
The Age of Criticism

The Man with a Guitar
The man with a guitar
Knows a million songs
Which he sings off key
In a gentle voice
While stroking his cat
And watching the sky
Time stands still on the clocks with no faces
That revolve on the axis of fear
The men of ideas huddle in the dark damp basement
Without food for three days and drinking from puddles
That have evaporated from pools of generosity
You are not what you read in the dusty grease-stained papers
Or hear in the wind that whistles its cold air
Across the black inky words
Plastered in the lost streets of your crevassed mind
How many mangoes does it take to build a house
Of fibrous walls through which fingers float and secrets echo?
With hollow chambers carved out of breaths that lingered too long
On foreign skin with juice dribbling down one’s chin
Of hidden lamps shrouded in red cotton cloth
Covered in shadows of forgotten smiles and blood stained tears

You and Me

A House of Mangoes
Poetry
She puts on her red shoes
And walks down the road
The edge of town beckons
The wild grass calls
Her away from her red brick home
Last night I dreamt
Of death
It was an ogre
Cloaked in a brown hood
With a broad nose
Wide nostrils
On a big squat face
Like a toad

But It Was You
