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

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

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.