Afshan Shafi, 7/12

Your reveries


your left eye houses a metropolis of stone

you possess the pink grandiloquence of a rich infant

you have been hovering over this  spar of thunder for a decade now

your throats rood of ice stiffens , the tall bilious fractals , bud on your tongue

some thunder-plectrum might spasm in its blue root, and

plumes of alive stalactites have riveted a forest in your body

(everyone is so sly, and things are so easy here, where there are no towns)

but then you see a lone leaf, an alabaster limbed cadence,

stutter in descent

through a moon-hoop, drowsy,

and the face beneath your face,

starts feeling for lunar-masonry

(metal-ducts and industrial slag  are disposed of in a ridiculous precise artery)

and falling into dark-muscled affinities

with ghosts that harness the body to a raw-bulbed past and a reprobate future


In the end only the idea of embodying  beauty remains,

and the auctioning of bright blooded, private clowns,

to an unschooled coterie of modern wraiths,

is unmitigated by sussurant doom ,

for ones mind in spring is a dazzling blood squall,

ravishing the world’s guts and gutters in fathomless glitter.


Promote. Poetry.
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