Roast



Friday night. Slow roast, an oven pregnant

the guest waits at your table, pouring wine, adjusting table mats
staring into the fruits and finding her childhood favourite

an untouched sweet lime

passing time
the window calls you both, you bond and chatter

wine reduces, only the residue, lingering on a future kiss

…but you miss
she watches you go blank

her eyes get filled with growing scenes 

watching them build and dissolve the breeze blows inward

the night deepens, her touch 

finds your arm



the oven ticks.

Reflections

Well I finally got off the bus
a cold wind swayed my sides into cloth waving
the bland strands of my hair suddenly evoked
as the season turned from yellow to grey –
a car’s window raised, over it
the suburb passed by

Landscapes

your hair rivers onto the bedsheet
tracing movements made by the rest of you
your eyes move nervously in a dream
viewing their own private cinema
your fingers gently tremble under a moist breeze
I plant my warmth at your feet

adrift in you earlier I discovered forested lakes
in me your voice echoed across endless mountains
eventually water-falling over my shoulder
and turning the room into its lake
then birds flew out of us one by one taking turns
as we gazed upward with closed eyes searching for a sky

collapsing onto rippled cloth you became a range of dunes

awakened by the stillness of night
I witness you take new shapes beside me
the scent of our time passing grows gradually
buttoning myself I let my palm speak to your forehead
a soft fluorescence robes you like an ocean

Poet

I was a poet
Centuries ago when I sailed to Aden
I carried spices on my back and charmed Bedouins at the shore
I carried my coast from here to there and exchanged sand
Learning words and scripts, bringing them back
I sprinkled them in a kettle
Ever since time has brewed for me the choicest phrases
As I turn my palm, the leaf of experience shows itself

I was forever a poet
Even before you undressed me and asked me to age backwards
In the timeless expanse of indigo I let my words foam into verbose surf
At times into cutting tides
At times into mellow sentences touching the creek
Where paper boats meet ships
And seawater refuels my veins; I remain
in history as a traveller and in the future as a page
exploring one library to another; living as a poet forever

Teenage Gathering

At 18, fresh spectacles, beer and crisps
Cheap tea slurring in the evening
Hideouts of a hive of anglicised bees

Within them a paper floats; around it words
and phrases collapsing as waves, poems
without rhymes and poems about girls and boys
the fragrance of hashish; I found your face
between smoke and a hardbound

Influenced by the cuts in lines you sighed, nodded
Looked at the clock and felt life is long, leaving
The thought of creating a poem for later, music
from the jukebox banging every speaker
friends without ambitions
continuing pseudo banter

Urban Montage

Present in the room was the glow of Chinese lamps and the settled smog of firecracker aftermath

A putrid stink of leftovers and the familiar intuition of regrets stamped over the air within the walls

Eyes thrown around the television remote searching for excuses to alter the fate of channels streaming nonsense

In rooms around the neighbourhood the echo of stagnation moves around like a ghost gathering ash

Faces come together behind a soggy curtain scream out their private angers and gather a spoon and plate to relish what comes after