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

 

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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

 

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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

 

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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

 

 

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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

 

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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

 

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But It Was You
Red Shoes