Ghazals of Wanting and Discarding




If I am meant to be here, why was I born elsewhere?

The bird is a messenger so fleet of wing, that delivers a creed

No friend could deliver.


Drinking myself to hell, I feel the feathers of a solar system unborn.

No God made me, and I shall be my own undoing, and the bird

Is my cup of wine.


I do not feign to love the unseen, I love that which I can touch;

I touch her up good, and she is a Goddess in mine hands.


The mountain that migrated, and the temple vandalised, the sum of their myths

Casts a snare on that beauty I lust after – her blonde tufts of unwanted hair brighter

Than all those miracles I never set eyes on.


Upon the lands of drought blood-rain does fall

Let me do her to prove I am more righteous than the divine.


Every single action I perform is a moment of creation unrepeatable.

And though the mirror casually greets me good morning (fucking, is it?) I cringe

At the unlikelihood of self.


Like an arch of prayer this life falls upon itself, embellishing the ruins

Of the grave it obsessively builds: and if I have to live this life as this form I can’t help see

Then to hell with it and let the shit hit the fan!





The fire of love kindles the night and eclipses the shallow moon.

A state is born whenever birdsong mingles with a lover’s groan.


Underneath a cypress, where the robin hides from the winter glaze,

A kiss is born and my God everything else comes undone.


It is the first moment and the beginning of the end;

How can I speak like Minos lost in his labyrinth – because I can!


All the world’s happiness finds its dawn upon a lover’s kiss

But all that is inward is plunged into a chaos as addictive as cigarette smoke.


So what am I, we, us, you and they to do, what hope to bequeath?

The door of life and of death both quake something nasty;

So kiss deep, and to hell with what might happen:

It’s going to happen anyway!




The eye-brow casts a shadow on the eye that blinks over

The arch of a mouth like the inner sanctum of a temple.


Spectacular places, an omen unbound, where all God-spangled lust

Can hide and seek, frolic, dog and cruise, and the illusion grow hard.


Within the palaces that shines so brutally, men, women and ants

Lie prostrate at the feet of true-love idols; man, not for me!


I don’t want the illusion, I want adoration soft and hard,

Real and tangible, corruptible and perfect, her, her and all of us.


Poems float angelically towards the sun and moon, veils fall as verses gaze

On their scorching brightness; but tell me, what kind of happiness can a blinded hand

Reach for?




A lonesome note of joy is pressed from the heart of a traveler.

He holds a cup to his lips and the depth of meaning floods him.


As he took the cup away he kissed the rim and the enigmas of life blossomed.

Enigmas, what enigmas? Only those the poets sing of, but they are ghosts, not for me!


He buys another wine before he travels and offers it to the drunkenmost beside him.

These are men who’ve unearthed the truths of life and renounced them, like legends.


Borrowing the light from the sun’s fray, he walks outside

And the day is snuffed out, for nothing else need be told or seen

As he returns to his be-all-and-end-all travels.


His mind is a Homeric drinking vessel, he acknowledges life’s Quantum secrets,

Revels in natural selection’s churning, the cosmos’ expansion and the star’s circle of life;

But only when he renounces them does he feel bigger than the universe.


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