When tornados come
clouds roll tightly like judicial wigs and
war maddened children stare blankly into space
their heads are gavels metering out unseen sentences.
Up there in dreadful totems
climb flesh and bone of descendants.
An abacus of crows sings from telegraph poles
communicating remnants of meat that whispered tenderly.
When little people die
their bodies are blue watercolours –
an art of war painted by those without ears
who sell their masterpieces only to those who bid the highest.
Where little people lived,
meats shone like red lamps on market day
and skinny dogs lapped blood in the cobbles
where Muskesh Junior learnt the music of trading.
In the parliament of slow kissing
I told my wife I love her and all the reasons why.
I told her for Mukesh who might not know a woman’s lips,
and I told her for myself because at my most simple…
View original post 3 more words