New Year’s Eve.

There are glowing lights
in the shape
of flowers, stars or
strings of spheres
strewn across veneered walls like
pretty
burning
cobwebs
across imagined diagonals of rooms
lit up like lonely cities
where I’d rather be
on this day when
people meet
inside
concrete tents, gauzy
like bubbles of champagne
flushing their cheeks
rubicund
with a satisfaction
unearned
from the ordeal of waiting
for the tide to slow down
– it feels like standing dumb
with a net made from
the veins in my lungs,
as moments whizz by
like fireflies –

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An Epiphany, to the Sound of Thunder.

The cool rainy wind

Has a body.
The cells lie spat upon, glittering
Silver on the road, floating and
Sinking in its transparent life blood
Coming down from the heavens-
The swirling violet nothingness in
The spools of its brain is smoothed out
And tacked like pellets and platelets onto
A month-old lethal-bruise sky,
Heavy, devilish purple fighting back
Streaks of screaming red, while the trees
Glimmering like guilty swords
Jut out proud their sodden-antler heads;
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Eclipse. (A poem on FGM)

Yet again
the rains have failed
and the scythe lies
flashing its bad silver eye
in the darkest hour
of the night,
a few breaths before
dawn cracks open
the blood-spattered
skull of the sky,
leaves it gaping
like the parched
fields, outside.
Her cocoon rustles
with the hushed glory
of the butterfly flight
of her pleasure-child,
spreading its furry wings
in the face, wide,
of a single light-bulb sky.
She ripples
till the sphere of marble
touches the horizontal tip
of her half-shut eye
for the first time,
flows onto the upper eyelid,
revving for flight
from the edge of the world
and out of the well-meaning
dark, leaps up the scythe
a slumbering serpent freed
from the clutch of a cat
black and blind,
scooping up the ball of the eye –
the forked tongue slicing it
out of sight,
out of mind.

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