Three Poems by Rory Nair

Transaction Analysis (TA) in Bakehouses

We went in whiter than white cars,

holding hands.

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

sideways,

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.

 

Quietude 

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.

Old.

 

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.



Reinventing Wheels

 

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;

bequeathed, bestowed.

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.

Mediocrity.

 

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."

Rony Nair

Enjoyed this article?

Help us to fund independent journalism instead of buying:

Also in Disclaimer

On Tuition Fees, Theresa May is Charging into a Doomed Battle

By trying to take on Jeremy Corbyn in a fight about tuition fees, Theresa May is starting a fight she cannot win. Nothing she proposes will match Labour's pledge to drop fees. Any option will be expensive and deprive money from other areas such as housing and the NHS.

America, Guns and Living in Fear of Machines We Could Control

America may have a short history but red, white and blue values are carved into national identity. It has become painfully clear how dearly some hold the right to own guns among as a fundamental civil liberties. President Trump maynot speak about gun control but a majority of Americans support. How many more tragedies must they ensure?

The Week on Planet Trump: Trapped by Mueller, POTUS Rants at FBI as Florida Survivors Demand Gun Control

The dignity of those demanding gun control after the Florida school shooting was not matched by a president who ranted on Twitter, blaming the FBI for its focus on the Russian collusion probe. Seventeen people died but Trump made the story about him being a victim.

Votes at 16: A Bold and Democratic Move or an Irresponsible Idea Without an Argument?

Votes at 16 is a debate that does not seem to go away. Recently Emily THornberry taunted the Tories over it. So did George Osborne. Disclaimer looks at the arguments in favour and against.

Weekend Fiction: Narratological Chronosis

A Short Story by Harris Coverley