Hermit to Himself

Sohail's Jesus

Moss carpeting the floor

“We are all alone”

Festering at the thicks of cloth;
In murder, a canopy of knives garlanded
to the lamb;

“It teases you”

Smoke wafting through the air,
punching at nostrils,
intones the riddle of
Hope crucified in his own square.

“Makes you believe”

The unconfessed did not wash their eyes
while his head lifted:

“Comfort, have you come for me?”

“Earth will you not loose?”

Mother seemed to hiss

As her crevices murmured:

“No, not today.”

Photograph: Sohail Anwar

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Blue-Eyed Son

022

The hammers rock us out of our slumbers
while
Bodies writhe, undulating in numbers

Glistened chests throb, not to their veins
Riddled with teardrops, once in their chains

The metals ring of laughter asunder
Streets blush yellow, as the cries roar thunder

I will say “fight”, and I will call “peace”
The strings will keep tight, if only for the need

Rusted pillars reaching to the clouds,

The clouds, they lap one another
Putting forth that unfathomable staircase which pervades your sleep,

“The sky is open,” you are told,

“Why now, though?”
“When my tendons have ceased to pulse?

—–

Photograph: Trond Sørås

Who Will Sleep On The Floor For Us?

Suffocation by Mr Mannequin

Gestating perfection
undoing sewn crevices.

Fissures mushroom
Into valleys of holed memory.

Suspended in speech,
Ideals
Bulge to the rim–
Where they stop.

Films of pride
Circulate my shutters–
Chimeric snapshots of a broken time.

I wonder,
Why my Circadian paramour
abandons me still.

You want her to bellow
when you stalk your shadow across the edge,

But, those who bellow are triumphed by those who are deaf.

The sky is immobile–
at your dispense,

The funeral is well attended.
As always,
Kindness arrives the day after.