Author: psk16.pk@gmail.com

The angels never built picnic spots
What they forged were summits
Silver spears; insurmountable, so as to awe
Us, we with our half gnawed bones
Kept in the coldest corner of the cave
Perhaps that is why
We paint them, falling from the sky
Divine yet alone
Afraid to sin, on their own,
Stagnant in deeds and in thoughts
All because the angels never built picnic spots.

I said a word
You told a story
I stay quiet and you weep I worry
Let me go, Dark Love, I am fine
For not all laughter comes followed by a line
There is humor too in silent ways
In lost nights, due coming days
But if your pleasure at my pain is too wanting
If the shadow of my smile to you is haunting
Leave me be, in my sanctum
Upon my own shore;
I have lost all and now need no more
Your claws, they have taken their pound,
From my grave, upon the sacred ground,
Unmarked and ready by fate
For eternity: that final date,
Never to rise again before all else falls
This world with it’s countless walls.
Let me go, Dark Love, and be free
From the ken of a ballroom pedigree
Deep into the wild whereat my feet
Can stay silent forever and not repeat
Like a dirge from a common copper bell
That carry new souls to suffer through old hell
Of mottled minds and hollow hearts afloat on oil
And watered blood, faint upon the soil
Where flowers blossom only in dark
Every hour when a dying dog bark.
So let the time with it’s movement still me
As a tremor in your memory
For all good comes to those who forget
And they who remember, have forgotten in it’s wait…

The cold side of my bed, red velvet
Untouched but by my hands
Stretching in half yawn and half a desire
Towards the table lamp
Wobbling upon a hairpin
Left long ago
By some fair maiden
Made of watercolor.
Her’s were the feet
That last felt the rough carpet
And ruffled it’s fur the other way
So she could see herself better
In the mirror across the hall
Draped in rutilant rays;
Those rashes of love
I left, crawling upon her eggshell skin
Every midnight
When I tasted terror through shuttered windows
And felt the curtains
Stand, solid in the wind
Like a frozen moonbeam
Sequin with dust
To mimic purposeless limbs
Warm glistening skin
Pulsing against denial and dirt
That awaits all men
Beyond this mortal ken; gossamer thin.
My numb fingers
Polished thus with prophecy
Brushes aside the labyrinthine light
So the table lamp falls; and all fur is on fire,
And wax walls swell
In ersatz desire
While the hairpin, blue steel,
Fragrant with pine
Swivels endlessly upon the edge,
Her chimera, a restless womb;
The desire to die
Without ever being born
And be beautiful forever
Having never being torn.

She danced at my funeral
In White gown stained with red
And prayers poured through
Limestone lips
That prosaic charcoal charade.

She had a face
That was more mine than my own
When I wilted under blanket, soft
As a foam dripping molasses
Over tired thoughts undressing in nubile light
All purveyors to those gestures
Of that one forbidden rite
Which holds Sky in a bowl
The Earth in a spoon
An ocean in a raindrop
And all chaos in cocoon.

In my arms
Holding the hems of both horizon
Split open at the end
She was undented,
Pale fire; silver gardenia in twilight,
Her sinuous laughter
As dry sprigs clapping in the wind
Raising waves of surrender and unchanging void
Breaking over boulders
I shaped each night, with
Hammer on heart, in a vaccumed voice
So the vestal salt
Do not linger and stain
My guillotine hands
In culpable pain.

She tasted of water
Woven in my veins
With flesh as cotton, left open in the rain
The lake was on her lashes
A swan astride her sighs
And the colors of the world
In the white of her eyes
And then I, a pariah, stood waking in her palm
Having slept through tempests
To return in that calm
Where each drop of desire
Shone like crystal in a cave
Raisin buds flowering
Wave after wave
In that palpable dark
Through same souls set bare
Behind walls and their worshippers
Left unaware.

She danced at my funeral
In White gown stained with red
And prayers poured through
Limestone lips
That prosaic charcoal charade.

If only I had
The mind of a mason
I could have built
A manor without a message.

Alas, here I am
Knee deep in the mud
Nipping the flowers already blossomed
In search of a new bud.

My body left behind,
On land no longer mine,
Shall know, blood upon It’s brow,
Or a maggot on an earlobe,
Or salt between It’s toes
Shall the sylvan summer breeze
Warm my pallid face
Will the winter’s fierce lips
Keep me blushing red
Would they who make love to life
Watch over me too
Or am I one of those adages
Never to be new
How many years hence before It shall be found,
Will there be roses where I lay,
Or a bare patch of ground
How farther must one fall
To know the depths of men
And prove compassion is an art
And question this honest end:
Why people who love the light
Cannot fight for a piece of shade
Why they who talk of future
Never walk
Much far ahead

Sleep, love
Let the colors that you breathe by day
Now smother you at night,
Drink this elixir
This morsel of mind
For the dark grey of the world
Is never going to fade
And every pillar of your passion
Cradling the sky
Once again, shall be unmade,
And left in ruin
Like a fabled vagabond
Lost along it’s way
With words that clatter
Upon an iron tongue
But has nothing to say
Sleep, love
Before you awake
To the world and her dream
And find the silence holding your heart
Break, and begin to scream.

Follow me
To the dried up river
Let us dip our feet
Over the baked bank
Into the ovule of emptiness
And seize between our toes
Those shadows of leaves that once
Danced over the ripples
Let us row, together
Across sand and stone
With broken oar;
That desire to drown,
And linger no more, here,
But wade into the sea
Where awaits one horizon
And one thousand estuary

I prefer the silence
The cold silence of solid things
I look at the wall
Standing with crutches
In the corner of my Verandah
White and misshapen
Like kneaded dough
Filled with potential
Of an unformed minaret,
Only if the right tools are laid upon her
But I am aware
That there are no right tools
So all I know is silence.
I prefer the silence
The fading silence of long lost things
I look at the faces
Long and thin
Drawn as if by children
And painted by Picasso
Walk the world with borrowed wisdom
Like characters from comics;
Life written in bad font
Upon recycled paper,
Only if life had been as funny
And forgiving
But I am aware
That there is no humor without horror
So all I know is silence