Monday, November 28, 2011


As I lie dying, on the edge of my eyelids/

I am whirling like a dervish/

The fabric ripples/

In the absence of air/

Wooden is the table/

In the absence of weight/

Wooden is the mind/

In the presence of it/

There are termites/

Burrowing, burrowing, burrowing/

And there is whoring, whoring, whoring/

To pleasures that are not deserved/

That are not mine to win, to savour/

The liquid is like mercury in a thermometer/

When a child plays with it: silver (or sliver) going up-down/

Up down/

The droning clink of a medal of honour on the wall/

May sound like the death-knell of a dreamless sleep/

Your tears are not yours alone/

They are also mine to keep.