As the hours stretch slowly and with
Sloth’s irredeemable tempo,
The earth, lacking appetite, nibbles at her meals
Which roll upon the fulcrum of the grand star
And discerns all inclinations
Towards us brittle souls —
Souls which peregrinate
On circles of death
And life . . .

Who can tell with accuracy how old the earth is?
Or how long it has lurked in the winking corridors of the galaxy?

Ancient mud walls around me spin desolately.
Redolent of deep depression, shadows irk their
Owners with tepid, whoring sweat dripping gently from furrowed
Brows which inch towards each other from above each eye.

Thursdays are funereal
The dread of utter silence perturbs the peace
We count each market day as it rolls by
We do so until our fingers begin to ache.
Seasons grow and burn out, slowly
The calendar is on permanent surveillance, though muted
So is the clock which ticks on tiptoe —
Like a frightened, laconic wall gecko.

Nothing new
Nothing exciting
It’s the same old story
The same old song that glues the palate to the
Tongue.

Dryness, with the austere visage of a
Catafalque, persists
The tides continue to ebb,
Laying bare hapless rocks that wince in silence
The smell of life in desuetude pervades
The lungs

Sunrise, bromidic, opens the buds of
Wilted, slumbering plants
Sunset, much earlier,
Breeds dark, senile hues that hasten lullabies.

We await the rains.
But it can only rain when it’s due —
When warm, impotent ash dusts itself of
Used, widely-dispersed particles.