THE HUMAN ANVIL

Tag: life

  • Brushstrokes In My Brain


    O these times
    These lonely, lonely times
    Of a single tear falling
    From a broken, crooked eye
    For the meadows sunk in shadow
    And shadows that each day die
    On the tar road turning homewards
    To pink hearts falling from the sky
    O these people quietly standing
    Waiting that single boat of hay
    Here are lovers with their children
    And servants with silver tray
    All waiting to be carried
    Somewhere in the ocean
    Where faces are not of plastics
    And even fishes have emotion
    O these homes are now softly falling
    Like snow on winter’s eve
    Left faded to fill a dry canvas
    With damp colors smelling new
    And there is no one to wake the silence
    And no one to hold the door
    Only brushstrokes that breath to say
    We are here for you are not anymore

  • Ascendance

    And slowly we all
    Shall fall asleep
    And know no more of each other
    Or of those who knows us no more

    But the stone shall remain stone
    The sea shall remain sea
    You shall remain you
    And I shall remain me

    Yet we, the us, that immutable thereof
    Of shared spaces
    Of pendulum breaths
    Of eclectic existence
    Will change
    Into dust
    Into wind
    Into silence
    And rescind
    Motion by motion
    Memory by memory
    Till all that is left
    Is only the sense of leaving

  • The Soft World Shenanigans

    Dry roads humping shredded towns
    Ghostlicked with cactus eyes quietly watching
    Deeper dreams
    For answers within answers
    For silence within screams
    I see, I see
    Footsteps upon gravel
    And red lips on ice
    Dissolve
    In purple chimney smoke,
    Behind the farts of dust- rimmed truck,
    Where the grey haired goats grazing in saltpits wonder
    Why the fairies don’t give a fuck
    Clippety clop, clippety clop
    Horse hooves on silent sand
    Burnt toast, stale butter, wooden knife in my hand
    I see, I see
    Tears and bright ties
    Choking velvet throats
    Those colouring the white lies
    Like spit on anchored boats
    Bell jars in cotton
    Woodpecker in denim
    Breathing tinfoil fantasies
    Of midnight mind raining, whispers upon paper:
    ‘Wheatfields underwater
    Ether in eclair
    Cornflakes made of daylight
    And tulips in dark hair’
    I see, I see
    Last thoughts of dying beasts
    Merge with me
    So that I roar and I bleat
    Being eaten as I eat
    My own war-torn monkhood
    My altarboy retreat
    So I see, So I see
    Dry roads humping shredded towns
    Ghostlicked with cactus eyes quietly watching
    Deeper dreams
    For answers within answers
    For silence within screams

  • The Night

    The Night smiled and the world froze into a mirror:
    An eye without eyelids
    A face without feature
    But timeless in its taste
    Like truth without teacher,
    With flowers on her forehead
    And sweat upon her thigh
    The sea painted on her toenail
    And the sun a firefly
    Dancing just dancing
    On her gold lips as lullaby

    And oft she would curl up to sleep
    Unwanting to know the names
    Of those who suckled her milk
    Only to sell it for pixie dust
    And white rum to last a lifetime of
    Blood on her hands
    Flames in her hair
    Dreams stitched in her dresses
    Leaving her perpetually bare

    Pendulum minds
    Prone to tongue tennis and cold showers
    Stare out the window
    At the hips of dark roads
    Fading under street lamps
    Like sunset on a shore
    Shriveled drops of moonlight on their face
    And she watching the cold blue sky
    And those blind stars; invisible,
    Laughing in the background
    Like extras from silent films
    Happy to beheld
    The recurring eternity
    Of everyday life…

  • Birth

    How far can one walk
    Away from the night
    Without knowing
    That it was the dark which said
    “Let there be light”

  • The Onus of an Asylum

    When they with no fingers
    Point at the blind
    For not calling out the deaf
    Falling behind
    The mute they shall say
    That this is the way:
    We paralysed people
    Walk everyday

  • The Beauty In Being Ugly

    Be ugly
    If being beautiful
    Is a common trait
    That way when all the mirrors in the world break. They shall look at you, as something new
    To search and find
    The beauty once lost to an opaque mind…

  • Fresco

    And they said they wanted to write
    My poems for me
    And chew my black tobacco
    And drink my honey tea
    But friend O my friend
    My words are mine alone
    Though yours may taste much sweeter
    Their seeds to me are as stone
    So leave me be, let me see
    The world with my bit of error
    And write with a trembling hand
    All that I feel of terror
    And be true as a single-faced coin
    And roll in a scentless sea
    And come as a corpse on the other side
    Dead and yet so free…

  • A Little Like Living

    What if the world is a secret
    Whispered around
    In search of a treasure
    Never meant to be found?

  • Of Bones Beneath the Branches

    There were cypress beyond the city wall
    With cones like eyes upon them
    And I tended each for long until I felt
    They saw far too much of me
    And showed far too little of themself
    (Those leaves with their whispers and those roots with their secrets)
    So I did not water come the summer, I did not water come the winter;
    And the leaves, they yellowed and fell,
    And frost took the roots
    Slipping needles of ice into their breaths
    Till decades were laid silent
    Like sand beneath the ocean.
    I walk beyond the wall now and then
    Dressed in nothing but the evening
    And stand under the cypress
    And watch the antler twigs sway
    Hiding nothing now but melancholy motion
    The sense of sleep
    And I wonder at the difference, if any, between our shared nakedness