Monday, August 11, 2014
This poem bears my anxieties on its spine-
social-anxiety disordered, cornered,
see the words sticking to the rims
a diffident stain, that sheepish grin-
refusing to speak up, nibbling on cuticles-
this poem prefers to observe the cervices on walls
avoiding eye contact,
It is annoyingly harmless
not meant to shout, reconstruct, revolt.
A wiggly string of words, loosely bandaged
straining to become that language that makes
breath condense, teeth crackle, toes curl.
I am not enough to contain this poem
germinating, crowding pushing-
I tear down its waxy honeycombs
smoking it out
free-verses clinging to the under-side of organs
rush out rhymeless, flapping, falling out-
scratching my face
their bellows knock against my jaws
I tame them, clip their nails, brush their hair.
They emit frothy allegories at times
they stab themselves
dying out before the wings had dried
or eyes learnt to see all colours.
This poem chortles and coughs often-
cries too weepily, messily
(It sets my teeth on end.
babbling things I don’t dare to think of)
This poem is
the glide in the crow pheasant
the slickness in a neon nail paint
the whir in the elevator
the triteness of a tea growing cold
in a forgotten table (orange table cloth)
in a forgettable room (pale, cold walls)
in an arbitrary apartment (#32, fifth floor)
in a random street, in an accidental place
this poem is the banality within this specificity.
the primordial craving to shriek out
a bloated blob of nothingness, daisy-fresh, vacuum sealed
a cavity in a chasm.
It has very little to go with-
I’ve plucked out all its feathers
it has survived countless ice ages
a meteor attack, an earthquake.
This poem has been in my pocket for too long
lint, gum and dust sticking to it-
it nicks feebly at my bones
at times does a half-hearted strip-tease
It develops allergies, boils
and a craving for future tenses
it begs to be given a proper noun.
hovering and squawking
trying to get in the shower with me-
rubbing against my feet.
It enters my tongue and sings itself to exhaustion,
converses with my tomorrows,
ingrains into the scheme of things
This poem has held its breath too long
The words suffer from tooth decays-
a pastel, gasping fabrication
too sugary, a low-fat concoction
forced into existence, into meaning something
sentences running off broken bridges and banisterless stairs.
a rain of shining, spluttering mirth
This poem comes
from the protozoa that made it all happen
from the evening news, changing weather
a release of endorphin,
or the simple compulsiveness
of an infant
with a chalk and a wall
the logic of primeval lust.
It is my wound’s way of remembering,
Image by Amy Judd