And my personal favourite

Limp puppet played by indian strings.
Small but with a magnified reflection.
Plastic and the
rolling waters slide off me,
slipping off the surface.
All you could ever see
would be the gloss,
never the salt on skin,
sweat and tears,
the deluge inside smoothening
serrated edges.
There is only soft tissue, grazed.
The cataract that adjoins my empurpled lips
with the chasm,
the blank stare I stare blankly back at
amid wet undulations.

A flush
and maybe it could erase
that stillness, that neverending shaft,
the evenings when humming crickets
would drown my harsh rasping,
maybe it could close
the aperture.
So you would not know the secrets written in
technicoloured pools from countless rituals,
tea leaves in a porcelain cup.
So you would not know the finger
gnawed to the bone.
So you would not know the bitter nectar
tinting the tip of my tongue

like this, this thing that could not be told,
this thing in my throat, my close-lipped voice,
my concave abdomen,
the shrunken, the bruised.

Something I could not tell you
of the empty fulfillment
and the fulfilling emptiness.

Posted By: TheOldColostomyShop on March 12th 2007 at 22:49:42

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