Poems

Yesterday
I met your assassin
We exchanged greetings at my front door
deadlocked behind me as usual
bathroom window bolted shut
Well, who’s to know?

oil stains

		smear

blood stains

		tearing

I remember now
Why
I die every Winter

like the libraries torched
in a scorched earth ideology of ‘The New’
erasing all archaeology - manmade ‘his story’ – from Samarkand to Tehran
trying to impose the illusion of nothingness
nothing to see, hear
nothing to see here
anymore

well		       well
=		          =
be		       well
=		          =
well		       well
=		          =
well		      being

Our legs spindly spider-light
trace the snaking centreline of her constantly outstretched and extending limbs
Slightly touching on nerve-endings and the earth surfaces of her arching and lazy body