The old lady went away out of malignancy leaving a high and hiccupping husband with the dancing throat in the kitchen in its male egotism and paternalistic rights. The lady has since embraced her fire leaving her man entirely unembraced.
She whose eyes have long gone wild in her son’s sleep, is looking for stars in the night at their last count by him. She has forgot the count in the melee of she who went away to embrace fire leaving husband highly unembraced.
Write chunks of white poetry on a black night. Your poetry may be of your narcissistic self morbidly sensing the way the tree waves. Below your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in her sleep over yesterday’s homework in a waving paper ,below a basement, between pictures of gods.
Poetry is confessional, some redness in face looking into crevices to let things not sleep.
But sleep alone will deliver up your confession .You turn to your side to face a blank wall where beginning , middle are not pictured and the end turns out to be a breath, a lack .
That was a bush-shirt with big, big flowers ,a soft windy silken shirt we wore to school with pockets on both sides that had bulged with flowery spaces and air.We were hurling fingers in air as if clawing it, not for any complaint, but just in boy-show.
(We had not picked it up in the wayside bush. We were not bush-men of arrows and bow)
We had left our long shirt with horn buttons. In it we looked like fierce Afghans in turbans with mustaches that struck terror in shirts. Our buttons were two at the top, to our neck.
When the bush shirt came our money changed .Our annas went of four to a rupee, to easy paisa .We now ate rice in shining stainless steel plates and we played in streets seven stones and ball.
Our mustaches are now silver above frayed collars. We now have pounding hearts under our shirts ,weak of memory, but still love the big flowers.