Wednesday, July 12, 2017

3 AM

In my dreams,
not nightmares
my skin is peeling.
Dry rinds of seconds
and minutes and hours
and days and months
and years shedding,
their weight falling off.
My blood is vapour
and my muscles dust.
Borne on the wind.
Floating. Fine.
My bones are shards.
Opaque, scattered, broken.
Bright green grass grows
in my one intact eyesocket.
And my nonexistent mouth
laughs and laughs and laughs.
In my dreams,
not nightmares,
I am gone, I am nothing.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

Open window

Where are we going
on these tarred, muddied,
cemented, potholed,
contracted, sub-contracted,
proposed, encroached,
beaten, taken, forsaken,
leading here nor there roads.
Where are we going in cars
driven and pooled,
battered, air-conditioned,
owned-loaned, rented-dented,
horns blaring, all that swearing,
where are we going.
In rickshaws and taxis
begged, cajoled and fought for.
On scooters and cycles.
Hanging on in trains and buses
so intimate with the bodies
of other struggling strangers.
On callused burning feet
where are we going.
To jobs, to babies,
to babies who will get jobs
one day, some day, any day,
hopefully, eventually. 
Where are we going
in a tangled mess of ambition,
fortune and misfortune,
want and envy and want.
Our limbs in a twist, moving.
Like a chant. Like a rhythm.
Like an overturned insect
in the throes of 
an inconsequential death.