Fleeting truths lie in five senses each naysaying what other has found to be only truth, all making no joint sense except a temporary truth ,an away truth, a far truth,a more near, less of truth in their joint light, a night.
The five of them now lie through their joint teeth. It is the only truth, so far yet near, only to seem drifting , bubbles formed to break and dissolve ,moments dissolved soon in the enormity of night.
We saw ourselves, a rod travelling on rails falling off because it was not shape enough for the rails.We looked at the dark promontory of a day’s night and that made us dizzy, so many stars , so much time. Time sucked us in, our life in a limbo when we walked jauntily. We slept with our eyes open ,our breath slowly being taken away.We were alive like the dinosaur that had existed in the wild plains and now lives in this hall, sprawled in white bones as time stretches. The very bones that had lived before we came.
Our own bones wept for their dust and the rivers they have to float in to reach the sea. The mathematics of blood that went haywire, as their zeroes on the left went multiplying infinitely .Nothing really mattered , not even the hair on our head that stood erect in tribute to the magnificence of the dome.And the dome went on endlessly abolishing our body, the bodies in the heavens and embraced the mindlessness of being a stone , a mere flicker in space.
Our journey began. Nearer death we are now a rod on the rails that lost its shape. Our rails will continue their journey with other rods that still have their shapes, until they too will lose their shapes.
A hundred decaying faces from plastic chairs outside the restaurant hall slowly look at you as saviors for the bored bums and big mouths. Their numbered slip is now a few places ahead.
Look and see, we are now sufficiently decayed and we are waiting for our grand decomposition.These people are now ahead by a few numbers and are waiting in their bored eyes for their own.
Inside we have seen our food disintegrating, home to a colony of organisms busy decaying our faces ,our stomachs, our women, our kids.The lentils soup is friendly to our slurping faces.The hotel’s yesterdays have decayed it enough.
In the king’s apocryphal story , you make the horses fly in six months or you die. You agree to make horses fly because maybe in six months horses may fly or you may die or the king may die.
A Hong Kong poem suggests the gold fish still fly , the ones we saw in the Wanchai fish tanks of twenty years ago . Because there is connect between the goldfish of then and my present existence. In twenty years gold fish may fly or the poet may die or the horses in Hong Kong race course we saw from our Happy Valley flat may fly a reverse slow motion.
The fish tanks are full with the fish we saw writhing and the water snakes have their blood poured in a glass for a potential customer . Every thing can fly back and forth. I can fly as the horses can fly and win a race for us. The sun on his seven horses can fly back to twenty years of my past and a slow motion of the world can happen between me and then.
While fish do not fly, they do fry. This evening along the shoreline I saw tens of thousands of red and dead fish. Nobody wants them in their stomachs. Who knows they may have died of chemical poisoning or an oil slick.
The crows may not be aware that the fish are not good for their stomachs. Hope the crows have strong enough gastronomy for them.
Who knows -fish may fry, if the crows try.
The recent heads would go into an elaborate teleology to decide if old heads might talk, those who were their baby sitters by day and yawning tell -talers by night.
In streets the old heads are mere aggregates. Their heads bob up or turn back as they gather the earth’s crust for thin cover on their parched faces.
The recent ones listen to uncles and aunts under dark staircases, the latter words invisible by day but at times ascending by night.
The recent heads are not all that recent. They are receding in their scalps. Their recedings are a relatively recent phenomena.
They look up at the moonshining old heads with tolerance . Old heads are useful shiners on those moonless nights, when they are hard up for moonlight.
And old heads have receded long since . They will disappear wholly on one of those moonless nights. after which the recent ones will make them climb walls.
There they will smile for ever in garlands of sandalwood shavings.
They say the other world is beautiful, all those who have been there and back. Streets are neatly cobbled and swept clean. No plastic water bottles are floating on fetid water bodies nor polyethylene wrappers rustling in the breeze nor street dogs sleeplessly barking. No one hits a bum in a snail of traffic.
But another world is more beautiful. Men went there and are not yet back. There are classical dancers on clouds, but no loud speakers on vulgar music. Clouds are not made of plastics. There are no milk sachets on a breeze. There they have no fly-ridden clinics and no morgues for men to lie dead.
Surely you can’t be lying dead twice.
A matter of clearing, a single sound ,a vast journey in space, a wedding its sound journeys to my eager ears ,a locus in a space graph of listening.
A soundless night makes it possible. Geographer’s poem is very journey, a moving away of a chunk of space or invisible space vastly stretching.
The wedding is space of a drumbeat, a clearing in a jungle of night’s silence .Some humans make wedding sounds. Sleeping dogs are making no clearing and no patrolmen stick-tap this night.
Our space enters here, in the window. Curtains are mute spectators to wind and trees carry space back and forth.