Stop these induced mysteries bewildering
while your harlot mind unfolds
in my palm, your nauseated eyes
sickened to the marrow deceive
body cold as flesh lay grim
on the landscape of your victorian floor
ring that meaninglessly shape and shine
dissents your intrepid finger
and kisses held useful on the dressing table;
dust-covered moth-eaten.

Unmask the dominoes tucked to the face
and finish all your lies
calligraphed
by your charcoal tongue awaits the river of Camelot
to see you grow beautiful someday in reflections
and thereby
i shall paint you in verses
in the portrait of the lady of shallot.

Descended from the sebaceous dark clouds,
shining undimmed on my cold shoulders.
Sometimes i knowingly notice you,
sometimes others remark.

It is because of you
that i have abandoned things i used to do
and clothes i used to don.

Faintly layered, scattered wafers
of embarrassment and insult,
in three weeks you will depart
as this new shampoo loftily promises.

By your earnest presence,
and the pulp air you almost touch around
fluent like an autumnal wave sexes;
a red storm,
of time that argues
with the spates of blood in hearts.

(What a gory scene your leave leaves behind!)


And by the nocturnal moon - a Kurdish fakeer
indecorous
across streets cadenced with lamp posts
rows aimlessly musing
like an ugly beetle on a convoluted petal,
the tungsten wick crimsoned in a candent lamp,
a moth's agony measurable in your lap;
a walk towards the just cemetery.

(What a gory scene your leave leaves behind!)

carving garbled hearts on wooden planks
of steel benches ghoulish in their melancholy

a stranger with no maps
just the cheerful crackle of your smile
reduced to a photograph
passing by the scandalous basilica,
the ancient tower
leaning on an idle clock
where your labyrinth soul nestled
to the thought of my assuming presence
and hurried legs jived to a pink umbrella
i stood here for a spell of near memories...
a red phonebooth on a cobblestoned avenue

revisit and walk away
but do not make the mistake of-

Through the kohl-eyes
of an engine driver
i see the everyday man
as a pale morning moon,
a quarter burnt page
like yesterday's bride
(and) todays bird
flared for no Arabian tale
but a Koranic verse
misconstrued.

And the bereft nations-
a paralyzed piano,
a pile of seeking bones
for the rustle of skilled cuffs
and measured keystrokes.

The amber streets dyed
a silent gray, a cloud
of train-smoke withers;
the coffee rings on the ledge
desire
an incidental world in my chemical eyes
and I smile
a 10 o'clock smile
every working day.

One day
 I will walk up to you
 and say - "Everything I told you was a lie."
Would you
believe me
Or think I was honest enough
to tell you that?

Your love
on trial.

When our identities are lost
in crowded ménages
when these silver threads
of analogous time
chime
disgusts for each other
when our words become to rust
my touch corrodes
we speak in silent stares
every detailed regard
effaced
and our shadows no longer meet

We can wear our verses
avoiding the sameness of each other's rhyme
and seek to become
lain strangers again.

In the airs that end with silence
in the tinctures of incoherent distance
and checkerboard linoleum floors of time
I think of you squirming
like a nude-pink worm on a hook
or in a bistro writing on a napkin
your words and your thoughts
stretched taut scrutinizing
pretty boys
assessing perfumes and smoke rings

and I see myself
in front of a wall-length mirror
a photograph of sorrow
my soft beingness
pitiable in a room
of resounding volume
hoping that you dont ask me for words
rather rely on my tongue-tied gestures
i am a sad endless aria
i hope my enemies go blind.

Do not insinuate
your sad preferences
in black and white words
of monochrome lives
blind clangor
and contrived voice.

You beautiful poet
don't need words
these signifiers
these loud paroles.

Merely read my lines
and fall asleep
reprise in dreams
that "words are cheap".