the atomic structure
refraction of light
the alimentary canal
editors note: It all comes out in the end. - mh clay
Every time when I ask my doctor
about the mole
just down my left nostril
he replies that
of a drawing room,
well furnished in the past.
The broken pieces of furniture
and the walls
interpret the devastation
in various ways.
that rats are often leaping
over full stops
down the cantilever bridge
of the city
which the English built in 1943.
editors note: Dalliance in this diagnosis makes map to cure impossible to chart. Best learn to live with it. - mh clay
An homage to John Ashbery
When I mark the two edges
of a contempt
with a sharp pencil
It bestrides on the two edges
and pushes them away.
‘I just walk around
Into the dusk-charged air.’
Vividly smell my own perspiration –
the monster inside me
replicates itself in an endless variation.
Is contempt a chess-board?
“…I cannot explain the action of leveling
why it should all boil down to one
uniform substance, a magma of interiors.”
editors note: A word impossible to define for those who are above it. - mh clay
Every day my gazes break on her smiles. In the hot summer afternoon I sit on the pavement of her silence. Thrashing dust buses, cars and all other vehicles pass with so many words but they never get down before me; in this scorching heat I sit beside the street dog of my desire who pants with drooping tongue. I visit to meet the “idols of the theatre” in the city where Francis Bacon lives, though dust and heat on the roads make me tired.
editors note: Too hot for desire, just keep panting - wait for sunset. - mh clay
many dark lines.
Only a few of them
on the surface
of my life.
The thicker ones
are embedded firmly
through the bottom.
editors note: Thick or thin, try not to step over. - mh clay
I have become accustomed
to the biting
of my unfaithful dog.
his uneasy canines
into the bloodless flesh
of my thigh,
I shout in pain
until my neck
gets as thin
When my flesh is torn apart
and the dog is free,
he develops a huge swelling
in his throat.
editors note: No truth? No training! - mh clay
after the birthday bash
i am tired
of loyalty –
the dry stone of a fruit
the collar of my shirt
is not an enough opening
for pumping out
the flies of myself
in my drawing room
the years cross the edge of my table
on the window-sill
outside all the compound eyes
gather in the front lawn
and scuffle like people
in the queues before ATMs
the mob is pushing me
into the enormous nucleus
of a Mrs. Malaprop’s cortex cell
editors note: And no word is the right word for how we feel. - mh clay
from a neighborhood
measure d on the Richter scale
three village folks we re sip
in uncle tom’s cabin
the clamor was inter rupted
in the north bengal tea gardens:
hunger is a prisoner’s out (fit
the face value of the disaster:
‘self is seen
not as a person al essence
rather as an aesthetic and ethical object
to be create d and cultivate d’
editors note: Sipping tea; becoming you, becoming me. - mh clay
Indian child development minister is thinking that she
must extend the maternity leave for working women.
Afternoon naps improve my health,
I don’t care how we spend our baby moon at Miami.
The baby in the perambulator smiles at me.
Sex is hushed up. Let’s talk about love, buddies.
She wore a plunging black gown for her music promo.
She sang for raising her baby twins after divorce.
Americans name their babies after guns –
‘a nightmare on elm street.’ After the party
she pretends all is over – a ‘million dollar baby;’
though I have an infighting against mediocrity.
Pro-industry GDP doesn’t impress voters.
A gross environmental product will breast-feed them.
editors note: For all us babies, the future is one big teat. - mh clay