The last few

We are surely learning to roll with repetitions

Words now urinate to their self coital death

Tolerating little play, unsure of every uttering

Your silent monosyllables, stark elitism

They die too, coiling, curling up their own hymen

There is no furore of life, only the sly of the indefinite

Silence rests, in its foetal sex-wig.

Prologue to Alienation

Yet starvation definite

Sighs ceaseless around my mind

I'm a poet of the destitute

I see nightmares unbridled,

Death in crystal forms.

My spring is spent in hunger rows, anticipating

Siren of my sleepless nights blows circumspect

I find adventure in the cruelty of the ineffectual

Wherein my wonder springs armed,

Looping cruel disciplines.

Pebbles

My golden pebbles, I will rip open
Over these downtrodden arms
These locomotive shadows wherein 
I shall keep in silver 
Our still captive days.
In pretense the captive birds be flown
The gust in their wingy winds 
Submissive to the breakfast of freedom
Inspite of the softer pillows  of absence .
For us to steal stealth 
In their frolicing leaves
Your milk-lining, 
And more tons of it, with ease which 
Shall erode the silent wailing, 
Tons of corrosions, 
And just like before, 
Your dawn will wind up
Around my dawn, for it to admit longer
And long enough.