Countenance Recesses

The black Bible is your travelling book,
having mostly all its pages missing
or still flying in the midair,
where they are nestled on the rare
boundaries and are as delicate as sunlit rays,
it remains your blanch.
Thus, everywhere you stop,
you leave a coin,
hacked in every direction, or you just grunt hello and keep going,
you add my dust, so defensive,
darling, you share the house money for this project
and a gush of cold water wets your legs for good.

A world is built in the whirlwind, where sandcastles are built in the clouds
and everything you leave beyond the imagined hill remains everything.

We remember that. Water is sloshing around in the bottom of the stone
boat. That is why your back is behind the winds and it is in blank and empty,
you go into a trance of composure
to listen to someone, who is still

giggling and hurrying up with
the Arcadian insignia in one hand, I own his smile
and opt for the next transaction to fish and respond. You wait for a decade
to hear the next names,

which have no vowels to soil rags when you vacillate.
I allow heads, hanging haplessly until
their shadows are decreased, become the bigot, you Xerox their jetty for the
children, reeling into a corner of the noontide,

and are returned to their start with the halo
and half-hale and hearty, I grape
my mouth in the handkerchief. Time and ice

melt away in the same direction more than
one sense, we ignore a fresh mind for playing
the Infant stage to form a bridge

between credit for a man and his
energies untrammeled by isohyet
as barrel thundering as his half falls

from unconscious conflict to neurosis,
almost a standard methods in a very
varied picture used for various crafts,

you ask me for water to drink and wait for an enterprising young couple to
take over the third floor. But I cannot
take a sip, anybody can flop and squirm on the floor,
your dreams are eaten up by a black corona light.
We cheat ourselves and find ourselves indicted.
In a dream of a little boy, whose life is stained by grunge, I have blithely
ignored this blizzard.
We punctuate with the scattered sounds when you enter a city built in the
rainclouds above the mound, you arrive there and you want to shout with a
huge mouth, belonging to the children who still follow you, you turn your
visored face,

never turned before,
you gaze away from the ineffective noises
and borrow my inadequacy, I relapse into incoherence,
almost your masculine accent by sheer weariness.
I wait here so long to a trembling heap of waste.
I remain darkly parted.
I remain here to perform a sort of belly shuffle.

Bitter Heaven

In the mid-air,
where heads are smouldering,
where every flesh is flaw and well-defined, where restricted area
is barbed-wired and every notion that is being crammed down
is coloured in glittering phrase of falsehood,
is where your daughter is singing,
is where rains slither on the walls
and filling the musical cadence
left behind in the meaningless spectres
by her late great grandfather.
Her voice is arresting a deadly locution,
her audience and the rest of you, standing back to back, are still waiting
to trace those collective words
from the gulf and beyond. That is why you model the nebulous concept of
prayers for a paper and the next fuddled pictures on the walls remain clear
with high fuel consumption, I frisk in the fields of mud seasons for the
results in pieces. What has happened just before your entry is expunged
from memory. That is why
your uncle, after long interval
with physical existence
in the deepest slumber,
is preparing to descend, he claps and teased by
old paddies and soldiers,
who carry trays full of cups,
the bird sits in, watching the draught.
The sky returns with its night to colour us.
We are packed with stars and sulphur smell,
our wet heads glisten in the early dew,
we receive small treats to become large in numbers
from where she is burred in fatigue,
her wings in the bow, or whatever that filthy little rag is called,
you shove to contribute your difference in everything above us.


The cloudstreet hums,
walls vibrate, tears drop,

rooms are filled with sea currents,
everything is marching from sickly smile.

Every part of us is floating,
Everything in parts crosses the rough strip

and every house, we are,
loses its weight,

shadows follow,
the shape of things
to come remains
formlessly. The others still rest in the room just above us,
a few staircases float and through the door of this chateau by the guard,

where you are lodging,

dreams left behind in empty bowls that have not been washed after a supper
in a decade ago, the pull date which is placed on your life

and my silence remains pulled pork, I am returning from the smithy

after forging a skin over and over again at cross-purposes, I a room for a dream in a feverish dream,

                                                                      I begin to parch,

leaving hours beyond the bottom of an empty kettle, furred with a long

            the sight of glasses, the impossibility of going out from a city of rainclouds of matches box buildings,

the indelible look of regret is painted,

time passes thirty years,
we still lie on our stomach
on the couch in awake,

forthcoming changes,

everything through
the blur of the water,

coming its way
is a ray of moonlight
in the mud waters

without shedding itself,
everything is looking
like a urine sample,

in capricious taste
standing in elegant curved stone, everything remains everything,
everything remains anything,
I grope for your images,
I am avoiding looking at you in the mirror
with a found body
which is still opulent,
reflecting a deep hollow left by the washing,

left by the waters.