Apparently there is no death
And the poet says so in April

That brings on yearly spring
With sun on a burning neck.

This while you are lying poet
Concerned about red velvet.

It will be picked up by a bird.
You pat yourself on a beauty.

A beauty is apparent in April
And the bush is singing as if.

You are lying about a beauty.
It is death on a stinging neck.

Make- up

We do not delve deep in its foundation,
Powders and creams that capture men.

Men are moths held up to a rain’s light
To briefly live and die for our meaning.

We do not care for knots of hem cloth
Nor creamy romance of a glass of milk

Nor the heady jasmines on bridal beds.
These are merely made up by mamas.

What matters is we make up enough
Meaning for moths to die by our light.

Cumins is for ever

Cumins is ,for ever ,at comings
And goings,a lover of humanity
Poem maker in the lap of death.

He doubles “e’ as in a  “screetch”
But is highly under-capitalized,
Holding secret life in his pants.

He holds a secret of all of them,
Making poems in a death’s trap
Making poetry up like  woman.

(On reading a poem Humanity I love You by e.e. cumins)

The hospital

I have come away from a crowd
A crowd of strangers in hospital
In dark corner of coffee machine

In the old lift slowly wending up
Like old men shuffling their feet,
Gliding like a new strange cloud

I still carry the crowd in my body
A crowd of strangers of mystery
Faces mixing their mystery pasts

With my present, steeped in dark
A dark of coffee machine corner,
A little knot of dark around pillars.

Meeting at infinity

You get to meet your infinity,
A rail track destined to meet
Its self ,at some point in time.

That is old spiel of rail tracks
Too scared to meet at a finity,
But possibility at the infinity.

In endless snake of our flesh
An infinity emerges and blows
And flies ash on world things.

It will cover a face with death
As it meets a self dangerously
Like rail tracks meet their self .