in death as in life

picasso-la-mort-de-casagemas

how would my carcass look?—
empty or full,

or apathetic or scornful to all those who pass
by my unwavering blank eyes, with the archaic
virtues of respect for the dead — no, i do not
need that. i would want to hear the music of
flies and maggots on my beautiful blue skin,
like an adornment to horrify, a sacrilege to
the ritual of burning and burying secrets,

like a gruesome display of life and all that
it comes to when you take a longer than expected
pause from breathing, and seeing through fairy-
light eyes,

or would my limbs point at them without reproach
with my breath holding the remnants of smoke,
my skin translucent, and eyes closed, as i keep
on looking, and looking, for something.

perhaps the strangeness of my stillness (coursing through
my lifeless body) would be becoming on me.

perhaps i would look wanted and loved, the way i could not
feel when alive.

perhaps being organic refuse, i would be eaten from within
and out, and thus would discover who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day.

what a terrible tragedy it would be if it is not so,
if death like life would abandon me?—

a broken boy with silver trinkets gleaming
at the end
of sunlight.

.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Pablo Picasso, La mort de Casagemas, 1901, Paris, musée Picasso)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do

1168725-7

an infidel runs out to the street
to gaze at the five planets which aren’t there,
the whore ties her hair in a bun
to sing to the moon draped behind the clouds,
and the starving mutt barks

creating a collapsing sense of reality,
where sound & vision are marred by
the man who sold the world,

the goblin king wreathing gold coins
enumerating the faces in pain, and
the pain in faces.

how odd is that space of un-belonging,
how dust from stars fall into my eyes
to let me see and let me think, and burn
from ashes to ashes, from skin to skin,

I did relinquish the desire of faith and fate,
I stole the diamonds from his eyes
but they were just buttons with no life,

so in the end, there are only dreams
and that tiny whimsy bit of hope
that has to be quashed, in order
to live.

the whore’s song has died.
the infidel castrated,
the starving has starved,
and I,
I, done with the world.

.
Image source

A Farewell to David Bowie. Linking it up with With Real Toads.

Sacrifice Haiku

bleeding crevices

soil enriched with sacrifice

a lifeless body

~

sacrificial pier

stains of grotesque history

fade away with time

~

sacrificing lamb

look of knowing in dark eyes

death is singular

* For Carpe Diem # 241.

that feeling

you know that feeling

when out of nowhere,

a thought comes across your mind

and you want to jot it down,

.

not because it is an important thought

but because something within you is urging you

to bring out the flicker of that light

that passed by the contours of your mind,

.

scribble it on a piece of paper

with a blue ink or black or even red,

keep on writing till the time

you have completely puked it out,

.

then store it inside a table drawer

already flooding with many such others,

place it carefully at the top

to be read some time in the future,

.

when you have almost forgotten about it,

one day you find it lying there lifeless, still

and read it in the light of the day

and simply smile at that cold thing from the past.