the dark moon syzygy:  nothingness~ newness

   
   

1.    
   
one weekend eve in the dullening    
except the magnifying Venus skies    
...and an angelic rescue..a holy    
Friday's program insert,  albeit    
such down on a petty-scale.. happens    
through her.   this bird thing.   genetic    
prompt or instinct.   or what is this    
   
these two days. one and a half    
to be precise    
   
Pixel, yes that's him. perhaps her.    
didn't bother. just that, its stressing    
syllable pretty rhymes with what    
she calls 'him'- he, her integral    
nomenclatural loveform    
this lunacy houses deep    
within the abstractive withins    
the dark nothingness      
sanctum sanctorum    
     
   
   
2.    
   
in the chaos of his skyful    
Himalayan nightish braids, she    
entangles all over from beneath    
the seas in a raging forest fire, the    
earthen little sparrow in survival    
listens ardent in rhythmic blinking    
hums of silence: her peeking    
devotional clasps in an eruptive    
wilderness , her such    
continental waits    
   
her ant-form, it's eyes    
the love's labour, simply    
compounds away    
from their acute polity rust-    
magnets in self-inflicting    
stains: pheromone rouges they    
become in distractive    
displays, pouring in    
sym'pathetic'    
tsunamis, history never    
forgets their inglorious    
(no-/ec) centric takes    
in irreversibly spread    
split colours now    
   
   
3.    
   
midnight paranoid eyes    
in a run- it's weird    
short and stern erratic    
turns, ears    
enormously swell    
in burns, hang    
hopelessly still alongside    
in pain sweeps across    
growing dying in sharp beeps    
of intermittent collapses, its    
deafening nullness      
   
today,  anxiety    
has been enshrouding    
her otherwise long vacant    
twilight turfs, this mobbing    
preoccupation    
reminds rewinds a young mother her    
in holds of her little    
one's curious believing eyes of innocence : when    
she enters the choking cobweb cluster curbs    
of past, asserts those    
mydriatic fullmoons    
onlooking hers', "I need    
to keep you alive, my little    
one.  whatever comes"    
   
declining soul along    
this dimming day, shows    
denial of new place    
and warmth,  nibbles, shyly    
slow to a voracious finish, her    
feeding fingers of fine cereal    
slurry.   evokes the same    
surging   strange satiety or a rush    
of what, this    
motherhood, an avatar in recurrence    
in sacrifice an oddity    
survival a creator's small smile    
a timeless patience warrior's    
braveness quotients..that first suckling    
pierce of her child .. genesis unwinds    
from every nucleating cell    
to the collective consciousness    
of a cosmos    
   
wings flutter in an unusual    
bit of amplification, that impromptu    
shoebox shelter as if in shivers    
    the insomniac,  immersive    
in bone pains nerve twists and an    
entwining love in intense    
immensities of nothingness, awakens    
electric     hears and  waits    
run errands to nourish again, fourish    
birds in first twitters  makes    
the small one   alive,  she repeats    
after so long years, "i need    
to keep you alive my dear    
one.   whatever comes."    
   
her love,  abstractions in    
the shaping:  he feeds her    
soul and flesh ..fills    
in a jostling roar  or is it a tranquil    
drain. a compounding chaos, this    
so prolonging episodes    
of a melancholic eternity    
she needfully prays for    
   
   
4.    
   
keeps the flutter more   and more    
oaring along the chill mosaic    
in rows of 'sun'day's blinding    
life rays, silken curtains in a slow    
clearance   overshadows its flow    
like rolling out tents-whatever    
of the two     impossibly cures    
 those hard trying wings~    
 legs in a smash paralysis    
   
for once tucks in her palm, buddha's    
peaceful eyes in half closure, oozes    
warmth in throbs, this yogic posture    
not for long    the cardboard takes it all    
its setting in rigor,  a molten sea in tides