And I felt you break
showering my secrets
with a hundred million stars
cast out new
throbbing to be
a speck in the great, big sea.
The way I’m sitting,
the bowl being off-centre on the table.
The bladder- it’s always half full, half empty,
half full, I forget.
The cat’s whiskers being glorious,
the water boiling,
the long dust of drafting all this on the keys again.
The tingles on my back,
the unwatered plant- it looks like a wretched desert,
the dry patch on the back of my throat,
the water being too hot.
The preoccupation with how often I urinate,
the post-urination chill up the spine.
The palm trees against the pale pink sky being too good to not photograph-
being too cliche to photograph, on the other hand.
How the page absorbs ink making blotches marking my hesitations.
The loneliness flickering in the light bulbs of the four a.m. train,
and the racket that it makes.
The situation of the world in general. A distant, worn out panic.
The horror of five a.m. and them waking up, to this, to make this.
This whole thing of being.
to look away from this thing-
this thing I don’t interrogate for honest words,
this thing I don’t want to see.
The fear of me,
The sun is burning anyway;
it doesn’t need more pain.
is hardly ever a bargain.
Everything hurts but tomorrow
when you like glossy covers
with pictures that cause a slow gnawing
from the heights of paradise complex.
as often as it wets our hearts
with soft clouds
dipped in orange dyed lagoon sunsets.
And we are left beating
with the fish washed fresh
off the warm waters
at some faraway paradise bay.
Things laid out carefully for the most important night of the year;
a private place hanging from the edge of an island,
a few heads that can talk and laugh,
a menu with options.
to fill up the holes between conversation
and light up the crystals lost in eyes.
it was the same.
In the morning between rocks, seashells, open bottles and sand
there were people broken
by the quiet horror of
This human thing,
it heals, it hurts:
it is the thing that man’s god hates the most.
This human thing
is a thing of shame and miles and miles of sunshine.
This human thing,
is a thing that sang,
and at pictures of beautiful flats;
played Pokemon Go,
shopped for Christmas,
while cities of ants burnt
with their secret mines of gold.
and bewilderingly apart
till humans things were dug open to find
that burns children, women and men
shooting air bombs.
The prophets are late,
Five forty am:
I watched you watch her
try to scrape the last chance of last night
before it faded fast into the sunlight.
– with an old man in a clean sarong
and a shirt ironed to a crispness
-that ratted a wife back home.
Although while scanning her shape through the skirt,
he licked his lips,
he was the type who kept his nose too clean
to go behind the Keells supermarket with her kind;
Besides it was getting too bright to hide.
She came back to you defeated.
They say you both would do anything
for a shot of heroin,
and that it was all your doing.
Is that true?
Did you ever love her?
Before the hell holes, strangers’ invasion and teeth rot,
was she ever beautiful?
I hear her curse you, shrilling the night
but in the morning she is still around
in the thick of your shit fight.
What is she holding on to in you?
– is it something sad and sentimental like
the music trapped between the dust on a forgotten wedding bouquet?
– or is it something logical like
the last thread of convention?
– or something dignified like
’till death do us part’?
– or is it just reason lost in the wind
somewhere in the mundane plains of habit?
as Colombo lay dry sleeping,
and hungover cars were leaving
with leftovers of Saturday night and Pillawoos,
I saw you again.
Standing in a daze of junk
with one palm outstretched to the ocean,
it looked as if you were blessing
the great, big sea of salty tears.
Was that for her?