A slaughterhouse

you’re stirring bone dust in a jar while famous
painters tear in small pieces majestic canvas
I remember you sometimes growing old in a grey sari
glanced away by a jungle bird’s eye
in a topographic ocean of vast mildness
but I am here the butcher of these african fat gorillas
their barber and their Frankenstein
I lost connection with some parts of the word poetry
rushed out from my mother tongue
I pray to you Ganesh and to you Allah
I will cover my face my hair and my eyes
and I will dance naked between gay couples
having sex and drugs on the streets of soho
I’ll sit on a pile of books bought from a
discount shop selling unknown authors
the belly of Foucault is partly allocated to
smoking and producing humans

if I
I
I
battered I and salted I
would somehow
frequent cold fear of not sitting next to
you again but my
verticality is statuesque and
redeemed