Par | 2018-06-19T19:49:51+00:00 10 septembre 2012|Catégories : Blog|


There was nothing simple about it
even then —

an eleven-year-old’s hun­ger
for the wet per­fec­tion

of the Alhambra, the mus­ky tor­sos
of foot­ball stars, ancient Egypt and Jacques Cousteau’s

lur­ching empires of the sea, bazaars
in Mughal India, the sacred plunge

into a Cadbury’s Five Star bar, Kanchenjanga, kisses bluer
than the Adriatic, honeys­tain of sun­light

on temple wall, a moon-lathe­red Parthenon, draught
of nor­thern air in Scottish castles. The child god cra­ving

to pop a uni­verse
into one’s mouth.   

It’s back again,
the lust
that is the dee­pest
I have known,

cele­bra­ted by paper­back romances
in sta­tion books­talls, by poets in the dun­geons
of Toledo, by bards croo­ning fore­ver­ness
and gut-thump on FM radio
in Bombay traf­fic jams –

an undoing,
an unma­king,
raw –

a mon­soo­nal fero­ci­ty
of need.