Red Carpet

PART 1

Haste in the Wincha'

The scatterer of wounds and fears
speaks in hesitant obscurities
of woe-begone frail days
where nothing in the tornado sleeps
accept a pin, that marks recognition.
chen-chool, is a bright and delicate urdu word
which my chinese friend couldn't say
for in his kingdom, princesses had perfect feet.
formal, is still relevant in the past-present,fu
ture tense. Only quiet sittings with friends
were excluded, in the nativity of our tongue.
The stealth of simple days, runs on in the immigrant's
chasing non sequitur, often resembling 'ra-ba & la.'

Quickness of speech comes from school days and the visit to the old nun's room as she sat by the piano, waiting. My hands first touched the merry-mercury of white tapering keys on Monday afternoons. Tuesdays always thirst for tenths, in such-such a way. Our ancestors must be bright and alive by now, wakened by our constant fury.

Delicate limbs of the white vest, bring the boys home ~
They listen to Strindberg's ghost-stories, in tonal and
hypnotic cures. The daughters are assembling at the same time, near the Statue of Mary, they have been warned several times, not to go there, 'not so near her, not so near her' cried Sister Mary Ann.

The remains of bats, in the vales of Baluchistan, and here
we must turn the page of this fantastic & true trail, in the dust.

PART 2.

Water Signs.

pearls, pearls, pearls, pearls on the marble floor.
"I'm no
longer there
haven't you
heard?
the bluebells have
disappeared."

Last night was the lament of the grass on blades.

We watched it, as the poisonous strayed snake would watch,
with eyes that knew the end of days, and stealth that saw
each and every thing. We were wide awake.

There was never a more prepared man, than the man
in tatters. The Rag-man who saw in the remnants of bats
what we all had not yet heard: flight of balthazars.

Here the Hermit mixes in the sleep of the crone, creating quite a fury of doves, roused to sleep for eternity.

The Mahal was placed in the Taj, in the Rule of India on maps that have been placed near Isis, on the board of chess.
We studied the roots of things, and chewed on the meanings
till we grew sour, and our limbs grow green of wasted suffering.

The gorges of thought took us on the marble pedestals, where
we stood and saw Lucia suffer, as jesus would suffer in limbs.

Some Ides of March still remains in the mist, as the last
sign of prophecies. Her grey eyes have the structure of
still surface lakes, beneath which sleeps the black metaphor,
at the slightest touch it can awake to a furor, let her stay
in the water that is his sleep. For when the crone sinks
her teeth, into the situation of the tree, very little remains.

The bark is broken, and in its fragment life now is nurtured
still life, that breathes and breaks only upon the page of a poem, or the spoken word of the Authoress.

The crabs are left in the bed of the sea, to meet you and me at the altar, and the spider-web has brought this near: the fish will sweep away, the carpet of the seas, beneath the city of his sister there shall rise the breaking moon, in mournful symphony. The sting of scorpions shall arise & arise out of bitter contexts.

PART 3.

Reasons of Four.

A sense of familiarity draws her near to the bones of Avignon
there in tepid nerves, sits the green buddha on blue Rhone
she has the sense of fathoming, by which she touches the stone and it breaks beneath the broken bridge. What has gone wrong?

The wail is caught in the mistral, as it echoes & echoes.

The fool of the city stands in such solemn pride, with a book
on which are inscribed the mysterious words: doubt me, & die.

In the Palace of the Popes there are placed gray tombs like
playing cards. In the music of the afternoon, there are ghost
figures who have left their clothes, they themselves departed.

The Ghosts have departed.

The clothes that they have left are naked & green, but bodyless like a shimmer-less sea in crevices of laughing men. The wrinkles of his laughter reach the ends of books, creating entire volumes.

The Fool, appears again, suddenly and stands before her: tirade! trinket! tumble-down! he cries & cries in stone. He is still to the very bone. I walk close to him, and touch him at the rib to see if he really means what he says. He makes no move and mark this three times: he has no lines. He is the Fool.

