This fevered brow seems to be the resting place
for all the nightmares that you have unleashed.
What would I have to do now to erase
the memory of you plunging into my wretched
heart, a blunt dagger called betrayal.
Give me back my trust, at the very least, give me denial.
Cato was very much an ordinary cat
who reclined royally on my welcome mat.
No, he wasn’t one of those portly Siamese
with all fur and no brains, none of that for me, please.
Nothing remarkable about his pointy face -
Just a scruffy cat, not one you’d want to embrace.
Cato had just one name, not three, as far as I know
But I could be wrong, as I’ve been before, you know.
I suspect he was eminently capable
of carrying off an effable, effenineffable,
deep and inscrutable singular name, just as
any old poet’s cat, but I dared not ask.
Cato had permitted me just to listen
and chronicle his adventures, wielding my pen.
I was allowed some pertinent questions; the rule
said pertinent, mind, not personal. He was no fool.
Therefore I wasn’t privy to his singular name.
It was a closely guarded secret – what a shame!
Questioning, pondering, wondering – trivialized as “PMS LOL?
Been with a lot of women, so know all about moodswings”
Go fuck your tiny brain, retard
Hormones
Why are men uncomfortable with menstruation
Why are women uncomfortable with menstruation
Catholics
Catechism, blood on skirts, don’t talk about it
Kept under wraps because coming of age was at 12 rather than 14 of previous generation
Celebration because she is ready to be impregnated?
Announce to the world that the womb is ready to be seeded
Legs to be spread only to the one chosen (by family, society, rules, world)
Pseudo liberated chauvinists
Men pseudo sympathetic to feminism - Why would a species/group recognised/accepted as higher/better willingly step down? Makes no sense. Yet pretend – to understand (PMS) condescend, patronise.
Feminists aren’t humanists, but then retards wouldn’t know.
Questions that can’t be answered, spirit that can’t be quelled, anguish of the soul – attributed to PMS
Go fuck yourself, you retard
Beautiful language.
Apocryphal.
Scary shit.
Intention to scare.
Distorted story
of a man named Jesus
who lived some years ago,
I fell in love with
some years ago.
I am Magdalene.
Where are your stones?
When you're around, a giant smiley called Glee
makes its appearance, to seduce and woo.
Glee is a fickle friend who visits me
only with you; when you leave, he bids adieu too.
You came, to give me music. That’s why you came.
I fell in selfish love; I hoped you’d stay.
You came with my music, you bore his name.
I should have known. Angels cannot stay.
Why
in fuck’s name
can I not write about
pizzas
and gooey cheese
and chilli flakes
and sugar
and money
and honey
and home
and children
and recipes
and schools
or even the yellow white round faced moon
that shyly peeked through potted bamboo
while I was stuffing my face with French Fries.
Why the fuck must I think breathe write -
You.
I should have written that poem for you
Yesterday.
When words were floating inside my eyes;
when every thought ended with
“Him
the one
with music in his fingers
the one
who brought manna from heaven”
I eat my bitter heart, black coal
with tar blood which seals the lip of a wound
that splays my ribcage open.
This curse repeats, a never ending play
of bleeding shadows, puppet show
to entertain minions
of Satan.
Oh Darkness, mother, embrace my bitter heart;
touch my frail soul that begs for your mercy alone.
My bitter heart, is a toy,
is a toy, for some
for some minions
of Satan and of God.
And for all humans.
Oh Darkness, my friend, embrace my fearful heart.
This frail soul begs for your mercy alone.
What nightmares did you sow in my mind
O Jesus
that the brooding canopies of its lush growth
shut out the merest speck of light.
Darkness, kind stranger, put your arms around my frail body
Close my eyes with cold palms
I beg for your mercy alone.
Of the lot many things that make me blush;
one is a secret in my heart of hearts -
that in your mouth, like a darkling thrush,
have sung, several of my body parts.
Your smell is of autumn; rich and woody -
Of rain - on sorrel leaves, on freshly churned earth.
Of warm truffles, of the wind that blows free;
Of frankincense that burns in a joyful hearth.
Shocking phrases of city slang you teach me.
My joy knows no bounds as I say them aloud.
I am giggly. It’s called unbridled glee.
