my hours my witnesses

my hours my witnesses
you have seen
how i have carried the hot tinder flame
of my love, the tides of her moments, her moods
like a sacred relic tied to the dark corners of
my silent grotto

how i have lit the dark recesses of
my unrequited passion
with the promise of words alone
how i have unlayered dismembered
the hope of of those promises the passions
of those sunsets
you have seen
the agitation of my heart
as it grieves and wounds and thrashes
against the tides of unbecoming unresolving chains


i know the hot touch of my fingers
have asked for the mooney mounds of your skin
the hooks of your skin
you have seen
i have asked but asked seldom

my hours my witnesses
you have seen
i am ragged with desire, for the
water of your mouth the burning
incense of your thighs
i am willing to pray to seek intercession with
saints holy men scripts amulets
unjudge everything and uncast myself
at the altar of your high temple
you have seen
how dark this fever how unwilling to recede
this ache pain numbness want

my hours my witnesses
you must testify
to this defeating promise
to the tides moons moments of
her moods whims
i tie her like a sacred relic to the inner
layers of my skin want moods desire
you have seen
my hours my witnesses
you have seen

vengeance is mine, i will repay

we must not pass a judgement over anna karenina, we are warned, vengeance is god's alone. even if anna has left her husband, who may not have loved her, and even if she has left her son, who loved her, we must not join those who condemn anna, what do we know of love anyway, these secrets are not privy to everyone, anna, she has suffered and yet he, the man she left everything for, he has not been forsaken by society, he is free.

we must not judge anna, she had her compulsions, her passions, her reasons, vengeance is god's alone. even if anna feels betrayed and after the culminating moment of passion somehow ashamed, these matters are for anna alone to decide, we must step out of the way, let her droshka pass without any obstacle, let her be.

but what are we to do other than think of the betrayal when betrayed? how can we assume the loftiest of positions when we constantly sway from one passion to another, from one betrayal and day to another? the position to judge is neither lofty nor natural but the tendency to ask for coherence is a natural one. after all, the son is left alone, anna leaves him alone, the movement away, the first movement is the defining one, the die is cast.

the epigram at the beginning of anna karenina must not be ignored. if it sets an agenda or if it sets a moral tone remains to be understood. this delay in judgement, this doomsday reckoning is not fair. that only anna must be judged is not fair at all. that we should suspend all thoughts on this matter is not fair either.

i have been totally conquered

"i have been totally conquered. i have feelings of autumn, fine mortal wounds in me." querelle, genet

only a son can write these lines

only a son can write these lines
to his mother only a son can
perpetrate this lonely crime
the crime of leaving far behind
leaving estranged the moons and moments of his childhood
and your youth
to leave you picking the touch left behind
on the doorhandles on the staircase
under the poisonous bloom of a magnolia tree
you seek the hidden noise of soundless feet
you seek them in shade in sun on the steps
of a cool veranda on the window sill near the
favourite sofa where you paraphrased shakespeare
and taught the difference between
sensitivity and negative capability
when you taught that ripeness is all
and we are merely as flies to wanton boys
and you said that knowledge is suffering
and so is love you said
but these lines that you will never read
and these words that i will never whisper
and your night that i will never live
and my night that i will never show you
will all end all end in vain
and you did me wrong to take me out of grave
you said and awakening is painful you added
i am living in reality what you paraphrased in fiction

cronopios and famas

i created this blog late last night or in the early hours of this day, i do not know why. i do not know who the Cronopio really are; neither the fama. i understand Cortazar meant that these species do exist; however, i am too far away from his Latin American sensibilities, too removed from his Parisian ethos to understand these important questions. to question any act of writing will be insane, i can lament over the need or the indecipherable loneliness of words. hence any lessons learnt are futile, any vows exchanged are broken, hence this blog. who these gentle creatures are, i do not want to know and who knows if they are gentle. i imagine women and men and some indistinguishable forms, however, i always imagine walking forms, not flying beasts.

this blog is my second manifestation, the earlier one met its fate a few weeks ago. these are just clandestine thoughts, activities that inhabit untimely hours, i succumbed, here i am, i deserve to be hanged. i had seriously been thinking of starting a footballing blog, only i know it would not have any eclectic appeal, these class distinctions are so hard to do away with, football after all is the proletarian dance, and anyway, the team i fancy have a philosophy and an ethos too, but i think a footballers blog needs stamina.

this blog will follow none of the rules i had set for in the previous one, for i can end it anytime.i do not intend to write neatly or hide behind the imperfections of my words or the unformed thoughts of my mind. it is my wish to seek the cronopios and famas and esperanzas of my life, my lives, the undulating boundless varied esperanzas of my hours. i do not desire to create seperate labels for these trivial words, to categorize under labels the barren unmusicality of my hours. i intend and hope that the hours will lead the thoughts, like many yesteryears ago, in a hot july, when i lived within ten days the musicless decades of my life.

so perhaps, as a respite, as an hour of repose, i will spread the hour of my desires, the weightless desire of my fingers, stretch to breaking again the inevitable moment when i will close this window again, a window consciously opened, a window susceptible to malignant thoughts occasionally. i will not hesitate to write only one poem in various guises and disguises, for who cares and how does it all matter.......

i can walk again, thinking that perhaps, only perhaps, i shall live in fractious hours, with hopeless and sometimes hopeful words, the untouchable musicless music of my life.