Can’t revelation be regaled to revel
At night, at dusk and at bark of noon?
And will the door of night be a willing
Supplicant to care, to limb and rust?
Will tar cancel out feathers of yester
Day, day after, and this fluff of now?
Door of night is content with
Ringing the dust-bell of a
Skylark and betting on the
Five lashes that patience affords.
rhyme none, knock
On the door of night.
islands of deceit obscure logic,
the cleric rebounds from bile to
bile, and pronounces, pounces; it
behoves him now to come naked in
front of the door of night and cry.
“We lived in a society which denied itself heroes.” – V.S. Naipaul
“This is not writing. He should stop writing. He should be selling sausages.” – Eqbal Ahmad on V.S. Naipaul
As you try and bleed the past onto the speak of now,
Look for the hooded guilt past the sentence of ilk &
Brood, the tripping verb thrilled by the possibility
Of sheen that traps the rook, the sow, the seed that
Bit the hand that fed the pith of scorn, the hand of
Up, of law. And as you try and mock the horn of dust
And cut of rain, and gasp at awe & awe again, whence
Will come the ore of night, which die is cast today?
Off to repair the sky; the plumbing
Is fine, but the cut is deep, so
Duct tape is out; bring on the
Sluice, and let the wound breathe
Wet, breathe cloud. Trap vapor
Fixed in bubbles of care, of
Old. There is no chamber dark
Enough to hold the sun, so sit.
To some the grip of a torn heart is
Dear; to others, it is the value of
Money. To some, the snips of river
Are near; to others they are further
Than rain. What the forest wants more
Than earth is to be to where the
Worms live and find out why they don’t
Come out more often and sing tales
Of fear. That way they could feel
Lighter, and the sun too could shine
With less guilt. The past is due now.
With a blunt instrument, can you slice
Through empirical classes and wish
Away the sluice of rhyme that locks
In place after a limp modus ponens
Remembers Socrates, remembers man?
Take this useless blade and allow it
To rust its slick away with each bleed
Of night, shuck of day, drawl of om,
Cool of the viper’s shady venom drawing
Luckless ciphers and callous rules of thumb.
The grouping of stars is aligned with
An alibi of truth coaxing the rubber
Sleet to a slippery pale above a shock
Horizon mixing your claw of sigh with
Mine. Feeling goes out of the brass
Window sullying cars and silk wishes.
Flick your meat-luck in the glossy
Dark of coattails and dart-holes as
The private bone is upright and done.
Catch the slim dance of lip, perhaps
Going further than solvent time will
Allow: that is its ballsy prerogative.
Tank goes hunting for good, and why
Not? The sun is not in the mood, and
The wood, the wooden wood lies dead
As the air splays white with dread
And the molten could, the animal
Should. Can and Care are opposite.
the ground of all being is soft tissue
amorphous to the core, silent on all
matters except when not silent, when
steel settles whatever needs settling;
the ground of all being is vapor pervading
intent, silent on all matters except when
not silent, when razor bleeds whatever
needs bleeding; the ground of all being.
The peasant of old was content with
rebellion, with skirting the fronds
of power as it descended cupfroth from
up high, with skimming the sheen
of lava as it settled down in crusty
sleep, but she bristled the unkempt
bristle often enough to prime her
peep for growl when it’s time.
Distant grab of light sun, trickle
Fancy drop of lint, come hither!
Come hither, silt born of rum, calf
Of retribution, some sad tin rubble.
Come hither, far corners of light,
Dependencies of near, shoals of boon.
And when you sit past the club of noon,
And when you silt allowances that rust,
Feel the luck of treble, bass of kin,
Mix of barn-stacks combing hay of numb.
And when you sit past the bowl of soon,
And when you silt accruals of gash/rub,
Feel the suck of nibble, tin of pain,
Mix of river-beds numbing sand of sink.