Your presence is the drug that I’m allowed.
I’m beautiful, it’s just that you don’t have the eyes
I’m divine, it’s just that you don’t have faith
I’m the answer, it’s just that you’ve stopped asking
I’m your dream, it’s just that you sleep no more
I’m the sweetness of your memories, it’s just that you’ve forgotten.
As days go by, labels shrink
and wither away like dead skin.
I am not even narcissistic anymore.
Only delusional.
Amidst the most mundane household chore,
with no warning at all, a ball of grief
coiled in my gut, rolling up to explode
in my skull. It was an untamed creature,
which left in its slithering wake a brief
burst of toxins, killing love in its slow spread.
I'll serenade you with love songs - thousands
of them. But you tire easily of my words.
If only we could be together in silence
Then, in the dark, I’d speak to you without words.
I’m drunk on pain – heady fumes lodge in my throat.
My hurts are but clichés - a trite stretch of debris,
yet the anguish is not dulled, not by a mote.
If thou wilt, remove this chalice from me.
Your honesty is like a second voice --
It clings to your own in a ghostly glow
Sometimes soothing and drowning all noise;
at other times, exploding in a deafening roar.
Your fire has consumed me, my life is now
a joyous flame. But soon, you will go
and leave my world cold. Tell me how
I’ll keep myself warm. Christe eleison*. Don’t go.
* Christ have mercy
This senseless longing is the eye of a twister --
your face ripples along its whirl pooling walls.
Trapped in the spinning vortex of its lure
my body is ravaged by violent squalls.
Among all the terrifying wrongs that spread across
all tenses, I find the most terrifying right – You.
Why then, do I have to let you go - when your loss
will drown me in a sea of wrongs, with no rescue.
Why do I love you? You might as well inquire
why leopards are spotted or circles are round
Just so you know, there are no reasons anymore;
only the knowledge that you’re the shore I’ve run aground.
(i)
I don’t have a god, neither yours nor mine
Since that makes me less worthy of your God’s love,
would it follow by default
that I become unworthy of your love too?
(ii)
I have forsaken and desecrated those beliefs
that, ironically, form the core of your being.
Would I be forsaken and evicted from your mind
for that very reason?
(iii)
I disregard age old norms that I consider foolish
I am not afraid to be the first one
to break tradition, I’ve done that often.
Would you be able to live with that?
(iv)
My love is rooted in freedom,
by itself, it draws no boundaries.
They are to be drawn by you,
and it’s more difficult than you imagine.
Would you be willing to put in the effort,
and would you willingly step inside?
(v)
I wouldn’t deem serving you food
a responsibility that weighs heavy on my shoulders,
neither ironing your clothes nor straightening your wardrobe.
However, I will bring you food even if I starve
and clothe you even if I freeze to death.
Would you be comfortable with that?
(vi)
Money is not important to me. I like luxury, but there is no craving.
I will not nag you to save and keep for the future
So you might end up penniless.
My money and your money, will be your money.
So, if you save, you save, else no.
Will you blame me for ending up with ‘no future’?
(vii)
Talking of saving. And risking repetition
I have no saviour who will save my soul
from burning in the eternal fires of Hell
Except for you, if you want to see me in your Heaven
You will have to take me there yourself.
Would you risk heaven for love?
Your name spontaneously manifests in each
icicle of thought, and feathers out like cumulo nimbi.
I have to be careful - in my sleep and in my speech,
lest a wispy cloud should tumble out in a sigh.
Honey, you put me in such a quandary
All I can give you are some pretty words
on which you’d throw an idle glance. Maybe
a breezy “Lovely, babe”, if you feel generous
enough and then dismiss. You want more.
What can I give you? Gifts.com is no good,
I cannot let piddling website junk touch your
beautiful fingers (and if I really could
I’d let nothing touch you or even see you)
Perfume? Too wimpy. (Besides, I love your smell)
Heart shaped chocolates? Now that smacks too
much of consumerist Valentinism. Maybe you could tell
me what you want. And would you want more?
I love the sound of the word, when you whisper
‘Some more’, ‘Give me some’, Sigh! Mon amore!
Take what you want, love, you’re my Valentine forever.
