Relief

Relief

He fell on the cold floor,
dead.
His ancestral rocking chair
smiled,
free to rest its 80-year old bones
at last...

The Beloved

She takes the right side of the bed
I the left.
Above me
dressed in nudity
my beloved
from the western window
the moonlight...

Subconscious Mask

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

pushes itself

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)