Witty Fay - 2
interior of a poemSkewed merciless geography
That does not know my name, A river of inksome potential And tiptoeing displacement. A coterie of critics gathered To ponder the intricacy Of its structure, unstructured, Yet vibrant in its build, And applaud the mishaps. And a famished reading Audience, deaf of one Ear, thirsty for ink. When you’re here, I dream Of the beginning of every Burning thought, When you’re gone, I feel It all, in convulsions Of something bearable And I come to inhabit The distance, in maiden words. UnscathedIf you can allow yourself to walk
The perils of the inner time And still dream a cosseted dream Of the world, at ease. If not, climb on the sill of my window, I owe you endless stories of delivery And my voice speaks all earthly tongues. Down like the rain, Down like the rain- A fresh injection of people In the veins of the inhumane Shall give all the hardihood It takes to cut them open And stuff all the souls inwards. BeheadingI flinch not from the javelin, the spear or the bullet,
Nor am I shielded in cast iron. Still, heart and vein are safe From thoughts of life and force, Getting lost within the four chambers. It is the reverse side of fear Where vulnerability is offered with both hands That I hide from your eyes. The diversity and opulence of the square inch of skin, Swathed by the stealing gaze, Makes the most intriguing attribute of us. Something growing in a certain place of my world That comes unclothed and at risk, First to the mirror, then to the touch of your hands- It is the very neck of love. When the face falls like a cowed Cain, It is such a reminder of the otherness In both of us, as sin and grace Inhabit the rest of the world. |
Femininity as masqueradeI, sweaty nape,
And eyes on the peeling apple, One bare shoulder against the wall. Heat growing numb on my skin, Your silhouette from my mind Shining against the blade- A filigree of ache. Uncalled, I suppose. Fruit lay proud in my lap, Their redness stained by salt. Radio humming in the distance- A necessary torture- Drawing you into my mental landscape Growing into my skin, Grafting itself, irremovable by rinse. No, I am not prone to exaggeration. My flesh is swollen with your cells That won't shed or become And I ceased to spot the cerulean of the day since... So they say the night is long over And the dawn is ripe. Such liars should be stoned. The memory of you, as well. Into the deepest trench, Around a Mariana's neck. CommitmentThe cells and strings,
This biology of you Spreading its limbs next to my skin, Warm and prickly and alive- I want to wrap myself into the smell of it But the split infinity of their stance Saddens the day of me, the night of me, The all of us That is neither everything, nor anything Under the breath of a sun too short. In a word, I am not wise and there yet. Of latelyA doughty breeze stroking my hair
The self-sufficient smell of lilac in the air, Velvety noises rising from the starring grass, Almondine eyes bright shimmering like brass, Brave arms just quelling all the fear, The sound of love in finely grained veneer, Do breathe aliveness in time's accordion folds For fate to vanish where the shadow holds, And as I parley all the spark inside, The scythe of choices melts away beside All other summers we have lost between The tolls much taken and the ache within. |
