Falling, slipping, vanishing...

Rain.
Rupashi Bangla on my table.
An ephemeral instant passes by, when I am.
In the sound of the raindrops, in the scent of the manuscript, I can be.

Then, unable to hold on, I begin to quiver.
Relentlessly.
And I think, I become, I look, hear and am predicated.
By the time I write, it is lost.

This shadow of a brief nothing is all that stays.

For HPL

It howls
behind the wolfen shore,
veiling the round moon.
It shrieks
through the needle-sharp leaves
of the conifers
in the clouds.

It burns
in the ancient tentacles
seeking saline shelter
from undersea storms.

And it reeks,
the stench of repressed rot,
distended veins,
nauseous souls.

It shines,
The explosive engine
of all creation.
Burning, blinding, yellow beauty,
scorching my dusty eyes
which wither and bleed
but shed not a tear.

Et in Arcadia, Ego

The moon

 written in paper veins

Whistling grass

Your skin

Cool

Now warm

Brine

Tanned, stretched

Twisted onto bone

Bound

Now flapping free

Your being enveloped

And voided

Nothingness

Rooted

In your stalks.

Smoothness crumples

No one sees

redness

Pulsing

Directionless

Searching for the Nebula

Which, once blue

Told us of entropy

Of cold distance

Disparate

Disappearing

Darkness

Matters.

From the tram-tracks

A thousand nights

Unslept

Unfeeling the weight
of a thousand years

that lay on Her lover.

A crane flies along the skyline

Where steeltowers meander

Where Orion hunts no more.

The lepers are gone

From the hydrants.

The forlorn Doel whistles in vain

at constellations smothered by smog,

at banished Shamas

at screeching Starlings.

Can I be the sand

on his tired feet

Or

Seathing saline hands

scraping his being?

My beloved’s face

was carved in lines

not of Sravasti.

The engine roars,

vibrating wings

a memory.

We totter along

through owling woods

strewing entrails

along the asphalt.

Halfway (to Namkhana)

Sun-skinned,

She turns to me

Smiles:

“My name is Arunima Sanyal

Were you looking for me?”

Les somnambules

Devenir poète,
C'est, devenir un fragment poétique
Qui se forme de feu
Se tue
S'efface

Une mèche de fumée
Montante
Parmi les nuages
vue par les cils
du moitié endormi...

*******************************

The Sleepwalker

Becoming a poet
Is to become a poetic fragment
Which forms itself from fire
Kills itself
Self-erases

A strand of smoke
Climbing
Among the clouds
seen through the eyelashes
of the half-asleep.

Wedding season

Bougainvilleas blossom
on wintersunned carpet,
Grass
Growing into
The edges
of awakening.

Her man reads, writes
of the undead, unsickening
As the morning she-naigh
Breaks the cold nightly dawn.

Maidan

A brown colt
Voyages out
With a roan mare
and the blueyellow sun
on the fields,
green
seen from a fallen tree.
A banyan tree
it was.
Saw an ancient city born
and the hopes of a young lover
die.

Enfin

I think psychoanalysis is the last resort of the unfortunates who have failed to learn anything from life, love and experience.

I am not referring to reading Freud, Klien, Jung, Lacan or even psychoanalytic journals. I am only talking about the decision to spend unbelievable amounts of money and time lying on a couch talking about oneself, trying to resolve one's inner conflicts and lacunae. Do the analysands have no one to whom they can talk about their thoughts, no arms to cry into? Have they read no books, watched no films that jolt the very fundaments of their being? Have they never walked in a garden or a forest, listening until they listened no more?

The aim of psychoanalysis, as the books tell me, is to draw the attention of the analysand to the fact that s/he is mortal and insignificant, while simultaneously being both responsible and a mere spectator to his/her own life. Are we in an age where people have ceased to marvel, to observe, to savour the good and the bad that happens to them?

If so, I believe we have ceased to be human.

The Empty Rainquiver

Blood-blue upbubbling
Ebbing postsurfracing
Waves oshunned
Words unending
Hans unheld
Foe I's uncussed
The Truth is Out There
Xenophocackling
Brownd always, thin Prometheus
Hides purple seisamic seeds
Red tears sickle down
From the bluerring cloudsky

A saffron-chrome globe
Rises from the Waste
As a green moon pokes
Its Northward way

All that is missing
Is the yellow gold
And the Leprechaun.

An essay

This is my chose n diary. Of pentecosts, rupteries, nursling homes, descritions and many more words I will never understand. Smoke has blown many words here and there since we last examined the lexical map. Adamant has settled on its surface. Its axes have shifted, its edges are wroughten, elemental muteriorations have changed how we even dream. Japan is exploding with rage today. Yesterday, we had an Terrabytic shift at High Tea. The other day the volcanoe overturned, and Yourrope got laved in red and gray. Last week, the kids threw Miss Indronesia into a tswampami. I love how Gaia rocks my cradle, but this is getting a bit too much. It's like a roller-coaster, I think I'm going to throw up. And so I spew out words, and endless stream of blood and nuggets, a physical nausea overwhelming me unless the ink flows at a minimum of cusecs to keep the damn from collapsing. Cue... sex. All that this Newwell Degeneration of tueday thinks about. Ah, these youngsters don't know how to vous anyone, even the weemen they love. They've even forgotten their wowelles. They don't understand what they're reading now. French is a... a... kiss. No, it's a movie! No, it's FRIES you fukkindidot! A disgust of wind has decapacitated the last dandylion. It thought Oz had made it brave, but then the wizard turned back into a Green Goblin.

Where are we to look now? You and I, standing hand in hand, amortously facing the dark? You and I, lighting the dark, burning up our worlds and ourselves in the fearsome intense breathlessness called love?

For Macondo

Melancholy whours of night
Rain
Peter-Pater through the pipes

Words swarm across the mosaic
Blue hands inksolvent
Love bursts, raged, staining the walls
Cliff-crags without birds
Lament.

Quicksandbagged
Quintessence.

Screens of death
Midwater skies
Twelve bars to a line
Artificial eyes

Infinitude.