Some thoughts on life...mine...mine?

When she had gone away, he had seen her last in a mirror with tears hidden under the pupils. Years passed and he had shunned her in all possible traces until the last when she reappeared again to disappear again. He felt dangerous bubbles filling in the long abandoned water-pipe of his mind. An old kite fell into it. He had lost control over it before she had gone away. The kite revived the teardrop, long lost behind the pupils. He could see his eye through the crystal of the drop once again after a long long time.

Black Stones

Black stones. All the world's sentences. Thereafter, black stones, once again. Nudging beside the parking-zone, a scene-zone. The black stones give a little sitting-space to you. Fame's cameras wandering everywhere. One or two branches picked up here and there in a lilting movement of lips. The red ants of absolute stasis start inching inside the poor old mind. The black stones stretch their wings. A broken pot, torn graves and dust-stones over black stones. The tree buzzes. The falling leaves write gibberish on the yard surrounded by corpses of children all around. The black stones open their eyes underneath humiliation. They send dark letters of indulgence in the unwritable chasms on both sides, soon to turn into marbles of structured feeling on the wall.

I will have to return to the glitter. Thus moves the torso. I get up. The black stones hold on...cling on. Slow holds fade behind the circular curtains of the witch. Little fizzles and a bit of divine purgation.

"It's closing time..."

Two hard nipples appear on the surface of the black stones, like erect pupils of light. All my sentences get filtered, tweaked and dissolved in their gravitational pull.

Black stones.

All the sentences of the world.

Thereafter, blank white page, once again.

(Park Street Cemetery, 11.2.2011, 1-50 p.m.)

OxyMoron

No Rhododendron in Winter

Only steep paths onward

Like mother's blood-beds

A snowy red as if encrusted

The bag sits pretty

We are getting on

Walking on eye-bags

We will soon be greeted

With the hairy stool-cliff

Mother

The day when

Her disease

Became

An unflinching sunglass

Love-pipes all around her mouth

And I allowed her to be tied in restraint

Darkness fell on the observation-cube

The zigzag lines of scansion

---Keeping life---Still---

The receptionist smiled at my name.

22 December

He left me today

Long long ago

I did not know him

Back then

Then on

As if I know him

Now

Now on

He left me

To be

Me

Today

His parting lips lisped

Lisping on my name

He returned to me today

Long way back

Back in the on

Alternation

Never to understand

The chants of that old beggar

As if reciting from some older epic, long lost

My classes take me away from him

Away, far away from this unclean station

There I go, to my lecture platform

I Wait for the day when I can sound like him

Upright from my lecture-platform of

Enchantment.

I wait for that radical day of leakage

When the blank haunt will no more

Give the shivers.

That will be my best lecture

The rest handpicked by the worst

In the melting crust inside his nose...

BIrthday

Poor old birthday

You rugged tramp

Embrace me with

Your raining hands

I will fold my pain in half

And insert it into your navel

I will hold your pain

Like my yellow binocular

It's already dusk, sweetheart

The hours of late lonely light

Do you still blame me?