Soup, The Patient, The Stranger & Love Poem

Soup

Two hot birds, blind,
Hopping on the edge of a simmering soup bowl,
-As if drunk on vapours, around mist-concealed,
Chinese, embroidered rims:
Slithering patterns, of slim withered threads,
Like snakes that make their way through forest beds
And face their foes that mark their move ahead-
In a Drug induced frenzy,
In which silence was all that is said.

The dreamer swept his dreading limbs
And framed a final dance:
Nails dripped out his fingers; Teeth fell out his mouth.
He wobbled out of bed to find his Morning was still out;
Shook the breakfast cereal box and heard a distant rattle;
Shelved the empty box again and slipped out of his mantle.

One of the dancing hot birds fell headlong into the soup.
As they pierced its flesh -some shards in the broth-
It knew and it felt the fragments of his heart.

-

The Patient

And I was asked how I was and so I said how I were:
“Feeling weaker everyday whilst I piss out my liver,
I don’t listen to the doctors; I don’t hear what they say,
Much like a woman giving birth in the focus of the day,
As she stands there naked in the middle of a street,
Her child being stillborn gets crushed beneath her feet;
The second birth is due and her face is turning blue,
Surrounded by red cars and by shouts of, ‘f--- you!’”
They say, ‘you take too many pains to commit suicide;
You seem blinded in love of yourself and your pride.’

“It’s what makes me more Human than all the rest of you
Who do pretend that to pretend is not to notice that you knew
How well you do certain things, and how talented you are,
And yet to convince all the people in the room to be in awe:
A flock of natural birds has taken residence in your jaw.”
-

The stranger or The Princeling's Inheritance

The camels came to rest close by the camp.
Beyond the pregnant swell of a lit up dune,
The sky a sapphire blue: a gemlike hue;
Would that pearls of rain unleash the cure therein:
Protection from the perfidious scorpion.

Some men, who found it best to disagree,
Who drank the desert dew before they left,
They quietly killed his father by the dunes.
In the dreamy light of a melting evening sun,
The camels came to rest, and the day was done.

When finally the child was free to mourn,
The flow had stemmed, and turned spilt-blood to stone.
Upon his knees the prince then wept and prayed,
And fasted for his soul for seven days.
The longest years but were yet still to come,
For every night, his mind relived the sight:
Those lifeless eyes that once had shown such fight,
Reflected not a single thought but fright.

What cruel scorpion stung him in the heart?
What senseless dancer could create such art?
That night, the sandy winds began to howl
And all the desert knew the deed was foul.

A vision, one night, when fever gripped his soul,
Stole into the chamber of the boy:
The king appeared to him who was his son
“Paradise is for the strangers; now you are one!”
And in his hands he left a piece of bread:
A symbol then vouchsafed upon his line;
A burden to demure all passions blind.

In poverty would live, in squalor thrive, this son of man
A stranger he would be within his holy father’s land.
-

Love Poem

In the mirror, there reflects, that which would be:
One day in the deserts of my parched satisfaction,
I would observe miseries circle her life like vultures,
Swooping down, time and time again, to peck
Another eyeball out of her hopes and dreams;
I would hear her screams. And I would crush her children
Beneath the horses’ hooves of my imagination;
Lie naked upon a bed of her fresh spilt intestines
And laugh at the god who in spare time predestines.
-

Bunch of Words Written in 20 minutes to see What Would Happen.
-

It was the day my father decided to dress in a curtain that the family realized something was not quite right with his head. Normally a silent chap, unobtrusive, and the owner of a profile that registers just about as low as the WBC count of a leukaemia patient, he was suddenly found entertaining the infants by prancing around, barely managing to cover up his great bulk, in odd green curtains that had gone out of fashion perhaps twenty years ago. It was a cause for great concern; if the neighbours were to find out that we were in possession of such antiquated draperies and they were draping some unusual antiquities, it would raise far too many an inquisitive eyebrow for my mother’s liking. She had decided long ago that a couple of raised eyebrows every now and then on account of my father’s lavishly antisocial attitude were going to be -not quite but- almost bearable, but anything in excess to that would mean the special forces be called in: my grandmother and aunt arrived shortly after the initial cry for help went out, requesting emergency backup.
She was doing all she could to restrain my father from jumping out into the streets. His sudden joie de vivre had manifested itself in the most peculiarly atrocious fashion and it was near to impossible to get the old man to simmer down and wait a while before he explode onto the scene like a rotten mango. He tried to jump out of three different windows, one of them not even a window but a chalk mark out, where it had been decided earlier that a window ought to be. The poor man was bleeding in the head from a small but nevertheless conspicuous cut and with a sort of befuddled look on his face, was counting his toes in resentment. Just as quick as a sudden downpour, he began giggling and under the power of some unholy force determined to jump out of another window. This was all quite fascinating to us who were young but at the same time a sense of foreboding also presented itself. Judging by mother’s grave reactions and all of that, it was obvious that what was going on was not entirely a joke but perhaps something a shade darker than just 'good clean fun' on the part of my father. But be that as it may, we were jumping and squealing, all four of us, at the prospect of having the neighbourhood kids see that our dad had a sense of humour. With a sense of pride I watched my father bonk his head into a window as he drooled all over the green curtains, fondly wrapped around his massive body like an insufficient toga of sorts. Perhaps he was channelling the spirit of some Roman chambermaid who had contrived some kind of a ridiculous mental disposition; all theories are probable but no one knows for sure.
My grandmother and aunt, after witnessing the spectacle hanging loose behind an insufficient toga, decided that the matter was out of their hands…and a good thing too. My uncles were called, both of whom left their posts at their jobs and rushed over to see what the hullabaloo was all about and if pictures could be taken. Pictures were indeed taken even though my mother’s remonstrations were not altogether lethargic but the situation was far too much out of her control as it were. Soon the uncles over-powered my dad and forced an unpeeled banana in his mouth in an effort to get him to shut up singing some annoying jingle or something; we later found out that he had been trying to imitate my mother’s nagging singsong voice. The uncles subdued my father, removed the unpeeled banana, shoved in its place a couple of sedatives down his throat and then held him down till the pills took effect.
This was something extraordinary in many ways. The whole event had been unusual. My father became rather submissive after that. Not quite as vehement about certain things and not as opinionative as he used to be. On the other hand my mother became a lot more authoritarian; even her voice took on a certain domineering edge. He behaved himself afterwards and continued to do so till the very end. I’m not sure what had really happened. How he suddenly snapped and decided he was to be curtained no longer or that if he were to be curtained, he would make a big slavering deal out of it. That manic gleam that I had seen within his eye, never left completely. Sometimes an echo of it would resound through his moist eyes and I would know without a shadow of a doubt that behind this here silent, ordinary, unremarkable, shy and bashful sort of man, resided a powerhouse of lunatic energy. And no amount of totalitarian rule, inside or outside of the house, could ever rob him of the fact that if he ever wanted to, all he had to do was make a complete jackass of himself and confuse the living daylights out of his dictators. All he ever had to do was, if he wanted to, let go. My father had dug deep within himself to shake the foundations of his prison and had indeed felt the infrastructure of his slavery tremble at the mere hint of his potential. Slavery was not a physical fact, he decided, but an intellectual decision.