Three Poems by Rory Nair
Transaction Analysis (TA) in Bakehouses
We went in whiter than white cars,
toward bends, that led to culverts and bunds,
inside our heads,
we never even knew existed.
you were the cool, all knowing one,
dainty, slipping through swings,
waiting for TA sessions,
in between our kissing rings.
was there nothing else
we spilt over in rewind mode.
bake houses called “KR”
still stand with old chairs stuck between,
long indignant stares.
you walk away
after lemonade sips,
shades of confusion,
kiss your lips.
i took steps
down miles of carrion,
narrow bends, empty market pews,
solitaire played in bus-stops,
with private carriers crafting death.
yet one couldn’t forget your eyes,
resembling holy mosques,
in ace of spades.
yet one couldn't forget your eyes,
playing hide and seek,
with those elemental, bounded waves.
and one sits across and hears that ghosts now define being cut off on the phone and on terra firma!
four years before ghosting was the fashion,
you'd becalmed yourself in painted hues.
diving deep into yourself
with one face to me,
and sainthood; for the hordes.
Canopies of rigid interplay,
Painted walls that hold your stare.
Colored. Architectural volunteers who rinse their cow dung in myth,
Minority tokenism, green gardens with hidden panoplies,
In isolation. In encumbrance.
Wet nights and tainted windows.
Sin bins for imagined ills.
Waitresses who get hollered at
By nuns forgetting blessings.
Overloaded agendas, public transportation angst
Vegetarian dishes for 30 Euro’s a slice!
Impulses of normality and quietude
in a glimpse of your half-moon eyes.
Cauldrons flaying in colored kitchens
The sofa stays the same.
You rested your head on my lap that day and looked up;
With broken eyes, processioned sunlight,
Newer motifs. Spitting on grains.
in Training Rooms
the boats sail onwards
between tides of free speech and magic realism,
forgetting the magic within
or the stars breathing down,
which berate the forces of intellectual mass,
those sanguine in its pull.
Towards inhaled vapors of righteous air
bereft of oxygen.
We stare at each other,
across abscesses of unreason,
that capture the bites and the pressures of holding on,
to a lifeless travesty, a futile hope.
sex as divorced from love is mother Teresa terrain.
terrain where firma and logic have since been deluged.
dry and trademarked. ransacked and cold.
across the bends the palliative hues,
turn crimson with your rage.
the guttural screams you utter
when one calls out for your love.
Congeal as hate.
Accusatory affronts miss out
on fingerprints scarring t-shirts,
wrapped around vague bends resembling
pylons, in the head.
Where we once held each other so tight,
that we exchanged chins.
Your bites remain imprinted in faces grained and greyed,
headrests and grey sofas;
aureoles remain, waiting;
to be jettisoned,
through long closed doors.
We were displaced in the giving.
withdrawn in second thoughts about living and piety;
images reinvented like calling cards.
re-reimagined in groups,
of failed house wives setting out to conquer the equinox,
Round the periphery.
Clearing up worlds in a stroke
Rinsed with stored up passion.
amniotic fluid sprays over the latest victims and rebukes,
latest expletives fill up blanked out faces of the latest group of victims,
Corralled into shelters and homes.
those secrets and lies are both the same,
two penny half-truths complete the game.
false-hoods complement a reinvented prism;
a new mother superior. airbrushed. Dreamlike; walking through the haze.
convergent disciples go out and paint walls in graffiti;
awaiting the next round of instructor led piety.
You wait for a year to call her, and feel the contours of her tone!
And she says,
"Wanna fuck somebody? Find somebody else."
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