THE HOUSE THAT JILL BUILDS, BY MOMMY GOOSE
This is the house that Jill builds.
This is the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the mouth
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the moon with its wet singular eye
That winks at the mouth
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the cow that jumps over the moon
That widens its wet singular eye
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the maiden all forlorn
That is the cow that jumps over the moon
That widens its wet singular eye
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the man all tattered and torn
That jills the maiden all forlorn
That is the cow that crumples the horn
That widens its wet singular eye
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the priestess all shaven and shorn
That raises the man all tattered and torn
That jills the maiden all forlorn
That is the cow that crumples the horn
That widens its wet singular eye
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the cock that crows in the morn
That wakes the priestess all shaven and shorn
That raises the man all tattered and torn
That jills the maiden all forlorn
That is the cow that crumples the horn
That widens its wet singular eye
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
This is the feminazi she sows her corn
That jacks the cock that crowed in the morn
That wakes the priestess all shaven and shorn
That raises the man all tattered and torn
That jills the maiden all forlorn
That is the cow that crumples the horn
That widens its wet singular eye
that swallows the hand
That strokes the snake
That stirs in the grass
That grows in the house that Jill builds
HELLCOW
these half-wit cows slow full of bull shit
chewing on past cud foaming mouth white spit
stumbling meek along footpaths or street
pissing for blind devotees ignorant eyes unlit
her speckled udders make her odd cosmic mama
of hot milk spurts gerry can jell ghee or butter
the green grass is burnt into black concrete
her fields are fenced machine-hedged moo mutter
metal arms feed and fold her mechanical array
fading goddess eats chicken mince for straw or hay
sliced and quartered she is hung up red meat
rare solace for those who’ve sung vegetable past
abandon the sad organic embrace the organum
know why the earth is wet eye-orb bleak polyglot
S.H.E.
sweet spouse Patience
daughter Experience
O wet-winged motherly
Wind, sister Laughter
Siren splayed lapping
O hot-breath Mistress
Heat, it sung loverly
the blood is no curse
only foretaste
powers of Circe
the translucent fluid
Eye emerging
reads Rune of Druid
thrust into, thrust out
She Eternal
cuts the knot of Doubt.
IDIOTS AND WIDGETS
what the life is reduced to is that you wake up go for a walk on the terrace make it barefoot
the streets of india as usual are full of shit better to be higher up atop this concrete cradle
do not let the deep blue expanse surprise you it’s usually there a big blue bore blowing white
or grey weights lowering down over you like stones into the depths you have always drowned
or paced up and down like the caged lion you are let the miles wear your feet out fill your lungs
with poisoned air enough to live this useless day walk till the muscles are tight or aching realise
they are withering the cells are falling away my undiscovered flowers or dewdrops wetting dust
an hour then step downstairs there’s work awaiting the griddle hot the dosas done the children
dressed eat pray to the g-d who hears or hears not let them leave in peace there’s time to kill
standing still or clothes to be washed or new meals to be cooked there is always enough meat
vegetables are not needed since you are already one what you can consider satisfactory failure
time to ride the wheel the machine reach safe the factory fill in pipeline time idiots and widgets
time always passes by or you can pass by it gently doing the breeze do not imagine it a typhoon
or another world heaven or hell or purgatory nine lives or another earth-like planet that science
discovers all this or nothing including feelings hot or cold or old that laughter amuses talk smells
of emptiness in the eyes of everyone you meet you meet fucking dolts traipsing a twisted road
clothed in death’s grey leaves and like the night it all comes down to seeing and sensing or blind
you ride back safe and sound another day down done sold out nothing attempted nothing done
has earned my perfect repose all that has been is vanity and all will be vanity always so look on
all the beauty and ugliness goodness or evil spit in its eye do not give it more than a moment sigh
that’s all there is and that’s all there will be idiots and widgets the morning and evening one day
SIGHT
consciousness and form
appear disappear reappear
never the same features twice
never the same space or place
never the repetition that jars
only the jars of stored heady victuals
only the books lightning-struck
only the drifting wooden rafts
twinkling or sluggish images in soil or water
swollen-bellied pauses
silences
consciousness chews her own cud
grazes through the Milky Way
meteor dust is her wake
her dung human beings
her coitus with the fire of many suns
a molten stream of light flows from the foreheads
of those who’ve watched consciousness watch itself
mirror to mirror their faces meet one another as one
this whirl of the unending dance of the grey dervish
this prayer of being unto itself through no-becoming
this uncoiling or going forth as a new emerald serpent
this purple throat of a cosmos poisoned yet multiplying
and many suns rise and many suns set
and many moons wax and wane
and the stars are always too distant
and everything is
as it was
in the beginning
is now
and ever
shall be
world without end
consciousness
form
both a single seeing eye
THE BEGGING BOWL
There is a delicate vessel marred
breathing out an unheard prayer
through hairline cracks impotent
though some sky-blue porcelain
gleams.
