Truce at the point of departure

i try to get things

but things do not get gotten
facing the brick walls,
someone said,
stupid is for other people.
people that arent ours
i could have called her stupid
but she was my mother. noise!
more noise and a vomit of flaws
you will never recollect,
nothing
you will never forget,
nothing
when noise meets noise
nothing
even the air carries with it, violence
with things, indigestible, un-inhalable annihilable:
things rife with vehement nonsense
when we were done
fighting,
haggling
done talking
not talking
screaming our heads off,
fist-bunching into stone
swearing hot huffing red swallowing morsels of nonsense:
we both felt like counterfeit kindred,
like contraband parcels
impounded at the customs check area
yet stupid is for other people.
people that arent ours.
im feeling older, older,
feeling the failure of things now,
older, exhausted of alphabets,
trying to make sense of nagging-language
mother and son, chagrined
she wondering, why he nearing forty
is yet to be mad about any woman

or find love for keeps,

in a city replete with love and music
then against the walls,
our holey spines knocked
like jute sacks stashed with odds-and-ends,
like a dumped sack from war,
perforated with fatigue
then we found a way,
magicked into bags
of sachet water,
straining with contents within
full with reason to bust open
at the final notice of boarding pass
we pressed
against ourselves,
squeezing tight
until fluids trickle,
shot up, eye-wards wet like fresh
wound-cuts bleeding clear fluid,
our sockets leaking angst
and pardon and healing,
quietly
with half-moon-salt-stained-smiles.

The Right To Not Be Right

She cant see a speck, when
he barks
She cant hear a thing, when
he yaps decibels
Arteries dry up, her lips pop open,
but words refuse to collocate
a defence
She cant say back a thing, when
he yells and walls holler words back
in solidarity with him
fear ducts her nipples to her bended kneecaps,
to stand now is to instigate more entropy
shes leafing through pages of pain,
the chapters fail her again
something feels like a tired river
weary from tasting its arid riverbank
feeding her with so much opium,
and salad-dressing her down with oversized god
she is retching scads of sawdusts to his scud of words
inside her, things texture like steel-nails
inchoately jumbled in a mortar mix of rising bile
yet every wrong person
deserves the right
to be wrong,
allowed to be zig-zaggy to common-sense,
suspicious of the truth your truth,
guilt curling up in her tummy
until she finds good worth
its goodness
because while you are mapped
on this side of good seeing her

wrong, shes on that side of wrong

seeing you wrong dizzy,
weightless in dust of blame,
half-starved of motivation.

Segregated cemeteries
We should think
that in death, as is
with hunger
discriminations and colourings,
gendered ideas and versions
of history will
collapse into
sand,
while bodies cohere unto
the grains of the earth,
when cadavers have no
say as to where to sleep,
man still carves
for them, a niche.

for a taste of honey

Though she lived
in a farmhouse
where
her parents kept an apiary
and an aviary,
not far from which stood blocks
of tenements repurposed for
love-peddling
She speaks five dialects,
but couldn't say "No"
in any language.
She claims, if they had told her
about the birds and the bees
she wouldn't have got stung
too early by bees bellyful of honey.