Category: English poetry

as he pored over the ancient
maps of the land of purple
mr nothing remembered
his home at the crossroads
and a whirlwind’s laughter
at those thrown into the dark

then it was a quiet night after
he recited the curse of ham
and he had no recollection
of who put a shabby book
on the bedside table instead
of the middle eastern news

over breakfast he wondered
what the difference could be
between matzah and taboon
if both could feed the hungry
or become mouldy when left
forgotten in the haversack

the ability to appreciate a little gift
from someone who barely knows
the predicaments of holding the door
for a casual passer-by never meant
to become a vanishing art cultivated
only by the ageing one mr nothing
found on yellowed pages of memoirs
forged by the poet for the sake of it

but even if he called him frivolous
accusing the poet of only playing
with words like portable atheist
propounding his own belief system
nothing less than the portentous
profundity of negative concord
would bother the unenthused poet
in the face of mr nothing’s unrest

if the stench of burning
from the eatery downstairs
painstakingly depicted
on the handmade paper
is ennobled when written
then the poet will suffer
from desperate expedients
for encouraging nonsense

if playing with the rules
of inference is empowering
the semantic nuisance
inhabiting untitled stanzas
imposed by the begetter
then one day mr nothing
will not hesitate to use
the poet’s typewriters

the disproportionality
of his features
made mr nothing
somewhat noticeable

he read the classics
and the grammarians
of forlorn lust
hidden behind
ailing women

there was something
distinctive about
his fascination
with mondays
and the colours
of fountain pen ink

only a daily dose
of vitamins and minerals
glucosamine sulfate
and odourless garlic
brought him down to earth
reminding that the creator
is sometimes a victim

occupying intentionally
blank pages the poet drew
all the bizarre encounters
with mr nothing’s doubts
from the perspicuous realm
of his own dictate

but once plain-spoken
mr nothing expressed
his distrust of the dubious
nature of his anatomy
as the metricist’s claim
to omnipotence

unsure of his presence
given or inferred
from phantom pains
mr nothing found himself
running amuck through
the words planted
in the short chapters
of russian novellas

he heard nothing
but buzzing tinnitus
on deteriorating vinyls
the poet left in a rack
full of syntactic echoes
the imaginary aftermath
of a passionate youth
he once planned to have

although devoid of carnality
mr nothing met a woman
inviting strangers to dinner
or maybe just looking
for a little company

he already knew them
the women never touched
always seen with someone
else’s eyes and comfortably
unspoken for that matter

they found a moment
of well-deserved quietude
in a cracked cardboard box
under the poet’s bed alive
like nothing on his bookshelf

as they found themselves
strangely at odds with
a pilcrow mark in each stanza
mr nothing finally accepted
imposed on him by the poet
temporary accommodation
with dubious identity
and a forged polling card

touching the straps attached
to the uncomfortable bunk
for the forced to take a refuge
from harsh predilections
in all innocence he wondered
if the poet ever liked him
self casually reflected
on a scrap of paper

mr nothing examined his body
the poet made him aware of
his constantly bleeding nose
hypersensitivity to sunlight
and allergy to dairy products
even forced him to visit the loo
with all the petty physiology
not befitting a lyrical character

there was nothing derogatory
about this new accent per se
however it made mr nothing
a little uncomfortable at times
maybe even embarrassed
when in respectable company
debating the intricacies of renga
he had to face indigestion