Infirm like filo in caking of my fleshment
you push me to candy of other kinds. In
reality there isn’t wordlessness. Subtlety
isn’t the brief. Nuance is in short supply.
Klazomania hits. I scream like a panelist
on a news show. Audibility isn’t hark-
ened only by headsets. In this sublunary
animus has to be adhibited.
editors note: Scream loud and long; there's gotta be someplace better than this! - mh clay
Do icicles understand
transience is award
Knowledge about the self
contributes to the case.
Ken to drum this
is subscription to turnstiles
one can’t see.
Eyes hurt, head throbs:
downers bring me
to your doorway.
Accept me as I’m.
Some mirth, some misery.
In rejoicing is your rig
in contrition your cast.
editors note: Drumming up acceptance; knowledge of your brand? Better to know thyself. (I'm what I'm, and that's all I'm!) - mh clay
Sans passports your words fly
to my islet. From far-off places
your eyes key passages. In
reign of entropic radiations
there is no empath. Cushioned
by half-knowledge, in twirl
of half-truths we subsist
in centers of our seeking.
editors note: Come, they fly, but land, not. You keep speaking, I'll keep seeking... - mh clay
Flashbacks convoke me to crepuscular hours
when I was about seven at gramps. From
the restroom I could see his renters: didn’t
understand the intimations of their acrobatics.
They had me hooked unlike riddles in maths
or what else I was macerating. I would stand
in his washroom ensorcelled by the magic of
their moves, undertaking lessons in addiction
and obsession. I didn’t have a front seat view.
Had I a few centimeters I could have gleaned
those glyphs better.
editors note: A few centimeters short of a full peep makes for a half-assed view. - mh clay
Quarantine by quality is enough confinement.
Let us not add the angle of moral amplitude.
Woodsmoke of ceremonies fails to enter my
porch, connections fasten without formalities.
Tristfulness arrives with certain defiance as
though proving a point. I spurn its summon.
Like the gnomon, I light my mind’s wick to
usher me away from the lightlessness.
editors note: Don't need another's compass to keep us in the light. We make our own choices. - mh clay
Windrows of unseen wounds
leap from snuggery of my skin,
competing with scratchiti
of silent but striking intakes.
intimacies live like this.
editors note: Sting or soothe; such swing either way. - mh clay
Efficiency of the memoriter ingress
allows you to come calling as easily
as another niggle of myself. Rain hits
upon me, in doing so it robs me of
my right to say, No. This is Nature’s
way, kowtow or kaput. Ocean, an
oriel away gurgles and giggles to
share finespun specks of its latest
amour. I listen: it leavens.
editors note: "kowtow or kaput" - couldn't have said it better. Thanks, Sanjeev! - mh clay
Pratfalls stoic like saints leave me
with doctrines I pooh-pooh as I
saunter directionless. Unlike me
querists are quick learners. My
body leans on you, social setups
chide me for this pose. In its slant
is my smile. I’ve no time to mull:
can there be another flexure?
This sigmoid is for me.
editors note: ...and the whole world smiles with you. - mh clay
We tote excess of existence like dreams
taut with defeat. Truth that erupted was
buried in my briefcase, alcohol was an
enabler. Our style sheet was impaired.
Like statutes it was open to interpretations.
As poets we compounded the causatum.
Ambidextrous lovers are the most loved.
Or the least. Those who seem to please
everyone, please no-one. Their goal is
editors note: And, here; our goat is got. (We welcome Sanjeev to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page - check it out.) - mh clay
Before your spousals, you and my only niece flew
in for few nights. Prior to our intro I had briefed
myself: you had to be liked. Between stiff vodkas,
kickshaws and some conversation I was beaming:
first part of your prothalamion was buzzing in my
brain. Beauty is in blending, the ecumenical is an
edifier. What about fragrance of the familiar?
Should it be snubbed?
editors note: A few good belts to sweeten the song; familiar from strange. - mh clay