Hell: Remembering The Other People

He went off...
The body went out...
The face went in...
Rain made holes in his slippers.
The body went off...
The face went out...
He, back in...
There was silence in his slippers.
The face left back...
The body left out
He, crept on...
His teeth turned into ropes.
The body left blank...
The face unkept...
He pulled out...
That's all...the grin.

Say-Thing

Pornography is the most intense form of prayer
The screams are always working around what one hears
As the name of the holy father..."Oh! My God..."

For The Other Bacon...

He turned.
Facing the back.
A sliding-point
Was created in
The curtain.
His arse--
Another curtain,
Closing on the
Virgin paper-pulp.
A very white mind,
Very little hair on the surface.
Next to little trace of growth.
A rimless exit
From the historical farts.
Unheeded, unfinished
And yet to be undone.
No Second Coming or
Second Troy for him.
Not even the Anti-Christ.
Just another man, ungiven
Failing to master the image
Like an excrement.

(Trying to verbalize the great painting by Francis Bacon)

Once Again

Those shades once again
A midnight in a long time
So many years, unfathomed
Weeds blanketing my playground
Before so many years, unbelieved
Those shades twice born at midnight
Like never before, those roots
In between, as if never passed,
A shadowy cog in the offing
Weeds unblanketing my epitaph
So many years, unknown
The shades, perhaps never to be
Once Again...

The Plot-Mark

A sleep as deep as the hollow of a crow's skull; two holes...where, were eyes once. Now gone; switched off. She becomes imaginable to me only in that deep a sleep. Is there blood still, in that dark, in those ruptures caving in, where there could still be some skin...not to be. She knows how one falls asleep, how another becomes sleep just like what I think---how to write and not to become writing at the same time. One can still sense some compensations to be scattered in that dark chamber of the skull...a few bones left still.

Is this a fantasy?
Do I only want to save myself?

Her eyes...open now.I slither away , away into the tip of a gun which has never had the privilege of knowing me! There are some birds in the sky. I look up...well, they can feel it all. They all carry a bomb each...in between their lips.

All this and other preambles like this, only to devastate the betrothed. I break it open, the birds, unflung, along what could have been the horizon...my very own. There would have to be a sleep, quite unlike the hollow of a crow's skull.

BUZZ-LIGHT

SUN ON THE BONES
AN OLD CRAMP
ACROSS THE CHASM
ANOTHER MURMUR
SUN, A FAKE ON THE BONES
AN OLD FAKE
BLOODY WHORE
A CROSS IN THE CHASM
SOMATIC MURMUR
A SEMBLANCE OF AN OOZE
PEPPERING THE DEAD CENTRE
OF WHAT USED TO BE
HER NIPPLES ONCE
...RAIN...

AMBIT

A PLOT OF LAND
LIGHT LIKE FORAYS
NIGHT
ANOTHER PLOT OF LAND
PAIN...