“To take a home­o­path­ic approach to the soul is to deal with the dark­ness in ways that are in tune with the dark.” – Thomas Moore
 

 

It’s tak­en time
to realise
no one sur­vives. 
Not even the ordinary.

Time to own up then
to blue throat
and gall blad­der extraordinaire, 

to rages pris­tine,
guilt unsmeared
by mediocrity, 

sep­a­ra­tion trau­mas
sub­con­ti­nen­tal 
and griefs that dare
to be primordial. 

Time to iron out
a face cor­ru­gat­ed
by peren­ni­al hope, 

time to shrug off
the har­lotry
and admit
there’s noth­ing hygien­ic
about this dark­ness –
no pot­ted palms,
no ele­va­tor music. 

I erupt from pil­lars,
half-lion half-woman. 

The floor space index I demand
is noth­ing short
of epic. 

I still wait some­times
for a flick­er of rev­e­la­tion 
but for the most part
I’m unbribable. 

When I open the cof­fee per­co­la­tor
the roof flies off. 

[print-me]