A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!

And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets
Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----

Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given

These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes

Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting.
Nowhere.

Not a single line
was written today
on your lips.

End is drawing near.
I am trying to remember
where we had begun.

I want you, to know
yourself and start weaning
away from the moons.

No prosthesis will
work, I will run, run after
the fading sun for the
last kiss.

The raw wounds
don't need any bandages.

Like sandpaper
your hurting throat will
give a long call.

i still taste you on
the tip of my tongue,
sharp and silky and starry
even my neck remembers
your lazy lips and naughty violet imprint
i still see myself
fragile in your moonlit eyes
between soft blinks
and gentle crinkles

unwillingly slipping
into melting amnesias
and hazy evasion forces its way
down my throat
it dances fractals in my lungs
taunting me,
discarnate and disbodied
drifting ethereals turned ghostly fog
staining my crooked memories

morning came very early... like a graduate class.
it dispelled the notion of a snowflake's last Will and Testament
gilding the nettles, where the berries were plump and deep virility
nesting in the fearsome spines of an Urchin
of such Symmetry, that your medallions
become clay; and your Heart is restored
to fullest Rage... where a lark Once donned the Umbral Crown
of a yellow Sun.... Now morning came early in the dark
stealing your revisions from the very skull
of your Mind's Meme. from the skull you etch your herds
Of Bison... some figure with a spear
plunging deeply into the
'Side Joke.

You are Purchased
for a thimble of blood from a white Turnip !
and returned to the Parties, gargling rainbows and leprosy...
chafing the Beauty of a grog of distilled amnesias in a perfect Assumption... grooming our prayers for higher education
via fresh Hells and chipping away, always away, at the ****** Windows !
shards of a slightly opened view to a backyard
over a sink in your feelings, where you cup your hands
and splash a bracing revelation from a cool spring
Sprung from a pipe that runs Under the House, in the Dirt's dirt....
There in the gut of where
You call your Self
by Your
Name...

like a lamb in a lion's mouth
sharing the spoils of sacrifice
as well the lethality
of a Conviction's breach. you groom the best oblivions
running a comb through your Beached Whale.
all the blubber for your candles lit !
to better gloom the room's dark harmony, with all the Irony
Intact. but never the reason
you seldom
spat at Kites -
until the Wind bit your nose
in December...
because you never found a scarf
to match the disappointment in your
imagined eyes
as seen through the crease of your profile,
squinting at pixies
and marsh fires.... loving you in spite of you
is the every day horror of discrete epiphanies
that lead only to a grave of fireflies
and stray orphans from a clutch
of messenger pigeons... painted to look like wisps -
of no more than a grain of shadow...
with feathers so soft they perish
as you tremble your touch... groping the fragile wings
of a robot's grip on soaring metaphors... a frantic sort of hazy.
connections where the frost burns
your navel -
while basking in the
Furnace.

like a peach in a lightning bolt... fermenting in Plato's Cave
bargaining the Mahjong for the Google Map -
to your very next departure.
" Living the Glimpse " is what they call it,
back at Rocco's Bar.
you never drink for free but never pay for the miles you weep
with the tears you keep.
you make a Living Wage... and part with your loot.
and the bourbon back.
limestone heartaches merely caverns
where you least expect to see your Self
cavorting in the dark
with the
Truth.

You Beam Down to Look Up.

most of your amulets are barnacles
but you Sea just fine.

roving the volume of an Emptiness
with flint and a raincloud
by design.

preaching to a Flame about
an Iceberg god
that never Fell a Tree
to set ablaze.

you are never seen again if you catch the bus...

and nothing else happens
anyways.

while waiting,
a brown ***** stares.
unshawled, it barks.

the seat next to me remains seatless.

the tinted glasses slide without a sound,
painting a portrait of a lonely girl.
heart sunk, eyes preying on sleep.