Look at it closer closely kiss it
the stains of age erase value
all that once was now forget it
the rim of the bowl is jagged
ragged.
Put it to your lips put your lips
to it for she will taste of blood
my handle is fallen broken off
wrenched from this sad body
hurled back into a sullen dust
reject.
Pick it up, O Lord of the Wheel,
though the clay again bitches
throw it once more, warm us
inside two soft-pierced palms
moult.
Breathe into sky-blue porcelain
the breath that melts the part
into a whole new bowl, bubble
the golden champagne sunlit
overflow let the brook babble
pearls.
THE MUD OF NIGHT
The twinkling gems
that make or mar
the quickened day
the unsealed lips
a burning kiss
the empty eyes
some red thing
darts back and forth
forked in and out
flickerings sinkings
settling into a swamp
memory-moist mud of night
TIME PIECES
the less you’re written
the shorter your shadow
the sun a golden sword
the day is red meat
the road a white oven
my mattress is well pressed
the scream is muffled
the sky is a cupcake
everything just crumbles
hips rolling sphere ring
sand dripping upside in
narrow rope bridge breaking
my sleep is a clock
wake me up put me out
tick tock ding dong mouse trap
the less you’re written
the shorter your shadow
pungent moon slice of lime
LIGHT THE SWINGING WAY
a breached grey pitcher
breathing through a jagged hole
in his pierced side
the water is black
the clay rises a black sun
the blue pain dissolves
the mercy-vessel
remains a rocking little
boat with holes and beached
there he lies waiting
until the potter woman
comes heals his sepsis
upon her hip he
sways and with her ride he lives
light the swinging way
MOTHER SUN
i saw 7 billion bodies
packed in trunks
black marble
smoking earth
pink lipstick
yellow dawn
splash upon these
buckets of milk
bathe them all
in purity of ghee
a snowy blanket
shear the sheep
the sap will fill
tomorrow’s throat
the flaring nostril
smokes naked lust
the weary mouth
catches blue flies
i saw 7 billion bodies
awash in milk and butter
smooth and slippery
a love large enough
coffins them all
a virulent force
smashes the teeth of death
with kisses of resurrection
softens the thorny
nipples of mortality
bayonets the flesh
waiting for its receptacles
laughs out loud
in the moment of extinguishing
in the snuffing out
the meteors of passion
who can lie quietly in the lap
of Mother Sun
golden egg-womb Mama
who receives whitened snakes
swallows the birds and nests
the birdlings and branches
leaves the breeze swinging
full of delightful monkeys
like those three bodies
silhouettes on a hill
quietly the middle one
puts forth the tender
green shoot in a dry land
i see 7 billion bodies
emerging from trunks
white bones as tendrils
snaking back quietly
to Mother Sun.
THIS PEN IS
i dig and i discover
gold-inscribed nuggets
fire-deposits in gray grooves
i toss-roll them around
on this whitening tongue
washing them the walls are ears
knocking aloud these scents
moist-cloud motifs on cream-sheets
these folds undulate uniform of shrouds
this body is silk-wrapped
this navel is a bronzed ink-well
this penis sears only when erect.
THE KITCHEN OF LIFE
G-d the wooden pestle
G-d the stone mortar
I the humdrum grain
G-d’s face grim
pound pound
the grin and gasp
steel-tipped pestle
sparks
in the bowl of time
marred
moon and blood
nine months
churns the spherical pool
births
sphinx and chimera
destiny is a drop of water
welling up with dew-hues
rippling like a ticking clock
the meat fries on the pan
white rice bubbles boils
a machine whisks clothes
eggs or dough are mishaps
the erect phallus of the daythe children study and play
the newsroom spits out lies
each meal is a conversation
night arrives as dead breath
pounding is silent
grinding is coitus
the sum of each hour of sleep
the final snore in the cell
the next mute unknown
the white flour is sieved again
G-d the wooden pestle
G-d the stone mortar
disappearing again
the grain of purpose
the powder of defeat
disappearing again i
THE WREN
loosen yourself like a wren in a hedge
there’s no need to push that chest out
a song sings itself even if eyes are wet
the sun is a keyhole in the broken fence
a rabbit in the clouds is a torn mattress
or brambles are home and nettles food
the sky is a plate to lap cold soup from
loosen yourself like a wren in a hedge
RudraPrajapati 