Filed under: death, life, love, poem, poetry, religion, surrealism, time, war
The pain surged from his sleep
As he fell out of it
Breaking his night. A crack
On the center of his back
A third hand grew.
The third hand grew
As he spread his original hands
To pick his bloodstains
From the dusts and floors.
The third hand grew
Picking up invisible times
Sprinkled onto the places
He’d placed his back to.
Sweat. As his fingers darkened,
Moistened the flute holes. Loop-holes.
He created the music of sweats.
Sweats that dripped upon claustrophobic spaces
From his first ten fingers
And on a passed-away time
From his other five.
Time
Like curtains on his windows
Danced with the winding notes.
Revolutions. Creeping on it
His third hand grew into his past
It brought back a broken wing,
The second pillow, colorful lights and him.
One night, once again,
He found his second him
Sleeping on the second pillow
Not letting go, for once, of his third hand
Secured in his nightmares
Filtered of the future he had found.
And as his hand stretched
Further and further
Into the times left behind
He trembled
Thinking, just how many hands
He’d lost till he found the third;
Fearing, just how many hands
Must his third arm retrieve
To give an arm to their third arms
On everyone’s back
Where their wings should have been.
One day, he dropped his arms.
Filed under: abstract, death, fallen, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, religion, surreal, surrealism, transgressive
He Who Fell
His fall was complete
The day he tumbled down the cocoon
And found himself running
For the door. He imagined
Inside. Outside. Crossings.
The possibilities of a door.
He covered.
He was led to a world
Of tangled bodies. Criss-crossed.
Clinging onto the unknown other
Like abandoned copulations.
Like the corpse of the child
Left somewhere in the womb
Left somewhere, in their heart, too
Criss-crossed.
He was led into the world
Of a thousand children
Lying in all their tangled wombs.
As cocoons.
He, too, was a dead child
Lying in the comfort of the tangled wombs
Playing with his dead brethrens
Making balls of their dead flesh,
Throwing at each other
And on being hit, they turned red
In blood and shame, alike.
Then, on a very special night
Destiny wished
He tumbled down the cocoon
And was led into the world
Of tangled bodies. Criss-crossed.
And as his angst grew
He decided to take a stand
Against the rotting of his dead brethrens;
Against the world of tangled bodies;
Against the order of the world;
Against the fire engraved on their skins.
On a very special night
When destiny wished
And he tumbled down the cocoon,
On the other side of the tangled world
In a dusty barn, full of hay
A divine light was sprinkled
And a child was reaped out of no seeds.
Its mother took him in her arms and said –
“Babe, you’re so bright
My eyes might just burn staring at you.”
