The Boy who Looks at Nowhere

Walks with his eyes closed,
And hands in sashes;
Leaves limpid footprints everywhere,
When the kerbs croak,
As if at night;
Tries to be abnormal
Even to the abnormal,
Till guilt catch up with him—
Umber empire chocolate:
If chewed quickly off,
No bitterness would linger
On the buddiest tongue.

He starts on his bike,
In deliberate swerves,
Waddling in puddles black
With skins of mud,
Unfeeling
When bits of grits snap into his shanks in fits.

At the store he stops,
Stooping for a plant whose voice has taken flight,
Whose sheen has dimmed
Like his granny’s eyes.
At home he fidgets,
Feeding her with vitamin pills,
Then wash them down with a nozzle
Refitted from the muzzle of a favourite gun.
At night he talks to her
In kinky gutters,
Fearing that the brine of his tears
Would soak her dead:
On the brim of the night,
At the height of her desk.
Quick as a travelling sand,
Frail like a buckling band.

He sings only when it thunders
So that no one hears his howl.

Sail In

All are sailors in winds,
Rigging the bunts of umbrellas,
In shapes of
Guns, cigars and forearms.
But some are only eaten away,
Gnawed by the gusts,
Into turbid pieces.
The wind,
At the palimpsests of their emaciation
In my mind.
But under stirs
Fake leaves wave too,
And some songs sound better on reflection.
Then I’ll view them as stories of mine,
Written in malaport style and the very
Wrong voice,
Thus from which I move on to a next,
Better one to compose.

The rain wafts,
Dyeing the paves black
As if ink
Into a flattened pool.