chaiNboli

Dig a grave on my sky, scattering yellow stars of a land I belong to, Unlock the doors with the canes of saints who interviewed God. May be then you will know where my home was. Let the flowers to grow on the iron gates no one ever opens,  Along with the rifles hanged by men on branches of the apricot tree, While the pride in my blood cajole the dreams to dance in a modest dress. May be then you will know what a home is. Let my breath,guarding the worshipper of my words within my memory,be chewed by the northern wind with its eyes made of green marble,  Only to let the pain rise above the red clouds of the mirror a witch lost. May be then you will understand what it means to let go. Save the moon who fell into the river, and ask the traitor what his last wish is, while between each cry he will utter his mother's name in vain. May be then you will know what life really is. Let the babies to bloom in vaccum, where happiness is betrayed over a rootless smile, and stop asking them...

When loneliness is a man, He grows beard and search for a roof under a crow's feet. He drag himself into a sigh and let a cigarette sleep on his mouth. A football dances in his feet,  like a kitten so soft but dead, In lunar glow he looks in the corners of rooms for his childhood laughs . He warms food twice or thrice, tracing scars of swallowed onions, and sleeps, but is never asleep. His curtain are bleak white, where a butterfly won't sit as a guest. His dirty laundry sleeps inside a ceramic bowl his grandmother gifted him, while moss grow between his fingers. He watches and watches,until the city lights die, stinking of kerosene dreams, Until his breath is not painful like a thunderstorm kissing a flowerpot. When loneliness is a woman,  she cuddles an earthquake in her spine and calls a void  by her lovers name. Her body finds habitat in bathroom tiles, wet and soft like a peanut shell And tiptoes into the knot  she made for her self. She queues up to buy books...

I have the skin of an apple with old wounds wrung dry. Wounds in our skin  our breath  like manholes  like pools  where we try to hide. I have the skin of a floor with ink stains craft over a poem  a floor where knees pray , A drizzle terms into a pool, And a  thirsty tongue lay. I have the skin of a fossil gazed burgainville, wilderness choped out,  sniffing for perfumes never owned, and wilting  I have the skin of a rustic wall playing under a summer breeze. Painting rainbows over porcelain petals a serpent moves, slicing the metal tongues I own. My skin is a season  where migrating birds  decide to commit suicide, letting the songs they hold in their ember beaks to go unheard. A hemlock veil, where foggy clouds of a  dream walk in two legs  not afraid of cat calls. My skin talks of stories_ orphaned and mushy,  Warm like a mushroom soup, Cold as a heart of dead. May be listen? May be touch? May be love?