It's me, not you

Breakwater types 

 that men like to hold on to,

dress in envelopes

 and send to whosoever will read them,

thoughts are like 

 lacerating muscles

unveiled to look 

  their nightly best

but because night rises

 and dusts itself 

after it falls, and not

 because their is the relative

evil, as there is poetry

 in a lot of unspecified space

because it simply allows

 it, to be me rather than you.

Before people were born

I lived inside the clock,
threw my head, back into

the penal jar, like the
apostrophe following

a learning, that with time
on the outside, I could die young
    and not know about it at all.

Want

Let me not walk to him
when he looks to the sea

Let us not find together, his
fists in the sand

Let me not hear him say again -
someone please get it

Potatoes

Wishlist -
Death working
its way up

Winter, her face
translates everything

No birds in the sky
I came and went
as told

Parched throat
Half of every life
spent screaming

Coughing blood
into the sink
the ocean rises

Not enough wind
comes this way
Not word from her either

The moon lies still
a spider in my head
weaves the rest

Benzylhidrinithium !
try guessing chemistry

The brewery on fire
seeing her
in a new light

Unexpected deaths
I would do better
I think

Clouds close to water
slurrpp slurrpp slurrpp

Grazing-
touched by warmth
in the grave

Old silence
  snow breaks
on the nonliving

Sunday noon
a firecrest unlikely
to slow it down

the four seasons
     only autumn with two
languages to learn

  Water in the dog's ears
  A thing so uninterrupted

Grandma's old watch
Cancer ticks first

And the river turns

Disdain, had its eye on fire.
Shadows of dandelions used to fall
across my feet - where I now stand -
as did my children. Renting
life in each other's arms, under
that little pride we chose not to weep.
They raped, but left my wife only cut,
and me from the inside, forever lit

as I began to hear more in the dark.
About the menstrual sickness,
the turning of the book shelf,
boiling of the antelope's horns
in a town far, far from here,
where a feast prepared - they
called it the holocaust - of her
body as soup, and my brain as the bone.

Yellow gloves of contentment

Mid-July, we sat, with our
hands inside yellow gloves
as I tried not to look through
every blasted hole .
We were henchmen, of
seeking-the-white-in-smoke
Trees, even the ones
I visualized, burned down.
Grandma now, stood alone
in front of the Taj Mahal.

How the fish would have
contemplated swimming in
boiling water, or how the
neighbour dog would have
tucked in, the tongue that so loosely
hangs, a little while after it started -
these were softening glances, Maa said,
of eyes that had now opened
inside of us - but need not speak now.
Father, she said, needed
the quietness - it was worse enough
his food tasted like ash
even in office.

Do you have something for me to read ?

There may not come a day
when we no longer count
our fingertips,as peaks
we feel all better for life on,
he wised,and I could tell
he knew what he
was saying.I had to try
and confront him, because
I never quite belonged;
and I thought I knew my
mountains from the unpoetic
apparatus.I had theories about
recreation, while he likened
to the kind of man with
something he'd want to have
and someone he'd like
to be. A rush of cold-blooded
city breath turning over inside
his chest could be heard
whenever he spoke.It hurt me
immensely, that he referred to
poetry as whiskers-but-no-teeth.
They are like watchmen,
fond of wishing - Poets that is
he said.The poems,
and these were his last words
before he left for ever,
are their apologies to themselves
for wishing for someone else's
sleep.I stayed back for an
hour or so, after which I told
myself - I have stayed back an hour
or so, there is no point in leaving now