Brimstone Roots

fire

The mind repeats its
natural cycles of entranced retrospection, and
caught unawares, and unmoving,
I fight,
I struggle,
I shiver,
I shake,
I writhe, as perhaps
some primal and formless instinct for self-preservation
seeks to scamper.. to flee.. to somehow
escape.. to somehow outrun this
unrelenting circuit…
in
austere terror..!!

   
In vain… I try
to calm
the cornered animal, driven
far beyond its bearable thresholds
for panic,
pain, self-persecution, and paranoia,
telling it
that this is somewhere
it must learn to live…
as this isn’t somewhere
it can run away from, because
it couldn’t bear to leave here either…
this apocalyptic mindscape
of unending eclipse and disembodied shadows..
a state fated to be subject, evermore,
to quotidian submersion and violent welling..
surely and unavoidably,
as the lasting remainder of something
far too precious
to abandon…
and
far too harrowing.. to face.

   

Gauze

It doesn’t help..!
this irate
and bitter writing in powerless agony.

 

Like alcohol,
it doesn’t dull
that ..sinking
feeling one gets
on disinterring
an indispensable
image..
that no longer
exists
in places
other than the heart.

 

At least cheap
whisky, in a while,
fogs the senses
and knocks you cold… while
..a metamorphosis of despairing thoughts to disquiet expression..
in contrariety,
keeps you waking
and alert
as in excision without anesthetics,
at times… with words
to stopple
too much bleeding.

 

 

From Book IV

Deficit

Were words not overused
as they are,
perhaps
there would be more dignity
in ‘grief’,
that is to say,
the vicissitudes of turbulence
in the ravaged valley of the ‘heart’,
that serves
as contemptible metaphor
for the entirety of one’s substance
susceptible to ‘despair’,
the kind
that makes you despise
the glass half-full
and envy
the sound of ‘laughter’
made in blissful ignorance
of the barbarity
of cold ‘time’,
which is,
as Dad used to say,
just “a unit
          used to measure
          the changes
          of nature”.

 

From Book IV

Dead Salvage

And soon
I’ll sell the old house
that used to be
our home… but
first I’ve got to get.. his books out..
to save..
his leftover clothes,
his flip-flops, two shoes,
three tables, chairs,
an induction cooker,
an iron trunk, the small TV,
the memories..
and mounted eulogies of our guardians…
the walking stick
he kept
from his father, who
was swallowed there as well.
I think
I’ll burn his
lone bed, the one
where I used to sleep
as a child
betwixt its parents, so
that no one else
touches it!

 

 

From Book IV

The Last of Places

When
his mother died
and I watched them hoist
her large, irresilient frame
upon the pyre,
bare betwixt red sheets,
I was too little
to realize
that she’d never speak to me… again.

  
Then,
when it was time
for his father, and
they did away with
the worn, decrepit shape,
the same way
they had
for his wife, I
understood… that
I’d see them both again..
someday… in a place
we all go upon
our wanting, ashen ends.

  
And…
as I
set fire
to his remains.. the
ruin.. that had become of my father..
I had already
arrived at the deliberation
that mind
cannot outlive
the disorganization of its matter,
that oblivion
is akin
to the restful nothingness
of an eternal, dreamless sleep…
and that
the only place
where we
could all be alive… together…
was in the imprecision
of fading memories.

 

 

From Book IV

The Magic Man

Mr Banerjee _Edited

July 13.
It’s already
been
a month, and
today
is still…
your birthday.

   

You know…?

   

for a few
grey weeks,
I’ve been writing
for you.

   

   

   

I never
told you, but
I used to
think, when I
was little, that you
would be the grand nemesis
I would oppose
when I grew up.

   

But
somehow,
as I grew taller
midst the fall of our guardians,
you found
their secret..
and became
their last.

   

And
taught,
by your own example,
that human beings
are capable
of magic… of good… of change.

 

 

 

From Book IV

 

Bird of Prey

Grey wings come upon me..
arising, by the moment,
behind each bruised shoulder.

I perch
for better vantage
and observe intently, in wait
for blood-crazed behemoths to collide!

No room
or concessions for sentimentality
or dying wishes.. that
these fell beasts seem ever-ready
to trample underfoot! to
deprive the meek and
grow more their overflowing hoards.

I discern the lesser antagonist
and measure, for now,
how the enemy of an enemy is an instrument.