Sunday, 1 February 2015
He has gone past everything to the point of watching,
like a Scottish moor at dusk,
achingly wild and still.
Black succulent flies creep into crevices on the old black skin,
rough wrinkles running into tired eyes,
he is not his skin, within, he rests.
Orange beads on twisted wire,
Like cartoon jewellery the bare bones,
a rusty skeleton in the sunlight.
Spices linger in the potato curry they’re selling by the side of the road,
cinnamon underfoot in the dust,
wrapped around the heavy pregnant blossoms of the trees.
A fat bellied lizard,
with tiny spread fingers like a gluttonous lord,
moves with the speed of a splash of water.
Smell of urine,
red brown mud sucks my toes,
dusty canvas spilling into the mouth of the river.
Nothing but the bustle,
nothing but the heaviness,
on the faces, in the air, amongst the layers of clothes and woven bags.
When there is evening there are only frogs,
and the power of lapping moonlit water that ignores you,
is more peaceful than you could ever be.
All the dust, all the miles and miles of places that aren’t home,
no people, no structure, no clothes or jobs or television or children,
it doesn’t exist.
Our superficial world,
all the things I live for and work for don’t exist here,
what does that make me?
Picture taken from wikipedia.org
Sunday, February 01, 2015
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