Thursday, February 23, 2012

My Simple Congenital Thirst





Pale fingers exfoliate like hair
On the edge of my amnesiac skin
Reaching out
To the dried carcass of the sky.

My simple congenital thirst
Branches out
Of my pores
Shedding   eyeless brown leaves
On the famine
Of my earth’s black mouth.

The parched sky peels off
Like a cheap blue paint
The decrepit arteries of the dehydrated soil
Crumble
Like the ruined drainages
Of extinct civilizations.

My stultified heart a palm
Whose fingers have come off
Can still hold nothingness
Like Shiva’s translucent semen
Can still keep count
Of my deaths with its mute thumb.

I have planted
The stillborn foetuses
Of my eyes
Near the ancient roots of peepal
The male rocky hands
of the last earthquake
Will awaken
Their disfigured faces

They can still startle you
By sprouting from unlikely places.

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