Morning
Turning
Point
Of
arousal
Slow
stretch of limbs
Breaking
them in
To
face today.
Dated
already
With
its call number.
Light
softens the ceiling
Cream
caricatures wriggle
Wrestling
away shadows
To
the eaves.
Hugging
invisibility
They
await nightfall.
The
windowpanes tug
At
my heart, awake
All
night long
Pumping,
pounding
My
silenced sentience
My
dream darkness
With
lethal beats.
The
assonance of
Night
watchman defiantly
Moonlighting
as
Crossroads
angel.
The
heart of dawn
Is
at dawn
Forgotten
With
its demons
Put
to rest.
For
a while.
Meanwhile
The
mundane
Lifts
it's voice
A
choir in
A
Cappella.
The
tap water zings,
Ice
cold in November
Fiesty
with my fingers,
Digits
rub briskly, zestfully
Letting
soap suds escape
Past
avtars of my obsessive cleanliness.
The
comedy of prosaic compulsions
A
must watch
I,
my sole audience.
This
effulgent opera
This
bubbly effervescence
This
saves my grace
From
the grave
I
couldn't care less
About
cleaning dishes
But
oh! The gleam
Of
the morning sun on them.
I
must be channelling my foremothers
(They
were obstinate neat freaks
I'll
bet.)
I
weave dark cloven dreams in dark cleaves of chiselled cells
That
burn the humdrum of my brain.
While
my still suede blanketed eyes survey
The
brown winged eagle
Perched
upon the bathroom pipe
Of
my neighbour's flat bent
Upon
some butchering business.
It
wears a tifanny pet collar
Except
it's snow
White
frills for the predator.
I'm
keenly aware of its
Merciless
vision prying open
Pretensions
Till
i am lost in unravelling
Myself.
At
six am.
A
bizarre brazen prayer.
To
start the meandering madness.
Asana
I am
wishful yoga enthusiast
I do
the poses wrong
I
strike a fanciful pose
And
check my sagging body
With
its still pert bottom
In
the mirror.
Loving
this expansive stretch
Of
broad hips and knees and thighs
Is
hard.
I
make do with camaraderie.
Hiya
buddy meet you on the
Other
side
When
you finally attain the requested thigh gaps
Till
then keep trying,
And
perhaps I will give you.an affectionate squeeze?
All
this talk
Of
loving oneself.
Obese
or not.
Love
your body.
Puh-leese.
Pass
me the instruction manual.
It
isn't that easy
My
eyes are dazzled
There's
so much beauty
In
the world.
Not
photoshopped.
Perfection
walks upon
Stilettos
everywhere.
I
respect my hard-working body.
Love
is more complex.
It
elicits wistfulness
Wishfulness.
Even
my body wants this new me.
Evidently.
I am
crosslegged
Feeling
my knees
Digging
my ankles in
Creating
Balance.
Hoping
for a lovely lap dance
Of
utter gladness ,
Soul
mate and soul
Are
you listening in?
We
must reactivate
Our
disused chakras.
We
must entertain ourselves
Packing
Time
travel again
I
open the trolley
But
it's jam-packed
I
used it as a storage unit
These
six months.
Saris.
Mom
never wore.
Gifts
of a fifty third wedding anniversary
She
outlived by two months
Cassettes
from highschool
I
still save the best ones
The
others trashed
Though
I saved the jackets.
Photos
of mom.
And
me.
With
school friends.
I
notice.
I
look so baggage free.
My
room. Posters of Steffi Graf
Lennon
Becker and the Boss.
I am
embarassed now.
To
mention Cruise.
There's
a something in my throat
Now.
A
choking thought.
Where
am I going
Where
am I headed
When
These
days are forgot?
My
son asks me
If
that big old bungalow was ours
It
was.
The
steps to the backgarden
Backlit
by cavernous shadow
I
know that behind that lies
A
vast living room
With
flowered curtains
Where
i perched on a thick cushioned
Sofa
set,
To
read Agatha Christie.
And
it is now only available
As a
function of my brain cells.
Where
on earth will I keep all this
To
empty my trolley, make it light enough
For
space travel?
I
pack everything back inside.
Careful
and slow.
An
absurd amount of love
For
a Hodge podge collection.
That
will never be used.
You'll
need to buy another bag.
Remarks
my son.
That's
what I'm afraid of.
Just keep on writing because no matter what some people say you are the stuff poets are made of.
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