Buttons torn in passion’s wake
(That go hide in nooks of past)
Come back, bringing hidden tears,
Coated with her smell – and dust.


All this is ephemeral.

The soft breeze, the winter morning,
The neon-streaked whorish comfort of Park Street;
These, too, shall pass.

We’re here, there, and everywhere:
Spending away the leased hours
Before we rejoin the Cosmic Nemo.

And yet…..

Seconds matter more than epochs,
Glaciers pass unnoticed while
Tears are tracked every inch of their all-too-brief journey.
Values are rethought,
Priorities shuffled,
Ties severed, and retied.

Am I real? Are you?
Does it matter? Does anything?

Where’s Khayyam when you need him?
Who will tell me, then,
What do the spirals in the wine mean?


Droplets of memory
Form on the lilypad that is my mind,
And sparkle in a thousand different ways
As the sun of happiness
Turns its head from one side to another.

Does an infant dewdrop ever betray its age?
The water which forms it can be
As ancient as the laugh-lines of Time itself.


Eternal fraternities; fragile distances;
Afterimages of smoothed-out smiles;
Torn paper flowers
With snatches of sweet nothings;
Like a dark womb woven from spider-silk.

This is life.


I am an emperor.
I am legend.

Caligula, crazed but logical,
I make love to my sister
And sleep with my steed.

Yet my flesh turns cold
And sweat blossoms
When your hand touches my skin;
Your naked, solitary hand.

Your naked, solitary hand.


And as the nice woman,
At the end of the day,
Returns to her boudoir
Sighing all the way,

Sitting before the mirror,
She unclasps her face
And lays it on the dresser,
Like the rest of her race.


Silence is a broken steel egg:
The wind howling through
In a desperate attempt at normalcy.

Dried lips cracking open to utter banalities
Should be sewn shut for their blasphemy;
‘Tis not ours to break,
This silence.


Frail hands clutching the bedstead,
Anxious faces blurred through a curtain of tears,
Slow pain climbing from the pit of the stomach:
That’s silence.

Sweatbeads glistening on bare shoulder,
Lips half-parted in wanton desire,
Breasts cupped in virginal white:
That’s silence.

Deserted corridors wrapped in mystery,
Deformed savants frolicking like children,
A moment spent with eternity:
That’s silence.

If only every silence were so magical.


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