red paisley

cotton unraveling
in bundles and feathers
wet earth outside
her line stands, it stays
forever, and another day
I saw her poltergeist
red paisley and progress
how hard the work
how steady the hands
my boring starts to burn
hot and anxious
again im drinking tea
in her lovely grotesque cup
missing ginger and milk
her forest is outside
where oaks once were

for rainy days

on a grey dawn
with an insistent splashing
look at me, look at me
im content inside
the glass house
with tea and samosas
to look to hear and ignore
the deathless pull of space
for we in our autistic dissonance
quite forget respect
for the earth, whose life
is entirely made
of our differences
and you and I, we dance
differently, I do not care
for your same olds
for one more minute, aa
and you cannot change
with the speeds
of night follows day
and thats ok fundamental
not cause to power
your boxes make worlds
and my art makes life
and we are true
in opposite days
to the roots and the trees
the flowers and the seeds
and we will make space
when the bones can sing

a rudaali wake

of the plaintive wailing and the rotting flesh, is the regular one. its not really possible to realize sentience without knowing what without is exactly. all the people who can see thestrals, they know it, they see it every day. the symptoms, the faint antennae, a murmuring loss.

but the flat screened people, thats we, we see sentience upon sentience, and when enough lifetimes have passed, silently through, in a bare minute, death is close, all the time, everywhere. its not possible to see panic anymore, its a faded memory, suddenly loud and anime.

and to see me, is a curse, for I have 3d vision of death. past and future. and of course, everyone shoots the messenger, its a time travelled comfort. but I am not a messenger. death has no message. messages are for the living. I am a nothingness through which you will fail to see, what I already know about the way forward, and you and I, we'll play it out in unison. thats another thing death is. entirely self unaware.

dont get me wrong, I dont hate you. I always love you. but I do know our expiry date. As well as a grocer knows which apples to pick, which to sell, which to eat. no apple is forever. and I want forever, with a desperate seething demand. but the longer we sit at this table, the more we fade, there is less to say, to do. our apple is painted, photographed and shared a billion times. life takes two, ten, a thousand, and we are all absent.

among the blueberry curtains

and zip is only a few minutes to rainy breeze, but cold, so cold so soon, and I cry daily for all of us daily, a few thousand less, every day, every day, as if we are nothing, as if we can never be, and I have a child.

so wonderful in the house, with a husband and a son, so glad I married, after ten years, close to a daily life and death, the gladness strikes. will mother ever come here again, will I go there? will I ever go anywhere again, stuck in a random time loop with no people, no countries, a distant cruel sort of justice, im grateful to have a life. and a thousand more died, on a flat backlit screen.

and now is the time to think of a legacy, I could so easily be next, a random look, a touch, an inability to cope, a sadness shutting down all the fight, where are the children of these old people, why are these infested teeming billions alone? the angle of the wall, has never seemed so sharp and deadly. but no one cried, no one screams, no one can get close enough to each other to bellow at the injustice of it all. who am I kidding, it was always unjust, if you aren't born with certain skins, certain body parts. life is very weird. why that? almost as if, justice were created to protect its creators, and life is for its own sake.

the rage demon

from all the centuries
of wiped yin
still haunting, still a memory
that does not breathe
but is, yes it is
hate, disgust, jealousy, rage
for we forget, we keep forgetting
we're all going round and round
forever, and this is it
you do your part
I do mine
and life, is not optional

neither is hope