Of course you have to listen to
Their pseudo-intellectual metaphors on fire.
The words on my page are smoking! And they trail me towards a different kind of morning where the bones in my arm shriek at the thought of writing another line from the miserly stories stored in my memories. I cry I laugh Finally my world has given up I see no point...
Flipside love, what an easy way out for poets without feeling- as autumn folds like cake batter yellow, peach, with crumbs of red fruit dried in the mouth of a mothbitten sun- poets hold hands around a table calling for the god of words to parcel phrases and conduct...
In the caprice Of October’s transitory mirth, In the ballads Of leafy-bosomed hours, I remember the hue of delight Entangled with poetry Loitering in autumn-odours. Now, I sense The dwindling warmth In the remnant of our chasm Dwelling in deserted marquees Renouncing...
A chinar leaf falls to the ground, Crumpled at the edges, Like a bloodstain on fresh snow. The silence in the barracks that night Spell A-Z-A-D-I. Far away, in a shuttered basement, The dusk (which paints the empty schoolyard a terror-tinged grey) Ushers in the...
This is from the time I found religion in the mountains.
We are all reminders of our strongest journeys –
Moving away, clearing out memories, rebuilding lives –
Which come and go in boxes, like songs do in trembling bodies,
Only to be reopened and asked why any of it is supposed to matter.
It wasn’t sticks or stones
But words that broke your bones.
“Why settle for anything else when you can watch the world burn?”
It shakes me up, this bracketing off of
Parts we love,
You are the ink that writes my subplots