You set the conditions, validations, necessary entanglements. Grace wears masks in sentiments, your hyperbolic, highly toxic perfections. We prefer the numbness, the intimacies we penetrate during aftershocks, as we contemplate beauty of disasters, the chaos that so resembles us. Our dry seasons aren't over yet. More droughts to come, nourish, pour prayers into. I see myself on and in glasses all the time, the clones of my shadows, disintegrating into religions of you, myths dispossessed, like debris of silhouettes you leave in my eyes.
Showing posts with label Poetry Reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry Reading. Show all posts
Pollinating
Santiago Bose, "Can't go back Home again", Mixed Media, 87 x 123, cms, 1998.
We dissolve into wounds, the way moonbeams huddle in scent of flowers knotting redundant dreams into symmetries in foreboding. Our convictions slice us through colors of blood, into a body, of convulsions, erratic, rhythmic as bees buzzing around premonitions blooming petals of a city pollinating.
When Summer Recedes Around Punctuations
You prefer sky, instead of blue-skies. Brown grass feels damp. Your angry words are like silhouettes of branches without leaves. You lean on me, and feel like winter has arrived early to freeze our familiar gestures.
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