The house that stood no longer holds me.
Its windows pierce me with what the world
steals from me – honks, afternoon crickets.
All furnitures have no mouth to honk. But the chairs
bear my burden. I sit, & like a belly heaving,
it sinks below. I have said it: inanimism
have more life than humans. What humans have
is masochism. When you suffer,
a petal is attached to your hair.
They celebrate a body loosening off.
Only a deathbed, not a sickbed,
is laid on shoulders. They only dig six feet deep
into the roots, not the roof.
& grief is a genre with nectar
pussing from their ears. If only they knew
yellow is also blood, a stillborn blood.
If only they pull the worms, masticating
pains from their tongues.
Loneliness is not a byword. I have clung it
like rosary & massaged the scar. What you call rope
is actually a sabre; it slits as you cleave to it,
as you wrap your frail trust on it. Bunch of edible grubs
snake on its edge. You can’t cure loneliness,
O Therapist. You can only lull it to sleep.
Like storm, it will arise when everyone sleeps;
when so much weight lingers, it’ll shipwreck.
& then, pain. A cancer on the heart.
Magnesium flames, that frail writhe,
jellying on the body – your body, weighty,
incapable of holding it; the fire, weightless,
capable of holding you. In the eyes of a loner,
hellfire. He sings his woes to the world,
they echo their woos to his word.
The world, a raving madness.
They can’t be alright, can’t be sane.
They roll his story with cyanide & puff smoke like clowns.
The country that existed no longer holds him.
It potholes a cesspit near his feet.
It explains why the white on the flag is a gate to heaven,
that bright, resplendent, dappled in red thing.
We have burdens, introverts have
incarceration in their bosom.
We want you to open the door & talk to us.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash