

Song, thaw me on
The poem is so close
To completion... it is so close
To spreading its sensuous
Wings. It sounds
A perfect tint of green, the
Wind blows and almost,
Almost it

No ceremony
Or invention
Convention
Ever stagnant

You, foul Country
Are my skin
You are not tunic
Not shalwar

Not the shame
With which I
Stiffle my chest
Not love

Fleeting,
Fumbling, flapping
Forced to sit
And forced to flee

Your tongue burns
As a curse
On my tongue
Your hands

Are *****
With my guilt
Your crime
Was me

Your tears seep
In pillow and they
Weep all night
On my face

There is no grief
In me to spare
You bring with you
Everything hot

You beat
As a breathing
Heart of fire
Your feet

Are defiant
Stained with a Henna
That is red as souls
Your wounds

Are flowers on my
Palms, your laments
****** in my wrists
In beauty, I

Return to you
You, the grotesque
Soil of my sprout
Your sins my scars

Your songs my scars
Your violent dances
Alive as tulips
And the love

That you make
Is borne of silence
Whispered, crime
Your law is grey

Your child looks
At me forever
And it moves
Like winds, it moves

Me, it disgusts
At me, and in there
It examines everything
The streets

In your stare
Are quiet and shut
All the jewels
Are jewels of shame

And I do not
Wear you like a flag
I do not rejoice
When you are green

Release me
Or do not leave
Tyrant, I love you.
You peasant, you fool

Your kisses are petty
Your weight frail
You sob like a railway
And all your people

Are dead.
They were running
To you, their homes
Behind. They

Were all running
For you. You reach
In the quiet for me
But I am bleeding

I have killed the sun
And the dawn is you
Sweet, haggard, lover
Of brisk touch and flame

Your massacre
Is my massacre.
Your foul decay
Is my blood.

Now
The thunderous joy subsides
And I am out of breath
Cheeks hurting
Do I wear this face of self
Everywhere i go?
Do they see?
The confliction in creases
The smallness
The largeness
Of things
The disproportionate
Incapacities
I am no sombre-eyed bird
They say I smile sweetly
But I do not like my teeth
I do not like my joy
I am stiffled by my
Beautiful
Self-acceptance show
It is terrifying to appear
To be seen, twisted
Moulded over and over
By the eyeless mind,
Ever unchanged and
Impossibly me
I am open
For all but myself to see
And how many faces
For how many watchers
Am I to wear them all?
By God, am I to become them

Father you are not far from crime
I used to think you a better God
When I heard your footsteps pound
And shake the house still and child
But you are just as small as I
And timid you turn from door to door
And yell out wild in the void
You do not seem to see that we
Have so long packed up and gone
And left the door unlocked should you
One day see and follow through

But you are frown. You snore for long
And wake up to yell. You yell and
I think, is this all you will ever be
But no, my father is soft at dawn
When sun is blue and we are torn
Between memory and yearn
Nay, I say, with my shake of head
Father's his father's scared child
Give him a prayer, my God is kind
But then a gust of wind will pass
And fling at him his muttered curse
And we watch again the tempest rise
Above as flames about the sun
Then violin, whittle, wind and whale
Then generous lot with his love
He caresses so beautiful.

Porcelain becomes fear, but
There is no room for flight.
Father, you are not far from crime