george r POEMS 1
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From somewhere within our skulls what are we looking at sperms of mirror spreads over the asthitharakal*.
* sacred spaces where remains of the dead kept.
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Various universes, alone and in groups come in through the windows those innumerable playfully flutter around in the silence of the body
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When I returned with the mustard seeds Buddha - a bronze image in a glass case of an antique shop.
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When I returned with the mustard seeds Buddha-a bronze image in a glass case of an antique shop.
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I was the tender grass on a hill slope where wind never slept one day at dawn Buddha came as a little lamb ate me up and had his fill.
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the moss of scream’s silence grown over the body the body crumbles in the dust an open door, a bleeding sword
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the needles of the clock on the wall are thrust in my chest now, my blood shows the time.
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while the earth under feet is swept a bit a host of sleepless faces.
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I am playing with the bones of god kiting them in the skies above.
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the eyes were gouged out before dawn and the serpents have laid eggs in those holes tarred roads encircle the eggs the tar spills over the flowers and the sun.
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on the deserted dining table a large lizard in its mouth writhes a pair of tender hands.
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with each walking step comes the shrieks of someone drowning.
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when the doors and windows close.. the room throngs with innumerable beings, streets, howls, blood... when the doors and windows open only deserted silence.
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the fishes caught in the net of stars search for the sea in my blood.
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today my head cracked and a flock of green birds flew out pecking my faces, they sang - a song with silence and blood.
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the vulture eats my liver during the day its sad eyes satiate my hunger in the night.
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whose fingers these burning streets whose eyes these fast- approaching cyclones whose heart this earth spitting fire and blood.
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leaves fall from the broken mirror they past the doors as anklets the smell of blood fill the rooms. * inside an unfamiliar face innumerable crosses on all of them familiar faces crucified wailing... 20
now I am the fish that leaps out of blind’s eyes writhing... dying...
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flowers and butterflies bid me farewell to the gallows: to their own memories.
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nails pierce the hands that search me in the dark.
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between the aiming gun and the stonewall blue mushrooms in an orphaned bed too blue mushrooms waking up...
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even while this last moment hugs me as the hands of the blind virgin mother I can’ t lift the anchor sunk in blood
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those who are cursed to stone for knowing the truth need blood yours and mine.
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at dawn when reflections harvest heads a statue in the bed of blue bodies.
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under the ruins of the city my lake in the lake’s depths the martyrs of silence.
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we are the delicacies of the last supper the wounds of the crucified enjoying the supper...
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