Risen from the debris of love
Laid down likewise those days
without any living pilow
No pain ringing hullabaloo..no frustration
beneath
Only a solitary fantasy silently
roaring through my spinal cord.
An untimely winter rain, fierce, fearsome, tearing apart
Sketching burning blooms on a scattered canvas
Nor a head neither an appropriate pair of breasts
Somehow crawling in front of my huge failure
Light and insufficiency of light
blazing furor,
smells of burning blood
breaking me into bits and pieces
Bending me. tenderly cutting my liver,
lungs
and that and this and those
untill there's trace of filthy past emotions
Some dreamy yellowish dawns
Some freezing nights
Some white noons with none to buckle
you
None to stare at your unconditional perversion
None to hill those unuttered soars
Procession can have love and hatred as well
Sandal twinkling from my cheeks
Eyes tearing every part of a name
Biting of lips,
beating of khols,
Perhaps the calendar disagree
The roads argue -'its not the exact time to go
'
Perhaps the clocks tickle,
Time likewise pain is a metal sound
cling cling clang clang tring tring
Love is wood.Flexibility is a span and fame is
so touchingly red.
No dream is dream itself.
Not without some intoxicated canals,
some desired fluids of pain,
Some husky sounds of mockery
and a megalomaniac bed.
Let me go, dearest, let me sleep.
The wooden bed, heavenly chirping of birds
motherly blowing of coolness
Let me have the perfect orgasm
Which often wrongly called death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem