Thursday, February 4, 2016
The ashes of my last poem
are not scattered, let me say,
in my room.
A pinch sits on the top right corner
on Freud’s book,
clinging to his Oedipus Complex
in a shattering calm of guilt
when it had drunk its mother’s milk
making an honest endeavour
at that fifth month of its birth,
when it was driven to do so
from a conscious to a subconscious state.
Another bit sits on the golden frame
of Bob Dylan’s collected photographs,
in my study
trying to get to the singer-poet’s various mood.
I find a tiny bit, like my beard,
on the white metal beer mug
to polish clean the layer of dust
beginning from its handle
down to its belly button.
Another one squats on the militant
pushing itself between his face
and his mask
to make him realise
love comes not through bloodshed.
Yet another on the baby bump
of my girlfriend’s desire
penetrating into her mind
to stop fretting between the thought
whether the child born
will be a boy or a girl.
And another bit of ash
between the tolerance and intolerance
of a country’s political monkeys,
before a city is raped
by an intolerant flood
and yet another city
chews its lips of tolerance
for a damaged winter
yet to arrive.
(from my latest book, A STRANGER LURKS IN MY BRAIN up on Amazon as e-book via Books Mango)