T.Wignesan
does it bloom in the
subatomic quark neuron
a
flower petals deranged
burning with green rage
dark
firmament pullulating infinitesimal
quasars
unpeeling layers of
nuclear fusions fissions
the blue-blackish greenish-blue haze
is this the eye looking at the eye
which I
between the crushed ajña-eyebrows
under
eyes straining to envelope reality from afar
spotty
bright grains pulsating in a velvety ink-blue-black throbbing screen
thoughts racing forwards and backwards in
time
childhood
slights deprivations unrevenged hurts
throbbing thriving on treacherous jabs by
of-all beings friends
those
who profit from taken-for-granted confidences
the women who dun-you-in
thoughts
of a nature to make you hate fate
then
the pulsating roving churning dismembering coalescing screen
dissolves
and
in the pale fringey opening white furry stripes on the blue-black greenish
bulgey bed of velvet
whose I
lights the frigid fire burning dynamo
whose eye
shrivels
reopens brightens
what is it an eye
which stares
shrinks sharper by the fractioned second
closes
and opens again
and again
till
the pinpoint galactic blackholing centre
bigbangs
the myriad diamondlights buoyed on a
myriad-petalled dryburning flowering sun
shedding golden glory
expelling
all thought or is it mere doubt
the
intense unrelenting feeling of
is it joy
or a fumbling stolen fear
the mental orgasmic relief
the sense of deep other knowing power
come face to face
refreshing retreading the worn-out
neuron paths
then
the return
after the wearinesses
or is it nonplussedness
to this world
to words
to
wars
to waste
to wickedness
a world without wonder
without womb
a
world dying
dead
a
tomb
see only what you should see
words see only what
eyes make belief
even
when words don’t mean what they see
from longhand notes: a binding of poems.
