Picasso and Praxis
Notes
When the tunes were half alive and half dead
and the searching eyes looked beyond the circles,
The lines of the artist showed different meanings
my nervous rhapsody and mental calibrations
were still unheard between the senses as they tossed
and turned like broken chasms. In torn canvasses
I have seen how Picasso danced between my fingers
But you felt they were simply the notes of stringed silence.
********
Nodes
You’ve caught those nodes where dreams lie, where you began
and I ended. Reality kept hidden as unspoken words
is more real than what it seems. You are more than just
a recurrent thought, so let the dreams excavate
the darkness and the light, let the lines of love
touch truth and untruth until the borders break into unknowns.
Dawn and dusk have shown the colors of the sky only in different shades
we look at each other until the world is a stranger once again.
*****
Thursday 23 September 2010
Nudes and Nemesis
Nudes and Nemesis
Wet sands (first published in Gloom Cupboard)
Stretched body wide , the armchair reclined and between the creases
Time passes like slumber. To the north when naked silhouette fed
Agonies and wetness reached a degree of imperfection.
Whispers that reached my ears could have been more than what was said
and the eyes have seen more than what could be seen. Clothed in
the sands, bodies have danced in the dark when fully clothed
yet I see them naked and vulnerable, hurt and torn, as meanings
derive from raw shapes and endlessness of primordial necessities.
***
A Sort of Vengeance
I have this love reapproved, readmitted and stamped
And these posts stuck on my mental wall, bright yellow tatters
looked like a sort of duty. These were jumbles I was plagued with
as I arranged them, form, shape and a playfield. The game was being
played again and again, the ball kicked between the beginning and the end
the fingerprints said more of the heart than the skin. That evening I was dressed
like a devil , healing you like the angel. It was a murder of sorts, that resurfaced
with my broken veins, mental realms raped, the sky was split open.
Wet sands (first published in Gloom Cupboard)
Stretched body wide , the armchair reclined and between the creases
Time passes like slumber. To the north when naked silhouette fed
Agonies and wetness reached a degree of imperfection.
Whispers that reached my ears could have been more than what was said
and the eyes have seen more than what could be seen. Clothed in
the sands, bodies have danced in the dark when fully clothed
yet I see them naked and vulnerable, hurt and torn, as meanings
derive from raw shapes and endlessness of primordial necessities.
***
A Sort of Vengeance
I have this love reapproved, readmitted and stamped
And these posts stuck on my mental wall, bright yellow tatters
looked like a sort of duty. These were jumbles I was plagued with
as I arranged them, form, shape and a playfield. The game was being
played again and again, the ball kicked between the beginning and the end
the fingerprints said more of the heart than the skin. That evening I was dressed
like a devil , healing you like the angel. It was a murder of sorts, that resurfaced
with my broken veins, mental realms raped, the sky was split open.
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