Return of the clavicle

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Location: Mumbai, India


Tuesday, October 24, 2006


Fight it.
I want to.
My knees weaken
under the weight
of desire.
My mind links
moments gone,
before and after;
opened and never closed.

I want to.
From places
I don't belong in;
spaces I can't occupy.

It's too late now;
I'm already in
that yellow black bumpy ride,
my spine resting tersely, unsurely
on rexine blueness;
fingers clumsily trying
to remember a tune from before.

The table, the ashtray, the waiter.
I see them all
in slow motion.
I search for.
for that part i can own,
that one
painful bit
I can call mine.

We talk.
back and forth
we go,
smiling distantly,
casually carelessly.
We talk of
this that
that this.

Lights flicker past.
fast slow fast slow
as we seek darkness
in a city unknown to me.
Yet i see places
that I know I can never be
a stranger here.
ever again.

Tongue. mouth. hand. toe. more.

I want to press against you
into pages of a book
you've kept hidden
from everyone
but me.

Later, I wonder.
How easily you kill
me, to make me
live again.
Later, when it's
over, I wonder.

From the archives.

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