Friday, July 16, 2010

Apocalyptic in Emerald City


The drunken clock is broken
the hour crowds; the room shrinks
on top of its universal ashes,

a wide eyed magpie at the window
grumbles: “you say
light harms me
and close the window.”

String marionettes hang on the wall
stare at each other. They’ve been drooping
this way ever since my father brought them.

Rush hour traffic jostles outside,
the magpie keeps complaining,
crowds swell, room shrinks further.

I hear the sound of a sugarcane juice-machine,
fibrous woody grass getting pressed
squeezed and crushed,
it refuses to be thrown away

like used-up memories.
A stray dog timidly walks away
with a piece of husk.

I gaze at a distant high-rise, feel
my pulse and know
I need a heart.

I've lost my virginity ......... lost it to you
my "half crucified
fully naked god.” You nail me
to a hymn about

a rainbow yet won't give up
an ounce of your pride
to write me an apology.

Yet, it is I who needs to find
the pieces of an inflorescence
strewn on the ground; I
who bears the burden
of hunting them out.

I who needs to see
that they never make a cluster
of individual you's
for fear of losing.

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