human – Page 4 – THE HUMAN ANVIL

Last of the Living

I can hear the roots tear
Across the breast of resting soil
Like blind fingers, stretching the
Depths of darkness,
Those long forgotten by time
For the hours; they fly only above the ground
The black womb is all silence
And frozen thoughts:
Except those murmurs of memories
Left by faded footsteps
And shadows parched under the sun
Of people who could not turn, away.
I hear them too, their thoughts,
In the leaves yawning with the wind
And fruits falling with the same
It’s bittersweet syrup; tears and sweat of toil gone unremembered
A destiny dismembered
Like roots they yearn no reason
Nor do they desire
The crystal sunlight reserved for carving men
All that is needed for the flower to bloom
And the fruit to bubble without bursting
Is this truth soaked with pain
That they stand alive and upright
On the shoulders of hanging men

Tenants

We both are tenants
Trapped within the rubik cube love
Shaped by our shoulders
Resting against each other
And there is no escape;
For our landlocked lips
Shifting like dry grass
Under the music of sorrel wind
Other than lying on different shores
Waiting for the same tide
To ferry us away
Towards a sunset and a sunrise
Splitting our world; two indifferent ways.

You count the stars between your fingers
And I vanish, like a thin piece of ice
A spectre, yet unfound, in the jigsaw world
Left alone to wander the newspaper streets
Those daily retreats of hourly love
Bought with midnight mascara and silk stockings
Rubbed raw between the eyes and thighs
Of mad men and maddening women
Looking for a cheap trip to the paradise

I hear the tea cup tinkle
And know you have taken a sip
Of the warm clove water
Left upon the doorstep
By the lonely wood worshipper
Whistling for words
And I am content that you did your prayer
Much like my daily dead affair
To show how much for each we care
By being willfully unaware

Thus there is food upon the table
And smile upon our faces
And though the roof is leaking
And the floor is unswept
And there are holes in our clothes
And scarce money in our pockets left
We know we shall scrounge through
Past the ups and downs and ifs and buts
Of everyday euthanization
By lying wide awake
Half dead with escapist desire
In some strangers arms
And murmuring through their skin
The leftover vows
We kept for ourselves
By scribbling away the love
Not meant for each other

The Wheel

Forget the world
Forget it ever existed for you
And then watch one morning
As the red sky slowly turns to blue
For then you would know
How true is the world
And old her everyday design
That began one day
And remembered to stay
Without you keeping the time

Through The Lips Of Living Ghosts

I live my life
Through those who lived before me
And triumphed,
For mine are eggshell victories
Inchoate brush strokes of the blind
Left behind, listening to the faceless sounds
Dreamt by dead branches and wayside stones
Alone in their darkness
Wherein all ashes intone
The pleasure of being burned alive
Only to never feel, another touch of life.

Merciful Maladies

There
Upon the white winter brow
Of an aged world
I stand, like a cliff
A black wound, unstitched,
Filed with crowfoot and claws,
Where my face without flesh
Lingers in iodine
So that under one pain I could forget
The origin of another

The Magician’s Secret

Love, come closer
And you would see far too clear:
The world with its mist of strings
That makes most of us disappear

The Modern Man

Fear the modern man
He who appears fearless
For not behind every ivory mask
Smiles an ivory face
This common tongue knows no plebiscite
Only the commerce of castaway clothes
Engraved hands peeling away skin
Glued together in careless design
Cast by careful masters
They who knew that the heart of the heart of the heart
Beats only once in a lifetime or never at all
Fear the modern man
The modern man
Modern man

Little Bit Of Everything

These verses I bind
With threads in my mind
Are cobwebs from corners
I once failed to find
So let it linger now and sway
Like dewdrops in day
Or beads of red rosary
No monk holds to pray

Encore, Encore

They walk alive
In rigor mortis
Of routine;
The selfsame adventures
Over and over
Till memories are maimed
Coagulated
In an endless reel
Of a single frame
Until that very end
When all goes black
And it begins again
Without palpable pause
Amidst absent applause

Light From Another Star

The tommorow lingers far,
Like light from another star,
And there is mist,
With eyes in the middle,
That speaks with tears,
Of smoke and tar.

I talk not of human,
And their negligible nuisance of narcissistic necessity,
Nor of the world with it’s viscous veracity,
I speak of nectar, world of gods,
Poets and paramours, artists and art,
Of the innumerable sand,
Dreaming upon the beach,
And those stars falling every night,
Who never truly reach.

I speak of the brilliant acting dumb,
The sensitive roughened numb,
Blind men holding hands,
Children without a stand,
And oasis with scarlet seas,
Gold honey, dead bees.

I invoke the untamed,
I call the wild,
Into this land of frozen blood,
Where once were sowed diamonds,
Now remains but dried mud.

I know, my voice is hoarse,
And these sharp words are truly coarse,
For I too am of your kind,
The omniscient God without a mind.