I know you died years before I was washed down my mothers gullet, still I could make you my own for a night, may be for days and days and cage you to my whims .
When you came pleading for love, I kept you buried in books which I fished out during tedious trips, crowded counters and empty restaurants to blend with your effervescence; my voyeurism pored over your passion and politics, the strange alleys where you watched them copulate and die in each others arms, their promises and spasms that last and die in a minute .
Only you triumphed, you had the last laugh of the final creator/ destroyer, though I had you hardbound and fastened to me to tell you that it was you who painted the moon for me .
Yes, Pablo, sentimentalism is my forte
shall I rant more, almost in your lines?
For instance, I wear for the world
a pedicured soul
sometimes I wake up at night
to find its time to write something
or nothing at all.
in unearthly hours
after drinking life to the lees,
which often taste of guilt
and lover's tears,
night punctures the confidence
that day dons on you,
a shattered wine glass you would say.
Was it you who told me
how life tastes and
smells of the sweat of the man
who snores near you,
who etched pencil strokes of love
soon to be erased by time?
In fact, there is absolutely no
violence in normalcy
no pain, no grinding teeth, just
a stupor that lulls,
an ignominy that stays like a nag,
only at times do we tout a single line
of verse , a dead neonate
on sleepless ,
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