nthposition online magazine

Buddha & Someone left a pen...


[ poetry - february 10 ]


of a death in the middle

of market place,

a mire
of spit, semen and sayapatri,

a cacophony
of cruel barbers shaving

glossy black hair
of the mountain of your chest.

This the victory
of the hairy mound

of a tree
ready to strangle

of a blue pagoda one day.

This the question
of a potency of a sterile horoscope.

This the chaos
of the majestic butchers of illusion.

This the secret place
of rhododendrons .

Tearing through
the fragrant domain

of scarlet petticoats
you stepped out into the fields of light

leaving behind
a young Yashodhara

in the middle
of an orgasm.


Someone left a pen...

On the forsaken
table of a restaurant, Zwarte Ruiter,
Starbucks, Willy's Bar,
someone left a pen for me.

Someone left
a feather, a note scribbled
in a language illegible
along the stony pavements of a dome,
Milan, Rome, Koln.

Someone left a page,
flash of a naked conch shell on an abandoned shore,
Den Haag, Bremenhaven, Southampton.

Someone waited for me
at night in the garden on a white bench naked

naked like a white cat
facing the listless sheen of a green pond.

Someone left an email address
a card, a name on a scrap of paper
in a city bus or anguish
on the screeching brakes of an underground train.

Someone kissed my dark eyes
in sleep as she laid her silvery head
on my shoulder, a book in her hand -
midsummer night's dream.

Someone left warmth
of a Sun from her lungs,
a warm mouth, zaika of a scented tongue,
Dutch, Deutsch, English. French.

Someone offered a bottle of wine,
a cigarette, twig of cannabis,
pod of a familiar fragrance
aroma of a forgotten paradise,
whiff of wet warmth of a burning bush.

Someone left a pen
on the palpable table of my travels

I leaned
to pick it up

and place it
in the black bag of my memory.