the last sin
  pale ashen sky
a bleary eye
clouds of recurring screams...
i am a zoo
  an octopus leviathan
tentacles into an ocean
of unformed emotions...
syphilis and love  
  syphilitic pall
stifles the clear blue
i contort...
 
shell and pearl
  amidst highs and lows
in life's ocean flows
a shell peony-mouthed...
 
i am an unmarried mother
 
  fed on stings
of barbed milk morality
my child-plankton...
 
the lovers
  cell upon cell
bridge of their union
hung on the pillars...
rebirth
  ogre of age
and time cavil
at a warm picture...
the young today
  innocence thaws
at the altar
of ambition...
 

in search of a poem

ah what should i write today
last night i was at a party where the girl i was sitting with
on a plush leather sofa had a lovely plunging neckline
on regular days she’s a simple smart girl but last night she was
in a mood to dare had come fresh from the parlour
and was resplendent in a low-cut black top with frilly long sleeves
a red-green pearl necklace embellishing her cleavage
i don’t know if she spotted my sporadically straying gaze
women generally are aware of such things being hunted
for ages it’s become a part of their DNA
i was being scrupulous looking not too hard
and trying to make clever conversations
sometimes in between sipping her favourite cocktail
guess what she ordered Between the Sheets
a curious mix of Bacardi Cognac passionfruit and lime juices
served in rocks glass with lime and cherry
she would caress her flowing hair
in the background Buddha Bar played lilting lounge
and bring them up front casually covering her right breast
later at night i shared my observations with my wife
she said it’s a reflection of her growing confidence

to share a personal truth i am struggling
for words today these days it’s almost a need to write
so i furiously start shooting in the dark
last night i was at a party where the girl i was sitting with
on a plush leather sofa had a lovely plunging neckline

hoping a poesy will emerge from random thoughts
captured after a subtly eventful night out
does poetry always have to epitomise a message
be a manna for the soul could it not be a plain Jane
living on her terms with a right to have a day off
sans makeup sans meaning
it’s the fourth saturday of the month
and everybody including an of late busy muse
needs a breather like that simple smart girl
with a plunging neckline coming to grips with herself
in that book-lined Renaissance style bar
reinvention is rejuvenating
while listening to my fingers tap
the keyboard i notice there’s another sound
a creaky rickety noise the fan in my study
needs oiling perhaps the right note
to end this experiment with words
it ain’t going nowhere
on a day when i need to write a poem

(23 April 2005)