lady day...

record the dusty sounds of nostalgia had in
present time, evened out by the car driving off
without a suggestion of acknowledgment... a Priest
walks by... even though I am dead, I managed to
buy you flowers, the hollow prayers of thoughts
mostly distracted by the constant remembrance of
the body, the foils of skin, bones, liquid matter
where wants and needs soon seem a tragic system
filled with no real hope of this heaven: a place
with no wet tears, and clouds draped around
desires quenched, commotion of nothingness, or a
searing space of no time... the Priest's eye jut
around the road, pavement, then the allure... quiet
glances at Melania's body... the Bible in his right
hand, squeezed like a gun, six bullets in the
chamber, where are you?
...there's CCTV in this heart...
... xxx...
...Melania arrived back from India, having
spent most of her time in Varanasi, deciphering
thoughts on life and death, eating warm Paratha,
wondering if she were a Poet or a Poem, a Singer
or a Song, in itself, with no calculations on how to
mute a disturbed heart the Indian sun beamed
against her whilst a stupor enlivened her, orange
clothed Saddhu's walking by smoking Ganja, she
said... I saw the seasons in her face, her outgrown
hair, sun kissed skin talking of fourteen hour train
journeys, long nights lurking around a burning
Ghat with bodies sweltering in heat, as bodies
moved about drinking tea, selling Samosas and
boat trips along the Ganges, yelling of sweet chai...
...
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