Between eye and eye

Between eye and eye

is a wall

word-bricked and silence-plastered

between eye and eye

is a mirror

reflecting perfection,

the love-seek twinning

of young hearts

trapped at 16

and between eye and eye

is chasm, moment and dissolve

endless immediacy

of the unattainable,

the impossible loves

made for poetry and insanity

the unbuttoning of jealousy

the right-click that drops options

without ‘tomorrow, tomorrow and so forth’. 

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If only…

If only we had eyes

to see colours yet to be named,

if we could hear music

beyond given range of hearing

if only we could touch the untouchable

if only there was courage

to touch all touch-me-nots

taste all forbidden fruit

shed tears labeled ‘embarrassing’

sing in silenced zones

if only there was heart

to break should-break laws,

if only if-only things

unionized and mutinied

we’d have an unrecognizable world

so coloured and symphonied

layered and laced

it would be water-made

and fire-frilled

so transparent

that word would not be banned

but irrelevanced. 

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Song of the frozen sunset

The impossible moment

between day and night

the eminently possible

of love and other demons

sunsets are for romance

and heartbreak

disappearing from accusing eye

and appearing in heartness

of the beloved

it’s the silhouette

bearing kiss and gamble

risk and conviction

rippling in color and water

cascading from cloud and fire

the palm oil of wick-end days

burning into heart

the brands of sorrow

and bliss

in immemorial union;

makers of our final memories

of lucid insanity.

[Inspired by the photography of Rukshan Abeywansha]

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Sorrow purchase

A smile made of a memory-twitch

a word coined in a tongue-tied moment

a head-nod wrought of empathy

silence spun from love-thread

humility born of ignorance;

all transferable currencies

valid for the purchasing of sorrow.

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For the unwavering

In the rise and fall

the burst and collapse of barometer

the ant-bite injection that drew gasp

the love-bite that shredded heart

in scream and nonchalance

and the hundred ways of hurt

the one conclusive abandonment

life-ink bottles have spilled over

in froth and solitude

have emptied without reason

and in the gassing of spit

and the asphyxiation of barb

there are those who take the blows

and still bow low for more

and more

who fall and fall

and still rise

in banner and quote

heart and singularity;

they add stitch

they craft our common signature.

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In the mean time…

In the mean time

there are short words

and shorter thoughts,

a precise forgetting

of together things

a sharp memory of the blunt;

in the mean time

footfall drops too soft

knock too loud

word is better not said

and silence is forbidden,

in the mean time

you are better dead

for dead is what you are. 

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Co-workers

They walk in and out

of my room

as I enter-exit theirs,

friends and colleagues

walking carriers of fear and hope

mask-wearing and unmasked

perhaps like me,

they come with complaint

and suggestion

demand and supply

the randomness of our days

the moments that drive

the events that frame

and they come

with tea or coffee

copy or excuse

heart or mind or both

paper to sign

joke to share

these paper-makers

who test my work-time teeth

in their uniqueness

different from one another

varied from hour to hour

and I wonder:

do they come to see me

and see someone else instead,

like I do

when with smile or grime

or threat and pledge

they walk in and walk out? 

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