Egyptian carpets obscurely spread along side his standing still limbs, made perfect of statue and air, he does not seem to wish nor breathe, as if he was letting her know he was here. But not letting her know he was here. The ghosts of ambiguity are dead. Let it be.

In twenty minutes of silver he disengages self from bone, and leaving behind the robe in the air, in magical Avignon, he himself has departed.

The Ghost has departed.

And the blue river sleeps in whistling calm, dreams near its ears are broken by the bridge that is eternally bed-ridden and obscure; there is no mirror there, beyond the bridge. But I walked there once towards the edge and there I drew and drew, ancient symbols. The Star of David was bright in lucid calm upon the visiting brow of the Pharaoh, and the sister of sixteen eagles came and sat right next to me, as if to help me draw single black lines in the sea. The charm of the Hexagram was appearing. The seven pointed star, was pierced to the sky, and from there we could hear the ancient city of Avignon depart in the night time, there was one beggar in the entire city, she was a young girl by the name of Lumiere. "It is because I cannot see" she cried, I gave her a silver coin.

Her ghost has not departed.

The romani language of the gypsies trails in the wind, and I have kept time with every strange thing, why would I not see you? Of what are you afraid? Is it the crabs that keep you mad. Is it the crabs that have departed. On the Star, appears a stone maiden child, changing the golden bowls. The water rinses the sleep of the mind. Wake up, older brother, the city is raven hoarse, and the cry of the crone has stung me as scorpions pierce the skies.


PART 4.

Sun'den.

The loss of 'd' is all there is. No matter where I look, how far or how deep. It is a loss with sudden cures though the ailment had the rush to wounds of salt. I shall not say everything, but I shall say all. It is apart from the rush of the word, this sudden tranquility: think of it likeso. I have dreamed of the word till it became this. It's been like a voyage through spanish mountains, I alone driving a truck that is too large, like a moon that can fit no where on a sky. Though it fits so perfectly No one has said this yet, there is a hush of whisper plastic. It is crucial to the neck that conceived in its throat the lack.

The crow was perfect black on all days. Even painted, imagine the loss of the d. Imagine its black neck in perplexity. Can you look at that black bird? It is no more than a spec in the eye of a fish that will shimmer away into some sea. But it was there. The sparkle of d.

After we have removed the loss of the letter that has disappeared, embroidered into the bodice of the nightingale-crow. The crone wails in such cities. These are cities in which I have despaired, and now for the secret.

The 'd' is not there, and imagine the collapse of the word: Su en. The thirst in between as mother to child, the dear black thing. It's a crow that missed its wing. There is no 'k' for a treasure.


PART 5.

What T.S. Eliot said.

In the waistcoat pocket of the rabbit, in T.S Eliot's Wonderland, there is a nonchalant wind, that bruises. There is a constant metaphor that assaults. The abrasiveness of obstruent suggestion. He plays truant with words, disguising in many letters the cards, the images: these are the Archetypes. In dream-repair he has diagnosed the illness of sleep in a city that does not sleep any more. It is a falling escapade, of falling floors, the buildings are ravaged ruins of brightest stars. The five titles hold in sway the entire poem, and if one were to address their woe, so & so, by & by, here it goes.

He said there was no way to tell. Whether she was alive or dead. He said, it was also an impossibility to diagnose the beautiful circumstances of her death. All we know now of Sibyl is that she was a seer of a 'wicked pack of cards.'

In the collapse to water. He has realized a great deal of discontent. This is semantics. The Fire, exhibits the Awe of the primal states, when there is the terror of the unseen assailing constantly the wind, like obstruent references. The words appear as savage at the tips of the lady's hair, here one must think of the Lazarus woman, the one who drew from her despair, the psychic poem for her sets of ten years each.

A game of chess between the elements at fury, that's what it is. The bull fighting the bear, in the midst of heap oranges of love affairs, that kept Justine temperamental. Fire is the sermon ode, full of portentous weight, earth keeps all things still, water initiates the soul from dead to alive in the 'rat's alleys,' and wind has kept the word true to our ears, like the lament of the Albatross, which shouldn't have died.