The Sweeper

7:45 – no later than Dawn,
Aruna Rusted to the ground.

All that Matters,
the White and Gray,
were taken.

The Sweeper takes air with
Chain Links.

The Floor must know more.
The Tiles aren’t Talking.

Poor Girl is Brain Blinded.

The Sod is in hiding,
swept somewhere
under the streets –
where Poor Aruna

Forever Sleeps.

*Please share this post and give the deserved attention to the story of Aruna Shanbaug, who had much of her story hidden “under the instructions of the Dean of KEM, Dr. Deshpande, perhaps to prevent Shanbaug from being socially rejected or to avoid effects on her impending marriage.”(Wikipedia) Everyone should know her story!

To That

inch of time spent over the sea,

dragging your dead body back
from the sharks I fed you to.

There should be enough salt
to drown in. Now that is something
you don’t hear of!
But, I have heard of Buddha,
and Ghandi,
and what great advice for the
blonde girls in white dresses,
not scratched by hands of
light drinking, or hard gunfire;
the girls untouched by
living a dead life, waking under floorboards
built by their mothers.

Your heavy photograph burns to
my tongue. I spit. I curse you out
of your newly dried grave.
I am ecstatic for your corpse,
it grows on me like tough leather.

Now for her.
I carry a monsoon to her driveway.
She is lit up. A bright pumpkin
ripened for plummet.
She dresses in honeysuckle,
and flickers like whiskey.
I haven’t thought of her name,
she is black as a canvas; a new galaxy
before energy matters.
If her heart happens to
do that, I will carve it out.

I will take it back to July in my teeth
where the desert is waiting for me,
it’s Queen.

The Box

My soul has hands that feed my mouth
delight boxes marked “poison”.
I have second hands that are language.

I gave up youth for silent lips that
spread too thick. Two plump
pulsating cream puffs injected
with secrecy.

The boxes piled up to a thousand acreage;
a still wall with a calm face,
sipping tea with the Queen of servitude.
I have become a slave to iron curtains
and black rods.

Once upon a decade ago, I slept with
meaty warriors with bull-dog ears.
They carried sturdy death machines that
slaughtered innocence.
I heard them slice my siblings
to hamburger, while my stable body hid
in a homosexual bed.

I bled out of my ears for one tight night,
then woke up to the funerals.
I faced a casket with strawberry frosting
trim, small china pieces laid across
the mahogany lid.

I tipped with warriors, drinking their poison,
swallowing fear in full, single gulps.
They offered me a butchering tool
and I pulled it in, deep through
tissue and cartilage, into the warm cherry
pie that was wrapped inside my body.

I melted with metal. I succumbed to
murderous beasts that carry
angry weapons,
and without useful hands,
or mouth,
I became a box.

The Twins

I have been brought a morning in bed,
yellow hands expand my eyes.
I rise as a vulture,
slender billed, nut beaked,
baking for a sun day.
The night salted me; an open wound,

the darkness delivered my twins.
She was duplicated, the little girl,
the golden daughter of heroin and hope,
she was on ice,
waiting for me, to grow.

It was a discrete joy, a time to prevent
a murdered life, to create
an identical heaven.
This time, she was mine.

But, the golden splatter was received
as the sun rose above
shadow boxes, as my blemished hands
become liver,

and we yellowed.
With tattered feathers, “we”
became “I”.
No duplication.
No sweet, heavenly replication
waiting for me, to grow.

Mouse Traps

I wasted my cheese on them.
Crowded mouse traps
arousing
bad breath.

Each corner laced with death.
A scurry,
then a smack.

Before traps, I stepped on one.
I thought of fat old-age as
my step was cushioned by disgust.

Its repulse stench slithered up
my slender frame offensively.

I jumped back.
Immediate.
Overflowing with resentment.

Till the traps came marching in.
One by one.
Setting themselves gracefully.

It was no peace offering. They got the cheese.
I got the wine.
Kicked back, relaxed,
waiting for the
scurry, scurry, snap! 

Polly

In case of necessity, hang your husband.
Your pistol might misfire, but prevent.
It will happen, poor turtle!
Your slow shoes will be suspicious; sluggish,
lame,
dragging the accused on a rope.

What a shame personal bravery is. Suspecting
everything
but its own heart. Much better a
widow than
a former, I suppose.

So, just in case, keep rope.
Mary or
Heather or
Anne will lay weight on
your fool. Pretty wretch!

Then wine,
then pistol,
biting cries then
silence.
She can’t escape without her eyes!

He means
to bury himself deep
in your bed,
where you may find happiness
tomorrow,
but

the rope!
A whore will steal everything but!

I Do Not Believe In Love

soft arms and fresh
flesh wrap around the narrow connector of
head to chest
and force the life out –
bronchial tubes scream in agony –

miniskirts
live in boxes underneath
the stairs..

prayers for the girl
in the closet while
love pounds on the door

blood red roses posing
as daggers
as adoration drags their
thorns across
her face

romance and
passion lace  the glass
with arsenic

her lips are given the last taste of
love as love takes her
last breath.

He Is Allergic To Peanuts

We cooked, cooked together
smashed meat with boulders and fried it
on rocks. We drilled into eggs and
drank the yolk from it’s own shell.

We smiled at each other with leftovers
in our teeth…

I grated peanuts into piles of peanut dust behind my back, while
he played a song that
reminded him of me.

The music tickled on and he sang
and we sang together. We danced and we
danced together.
To the piano, we were not graceful
but the drums could tell we that we were delicate
and practiced; together.

My hand clutched the peanut dust tightly as
he held, held tightly onto my waist.
He spun me around to
face him, our eyes met.

He closed his eyes, we closed them together.
He leaned in to kiss me.
I leaned my lips to my hand and blew, blew
the dust in his face.

He was stunned – breathless. Choking, he fell to the floor, tears
puddling in his eyes and he cried,
we cried together.

 

 

Where Did Everybody Go

There! I changed it!
Now let’s go back to options and
change it to “hard”.

I cheated.
Don’t tell anybody.

(If the path is blocked, you’ll
need to find a way to clear it.)

So, basically the path is blocked.

I need backup.
Where did you go?
Put me down…I’m making fire.

No! Please??
Where did the other guy go?
Is he dead?
Put me down….

“sweeping the floor with his body
la la la la la…

i’m sweeping the floor with your booody”

Cheated!