Sylvia comes tip-toeing, and sits next to me,
spewing verses like a venom-spouting python,
encrusting and refusing to let go.

i see the tinted glasses reflecting back amnesias.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002

yes, i sometimes do: the odd star-gazing... not because i find solace in the constellations - although: truth be told: how did man arrive at a pyramid or triangle: or any other geometric proposal if not via the stars... i look up... i see them bewilder me and thrown me into the pit of geocentrism - by night this is what the eyes require to digest... take a peep at... come to think of it: i have written this for eyes solely: i think (therefore i doubt) i have left my tongue somewhere where onomatopoeias are best uttered: where words have no power... *** in a brothel - i like to think that all brothels are scented with an allure of a perfume that's very much all: bourbon "stink": by stink i'm inviting a texture rather than a scent per se... it's sticky... it's almost gluttonous: how these two opposing bodies can flesh out an architecture of diabolical pressures with a tenderness: that upon touch is a wilting passing by. Yes, these stars... these fazes of drifting between stages of amazement coagulated with utter dumb bewilderment - their sanctity of faking animate illiteracy - as any sensible stone might: a breath of god a devil's eye - they are forever "sensible": unmoveable... yet give them enough years and they are predictably chained to the same canvas. I can't object to what i'm forever subjected to... these stars these pressures of time... so to deviate... i took a stroll through my garden in this glorious wealth of night... to admire my work on the cement work of a newly erected fence... that i had to dig a miniature trench and fill it with cement so that my neighbour's **** garden would not penetrate my bias against weeds... the rains have been plentiful... no **** sprouts on my side of the fence... armed with a flashlight i chanced upon looking down to see where my foot were toying with step and perhaps some mythology of chess... what did i shine upon? well... the graces of the night welcomes a **** sapiens dreaming about origins of **** similis... that's all the night is worth: a sleeping fellow at the pivoting crux of membranes - i too desire a night filled either by a vacancy of dreams: therefore a lack of... or at least something to give my fatty sponge of a brain: illumination ill conceived... two slugs: feasting over a corpse of a third slug... that i must have strapped to a pressure from my foot... and how... gloriously spectacular: this feast of two slugs on a body of a third... some of the consummate part thus exposed almost looked: appetising in a sense that: seafood appears when... given unto a dissection prior to... the cooking hands... yes.. yes... STAR gazing... only for a little while... L is just sort of a right-handed... while delta is most certainly just shy of an equilateral triangle... pity that a square was never given a "letter": beside the point! up up above these stars these dreams of an exhausted geography of the world... the tamed and the less so projects of ennobling "barbarians"... but of course little ol' life beside man feeds off the night... a wise fly will take refuge on a leaf of ivy beside a ripe fist bundle of teasing burgundian blood fruits... even if shining a light upon it, it will not stir or dare movement... shine a light upon the slugs... the younglings will fold their eyes and peep from a fatty covering of their slurpy gut / glut... but the higher ranks 'un will continue their festive **** of cannibalism... for someone who still managed to see how the countryside operated... the ergonomics of keeping chickens for both eggs and flesh... how chasing one poor judas around the yard... yielding a stump of wood an axe and... the last electricity of a rolling of the eyes and the extension of the tongue from out of the beak... until... the body was carried away to be plucked from its feathers and poached for a soup... the remaining chickens would start up a frenzy... jumping onto the stump dancing voodoo... pecking at the head and slurping up the gushed out blood... for all that's night: oh look! prime visage to counter the constellations has decided to take up a promenade: peruse of the sky... scythe baron that coming upon her zenith will turn from an illuminating autumnal bask in yellow to a bone carving whiteness... half illuminated while half hidden... this star gazing... but little of the night i've rented for an hour beyond a predictable pattern for days to come / to salvage... such "things" happen below mere minor stalking a sensibility of cravatte attired smocking donning type of societally accepted conversation: such things as csns only breed mirrors and ghosts for their brood... and have to discourage an ownership of them from a genesis: one born from the agony of thought: is to never find repose in the well-established furore of an aging body... the original splinter is this: gruesome advent of over-adjectivity... from the sensible pleasure of the night... to this base life ladden toil for toil: oculus per oculus... such greasy masters of sloth roam the critter domain of the night... such slurp base degradations of what's edible and what's not... i come to the conclusion that: not all is this forced **** of prizes, of amnesias, of... i kept myself forgotten upon a third descriptive usher-ing of detail... yes... from such heavenly sanctity of an above... to such debasement cold... thrown among a harvest of potatoes... it has been an absolute pleasure to revel in: the demands themselves presented... perhaps what's missing is... an haiku for the coroner? i gladly think, that that's all that's ever missing: to make enough puncture into canvas, page... silence.