That you will leave, is truth eternal
And when you do, the sun will burn down.
It’s inevitable. Till then I might as well
allow myself your love and smile like a clown.
Among assorted official correspondence,
a blank mail from you nestles lack lustre.
Why has it come to pass that our romance
must end now, so too our grand adventure?
How do I thank you for your faithfulness!
For one so sought after and desired,
it is to belong to me that you choose.
I cast no spells, yet I have you enraptured.
Choco flavoured yummy cornflakes
Clatter against white ceramic bowl
Dollops of milk swirl and splash
Crispy chompy crunch in the mouth.
Mmmmmm. I like.
Stud - singular, garrulous, decidedly entertaining
Most ‘ooo mama’ – eliciting
No mere work horse, but brain-bran noble steed
Easy on the eye, easier on the mind.
Mmmmmm. I like.
Muffin to have with tea, with currants inside
Soft, spongy, heavenly aroma
Melt in the mouth, coat the tongue
Bring out the glutton inside, eat baby eat.
Mmmmmm. I like.
Poet. Write about the sky the fields the ship
Death love life work sex fun
Songbird, lovebird, likebird, friend
Seeker of truth, curious cat
I like. I miss. I loved.
The seeds were sown a long time ago,
they have yielded an abundant crop.
Emptiness took root and spread on fallow
land - post card perfect now, against the backdrop
of frozen clouds that once wept caustic tears
to wilt laughter weeds. Stalks of solitude
bear ripe grains of silence, the reaper appears
with a scythe. All business shall now conclude.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t behave so;
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking of a stranger
from a far away place and a long time ago.
I don’t know him. Like I said, he’s a stranger.
Never before have I written for someone I didn’t know!
(Abecedarian)
I have many excuses for not writing
One is that I do not have a laptop
Writing on paper is tiring and boring
Only a keyboard makes me type non stop.
Then there’s the thing that I don’t have an alcove
Into which I can comfortably retreat.
Because this is such a noisy place, by Jove!
Imagine - 3 televisions, World Space and a pet parakeet
It is also because I don’t have a muse
Who bleeds mush out of my lovelorn heart
Now I better maintain status quo, for sans muse
I happy, I not sad, I better not start, what?
Woman, do you know that he not only betrayed your love
He also betrayed your secrets to me
Do you know, he handed me a bundle of letters
That smelt of your lust and love for him
He gloated and preened like it was his birthright
That you were his birthright, you probably were
He told me he could do what he pleased with you
And you’d go running back to him
Even after he beat you up black and blue
He told me all about your little quirks in bed
He lay bare your family, the fights, all the gore
I, the stranger, listened and observed, I didn’t care
Not for him, not for you, you were just a story
And he, just a cock sucking cum slurping two legged excuse for a human.
(Ne humanus crede)
Then their cloaks billowed in the raging wind
Raucous cries tore into a black eventide.
Priests of Darkness were they – for they had sinned
and heaven to them was forever denied.
Corvidae – theirs was an insatiable lust
for all of the secrets of darkness and light.
Gospels and testaments earned their mistrust,
and their blasphemous questions sought to incite.
The meek and the god fearing sheep were rounded
before the Corvidae corrupted their minds.
Virtuous womenfolk also proceeded
to aver to masters, their staunch allegiance.
The Priests of Darkness possessed snake-like eyes;
their words, their manner, above all their questions
made men start thinking, made men dangerous,
and goaded women to demolish their chains.
Then God and the King and all Holy Leaders
Conferred together to set things back right.
“Questions cause anarchy and views diverse,
Faith’s what we need for the world to shine bright.”
In a cave that the Corvidae usually met
Masked assassins, with sharp daggers, then hid
and they stabbed the Corvidae without regret
the world was then saved, of Priests it was rid.
Then their cloaks billowed in the raging wind
Raucous cries tore into a black eventide
Black winged Corvidae, ‘gainst a dark sky maligned
Cawed and cried and circled their graveside.
(Corvidae is a family of birds that contains the crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, jays, magpies, treepies and nutcrackers)
My gift, lover, for you this year,
leaves me with me a broken heart.
I bid you free to go, my dear;
Go while you can, and have a fresh start.
