day6-day8

day 6

three theologies of sand
I
‘the ark’
remember the monolith
alien and nocturne
marooned and colliding near the shore
long before the suez
the breath that touched me at the beach
II
‘the 100th day’
children playing in the sun
splashing in the sea
my heart breaks with pain and freedom
my heart mends with freedom from pain
I’m with mother near the shore
III
‘post-resurrection’
where did the sand come from?
pooled next to the head of mothers’ bed
I cannot explain its presence
I only remember the threads
connecting dream to room to reverie


the seventh day
starts off in a lab with fish tanks
popcorn chicken pieces wriggling like new born mice in my hands
quickly, they turn into curled hamsters
ferocious, anxious, leaping from my palms
I bend to their higher worlds
scoop them up from a nest of twigs

I’m out on green fields
hamsters turn into dogs that run to me
‘like long awaited lovers’
“They’ve grown longer, better furred” tespu says
“Is this your sign of return?” I ask him. He does not respond.
he turns into a chattering Eurasian woman
who sees, as I see,
the cocker spaniel, ready to poop

the woman has wrapped the two dogs up like burritos
(Or in a cheesy way without cheese, ‘hot dogs’)
and because of her faith, or responsibility
She packs up the poop in microwavable foil.

she hands me all three burritos in a bag.
the creatures break free from the wrap
they spill out as roasted chicken meat onto the floor
the cocker spaniel has turned into a chicken wing, mostly deboned
the meat wriggles on concrete
maybe I’m to eat them
like some strange sacrament
‘this is my body, this is my dog’


day 8

the mistaken union (previously unreleased)
there is no matrimony between us
we are incursions and errors
wrong codes for the right line


I am not your waters of life
you are not my fabled shore
I am not your host
you are not my parasite
we are on a bridge above the world
Impotent impostors in the place of creation
you shall not be graven, I shall not be grave
we were simply, falsely labelled as exits

but see, the black door is half open
you can enter its gate or leave the room
your river is already given
follow my gaze, but not into this soul
It is not yet primed for your kingdom

watch for the light that I see far away
follow with courage, do not be afraid,
another king shall guide you, for I cannot give you rest

Author: Irving Paul Pereira

bohemain

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