Bearded face still looks from
the severed head, in timeless gaze
after the spitting blast. A nimbus cloud
is lobbed on the tormentor to stop burning;
the silver urn contains the daisy sick
to wean away the enemy of tender shoots
of tall trees. Blue mercury is wildly oscillating
like boneless mast of sunken ship.
The avenger of younger cyclones, we lost
our grains in high noon on towring houses;
the rivers changing the course to submerge
the golden bells of masses and white flags
a new born is not lifted from the dust, a time
tries to become bodiless in a glassed dome
touchless, smell less, only skulled myself
in mutilating mud of black tapestry.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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