When we get old

Sandbags under the eyes,
a maddening menace of confetti hair, skin drying like desert lips,
and my voice loosing arguments,
Will you still come at midnight
carrying a half baked home
in a donut box
through these streets
chasing you like a territorial Indian mastiff,
and ask me If I have a spare blanket and some comfort to share?

…of nights



June, 2016

I have become an alarm clock,
whose time has come,
5 am 5 am I am ringing
I know you liked sleeping,
so you left,
you couldn’t take your nights
breaking into mornings,
I have no nights,
I try to sleep with your words
gently folded in my soft fists
like your minion tsihrt, your pocketknife
quietly tucked away on shelves,
I couldn’t get the point then,
so they followed me home
I still can’t get the point,
I open my fists
every day but the nothingness
pours into my mouth,
it tastes sour,
and nothing comes out for a while.
I haven’t slept in a long time
I just want to close our eyes
and read poetry.
but these words,
I ring like an alarm clock,
like engravings on a tomb
they are etching on the marble of my body
and it gets colder by degrees
that’s why I should have hated winters
like my sister,
but I am a vulturous pigeon
I will feed on anything
if I am hungry,
lately i have been
gorging on departures.



I don’t have songs to write,
there will be lullabies
to keep a heart still
which flutters
like thin sheets of an open book.
You saw more
than I’d have shown.
Everything is dissected
and divided into hours and seconds,
except that I am marooned in history,
touch me and my rusted ships shall crumble
into sawdust on your dry shores
I don’t have songs to write,
there will be storms
there will be lullabies.

7 September 2016