A Dance in Silent Violins

I picked her down the river bed
Where she lay among flowers
Among dewdrops, amongst bloodstains
Of her own.
Her soul laid asleep
In the white comfort of a swarm of wasps, butterflies
And the forgettings of ‘had-beens’.
The forgettings of time, eternity and screams.
Dreams
Marched across her foreheads along with ants.
She was living on sounds.
Sounds outside her body
Sounds inside
Sounds in the distant no-where
She was sleeping on sounds
When I picked her from the muds.
I gave her my only moist room
Where I lived alone.
Unsleeping.

My home was in the center of the river
Where I stayed watching
The strange life of waters
And weaving blankets out of dreams.
I covered her with one of them
I tried to sing a lullaby
So that, she never wakes up.
She never did.

Our worlds never met
Mine insomnia, her sleep
Our worlds never changed
Mine insomnia, her sleep
But we told each other our stories
Mine insomnia, her sleep
And we each owned the others world
Her insomnia, mine sleep.
Gradually, I found that she melted in the water
The river was taking her home
I took her hands in mine for the last time.
She slept.

I took her hands now
Just as I had taken her life once
Down the river-bed.
I set her free from the constant world of our insomnias
After which ants took her over
They went in through her earlobes
They came out through her nostril
They played with her body
Made love to her.

After her body melted away into the river
I lived on the sounds
Of her silent orgasms.

The forgettings of time, eternity and screams.

Skin

“Have you seen the Christ made of animal skin at Burgos? There’s a very curious book, Monsieur, about those statues made of animal skin and even human skin.”

-Jean Paul Sartre

The shepherds returned in dusts,
On dunes of Prophet, a forgotten town.
A premonition of past, their present
A recurrence of future, their reflection.
Dreaming, they smiled to disappearance.
And into their fading skins
Dissolved their bones, hearts and bloodstains.

Once again, we remembered
Our gods of skin, our skinless deities,
Our colorful gods and transparent.
We saw religion, chameleon, Satan,
Sin – tearing away our skin,
Cutting them to pieces, scattering
Where plants were born.

We created Cactus, gave life.
We learnt to make branches into leaves;
We made thirst our eternal nourishment
And we slept on the dunes of Prophet
Breaking into the dream of gods:
Colorful and transparent. Their united dream
- The Carnival Cannibalistique.

Its been raining needles on children,
Petals have been covering their parents,
Distance has left lovers, uncovered.
Yet poets live in poets’ dreams,
Awakened, awaiting Judgment Day.
One of us to be The Chosen One.

The gods bestow him
In their carnival town, untamed;
In their innocent dream of Noah:
Never realized, not completed.
The deluge – never quite over,
We all yet to meet our chances in dying
Save the Chosen One who shall not die:
One Poet as a specimen of midwives,
Watching with glad, glittering eyes –
Dreaming, baby Jesus giggle in our sleep.