Cauldron Born

a potters field
bought by the blisters toil
in mana egg
we of the bloodied hands
lie furrowed fallow
and hung from trees imperial crows
ahunched and dim in ash and grey

in the old reams
adrift in warmest time and tide
by the side of a kurgan river
we crouch
dilated under
our wollen mats
and regally
breathe

Exhaiku 4

Rely not on nails
only
the fingering of wounds

Exhaiku 3

in the presence of charlotte
you will retreat and humbly
throw yourself at her feet

Exhaiku 2

A lone duck skates
treacherously late
my bag is empty

Exhaiku 1

do you feel the cold?
my bottles empty
sweat on a girl’s neck

Drover

What drove her drover
Pines at the ghosts of dogs
And won't eat meat because of it

The future just a miniscus away
past caught foot drift
and spin of a fallen skater

Mutton Food

Lounging on the grassy mound
Dung-bespattered blankly gazing
turns a ponderous profile
nonchalantly dismissed
and crops the daffodils from the vase
such a grave desecration
to scrape it’s moldering flanks
against the stone
relieving the itch of life

The Sun Goes Down On Dal Lake

A carved boat, fading majestically
Warps into the water
With wooden steps an usher to the depths
The cold richness of Kashmir
A machine gun in a rug

The call to prayers
Falls tinnily on more sonerous
Maples

Laps lapse
And the furze of the mountains
Sets spots of dying sun
Against the clouds
A throwing up of light from the
Desperate earth
The sun goes down on Dal Lake

Brick Lane Market

Spitalfields,
a boy-child sits on the curb
in the rain
tearing the gutters with soggy
books breaking spines smiling
and his knees

hug me tight
give me a hand to hold
softly scold at quietness
fickle political
smoked up in pool of draining mind
do I think her fat?
no - squeeze
do you want me to go?
don’t start flat heart
involved
inviolate
rotten
peach she

The Slough

The itching returns
no inner ear wasp scuttle
no sudden moistness - a colony of mites
shifting to parascopic the rythmns
of the wind in the door
no flush of wringing spider legs
digging little claws
the scrub of sand on tender groin
the tangled pubic husbands
in the corner of the floor
the clonking broom
can't net them all

Who can happily decompose
the small nicities of existance
the cluster form of scruf strands
bristled clinging back wards drift
and form into a settled niche
digging deeper into skirts
and the cracks in the continuance

flesh
the sharpened marrow
whistles, wings
him down
rings catching
wrenches his breath away
plunging with his thumb
until the top-soil muds
up his draining
being - without her
is often not as bad
as with her

Joy

The weed humped rasta naps along the tide
the dreaded turk who watches from the shore
shredding the tapes
Stakes - no photographs - perched lazily out
on the gate-iron
a dusty snow-drop with a gun
not even kicking boots
peering out from under his metal bowl
in the shade

Ants
pattering at the sugar
keeping sweet
boiled bored
under his metal bowl

Past so much unseen (of hills)
this, this little piece of turf

Where is god
nodding leaves loves doves
paired on the wire
strung from sky to

sky a split mounting dome
the sun‘s bed
a burning rash - the gummed tooth
ditdah across the earth, the verse
the burning smoke
that none can smell but
the smoker

He sits spitting; salty grit from a
frecked face
tanine free melonin pip
stretch stiff back kidney stoned

Smudged out
fingerbrushed orange
like a setting manicure
the soft flurry of dusk
approaches all afluster
the chitons
rasp their own peculiarity
and usher the stars slowly
over joy

The Last Mango in Multan

It's that May that’s stretched out
at the core of the mango
like an orgasm
on the roof, small storms of instant dust
eddies of life's mutter,
(and you know only ed stands between
cool and fool)
you sucking the mango
the sun sucking you
the feral kitten sucking at the cat
mouth all gummed up with sweet leaf
and lassi
trying on hat after hat
until your ears stick out
there is no rose, for it is to hot
so there are no thorns, no worm in crimson joy
the only blood on the sheets.
For in Multan, there is only we - are - family
no I, no me
the guest a blessing from god.
Lahore Lahore is
the boys in greasy Mo's
eating meat from the feet
with hand and nan
five men and a boy, jammed in a car
sweating until it pours from the leather
Imran with tears on his cheeks
head bowed
down on his chin and lip
his heavy lids droop
and flutter
as if they bow to pray at Mecca
Big Ali in the front, always
and who could say without shame
its my turn?
Zaeem, zoom, hand on horn
effusive and cock-sure-ly-not
"Simpson, Simpson, this is the road to India."
"Hanji, Amritsar?"
"Hanji, get your gun!"
"Hanji."
Mehboob laughing high, like a child
grasping the head rest with both hands
and you, red faced, waiting
to get out,
but knowing no amount of wishing would do it.
six - was it not six?
No, No I
For in Multan there is no I
only the tragedy of the bent nail
not for Mahsoud - no - a tyre can be reflated
but for the horse that threw it!
For in Multan there is no want
who knows the lost consequence of a puncture
you curled in the back seat
a rest in pain
head on lap pillow kameez
wishing you ease,
but knowing it does no good
shielding your eyes from the light,
the light
teekha, teekha, just go with it
curled like smoke around a tuk tuk
every breath a life
every life closer, come closer
until I eat cake, while you eat the dirt of your grave
Sleep comes only
to the lullaby of a beating heart
another's otherness
like that moment you look at a friend
and see them new again
and see that you know them not -
but a little more - just -
a little more.
June
ah, the mango ripens
sealed in boxes
not opened for weeks
not seen
not tasted
until green becomes a flaming orange
and the juice drips
like hospital fluid
straight to the vein, and to the heart
ease at last
peace
comes only when you let go
teekha, teekha
you are in control
when you are not in control.
We know that always always
was
every stuff of life
and unlife,
recycled,
rebirthed,
demolished,
and built again
oh, bit to feel it!
all as whole
compressed and black
crushed until it can crush no more
crushed by its own expansion
because it cannot go on forever
can it?
Sweat will dry, and salt remain
to know is not enough!
You must have faith!
When you let go of what you know
of reality, of rock
solid atomic nature
depth
makes
cinemascope
redundant
Remember that
the best lives are lived beyond us
the best lives are lived around us
the best lives are lived between us
the best lives are living in us
with you - and she
For in Multan there is no me
she
is the last mango in Multan
she with thee
thee with she