Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "tub"
Shipless
Subterfuge he wasn’t sure about
but he couldn’t see
of that
of monsters and men
he was sure of
He cannot see the colors now
anymore
he has lost them all
Every little thing is dull, hull cracked and leaking filling us up, all the remaining colors are drab now
He can't touch them anymore, this light false and real, he can't swallow it now, what he is rubbing between the index finger and his thumb, it's not colors, what is it, fossils do not lie
It is so chilled now, this dying star, he is, die a little faster now
sun and its numinous reach, ruinous now, each and every finger, freezing
frozen in nothingness, into nothing
Falling on the olden me, that is still not there, straying beside the copacetic copses, this stale sunlight falls on my skin, stirring nothing anew, sunlight falling on me, not stirring the skin
It's so cold now
Apricity is all gone now
Truly
All the sun-dogs are dead
There is fire
There's a fire
But no heat
Son, even the sun, doesn't feel its own warmth
hanging in this abeyance, deliriously, deliciously,
in a moment of her
in this absence
the sun cannot warm himself
the library is closed
all the words
written and forgotten
nothing is forbidden
still nothing there is that I need
The last time I did this
With
Her moribund lips
It was still winter
Winter sun has finally died
But even in all this madness, I know this is March
It's not about dying, but being reborn though not born again, never. We are not perishing, but burning together, we are coming back again.
There is still a way out of this misshapen mesa
I hope
there's hope still
Everything is dead but
For
All dead things are about new beginnings
Dead reminds us of fresher starts
Freshening our mouths in Fresno of our minds
Our collective shame not shaming us
There is still a way out of here
All the way
Outta here
So there is a sliver of a chance here
To toil in the soil
In the dirt
And be free
Of earth and joyless earthen delights
For flowers of the dead
And dead flowers have a presence
And weight
That you can feel even underwater
and under the water, you are home
And like, my stranger, who is familiar and my person, favorite, like my familiar stranger, who is strangely familiar and familiarly strange, of strange beauty, said, trick or treat whilst hiding behind her smile, burrowing inside her borrowed lie.
But
It is just like how the girl with the glass feet told me, it’s not about the sun, or the sun dying in the winter. It's not about death at all. It's about the dearth of words. It's about words. So find some of them, please, animate some of this. Inanimate objects await us. So write. Feel.
So that's where we are in the spectacular of now here in March
But February? That was another story. What was it about? The last month of February was snowy and moony. This February had its Snow Moon. Where it was cold, not cold enough. Under the pewter skies, the moonbeams were cool and balmy, soothing, the moonlight calming me down and down for everything.
Month of February. What was it? I'll tell you.
February was about mermaids
Trying to find them
Keeping them
In the tub
Filleting them
Blinding them
Denying them
Making them up
In their own heads
Resting in wombs, revoke them
February was about burying the hatchet
Into broken skulls
even more so
it was for
Burying the songs
- the dunes cold
In the sands
- the sandworts colder still
While all the remaining lies remain the same.
The thing is, here’s the thing
Here I am for another story
looking for it
I am here for it
A Story.
but he couldn’t see
of that
of monsters and men
he was sure of
He cannot see the colors now
anymore
he has lost them all
Every little thing is dull, hull cracked and leaking filling us up, all the remaining colors are drab now
He can't touch them anymore, this light false and real, he can't swallow it now, what he is rubbing between the index finger and his thumb, it's not colors, what is it, fossils do not lie
It is so chilled now, this dying star, he is, die a little faster now
sun and its numinous reach, ruinous now, each and every finger, freezing
frozen in nothingness, into nothing
Falling on the olden me, that is still not there, straying beside the copacetic copses, this stale sunlight falls on my skin, stirring nothing anew, sunlight falling on me, not stirring the skin
It's so cold now
Apricity is all gone now
Truly
All the sun-dogs are dead
There is fire
There's a fire
But no heat
Son, even the sun, doesn't feel its own warmth
hanging in this abeyance, deliriously, deliciously,
in a moment of her
in this absence
the sun cannot warm himself
the library is closed
all the words
written and forgotten
nothing is forbidden
still nothing there is that I need
The last time I did this
With
Her moribund lips
It was still winter
Winter sun has finally died
But even in all this madness, I know this is March
It's not about dying, but being reborn though not born again, never. We are not perishing, but burning together, we are coming back again.
There is still a way out of this misshapen mesa
I hope
there's hope still
Everything is dead but
For
All dead things are about new beginnings
Dead reminds us of fresher starts
Freshening our mouths in Fresno of our minds
Our collective shame not shaming us
There is still a way out of here
All the way
Outta here
So there is a sliver of a chance here
To toil in the soil
In the dirt
And be free
Of earth and joyless earthen delights
For flowers of the dead
And dead flowers have a presence
And weight
That you can feel even underwater
and under the water, you are home
And like, my stranger, who is familiar and my person, favorite, like my familiar stranger, who is strangely familiar and familiarly strange, of strange beauty, said, trick or treat whilst hiding behind her smile, burrowing inside her borrowed lie.
But
It is just like how the girl with the glass feet told me, it’s not about the sun, or the sun dying in the winter. It's not about death at all. It's about the dearth of words. It's about words. So find some of them, please, animate some of this. Inanimate objects await us. So write. Feel.
So that's where we are in the spectacular of now here in March
But February? That was another story. What was it about? The last month of February was snowy and moony. This February had its Snow Moon. Where it was cold, not cold enough. Under the pewter skies, the moonbeams were cool and balmy, soothing, the moonlight calming me down and down for everything.
Month of February. What was it? I'll tell you.
February was about mermaids
Trying to find them
Keeping them
In the tub
Filleting them
Blinding them
Denying them
Making them up
In their own heads
Resting in wombs, revoke them
February was about burying the hatchet
Into broken skulls
even more so
it was for
Burying the songs
- the dunes cold
In the sands
- the sandworts colder still
While all the remaining lies remain the same.
The thing is, here’s the thing
Here I am for another story
looking for it
I am here for it
A Story.
