Monkeys play in the limbs of banyan trees
while fish swim through the thick body of the Mother
swollen and grey with ashes and ribcages
pregnant with the purified bodies of her children
They’re on their way straight through
spinning around again
and again
and again
towards the gates of Nirvana
If they’re lucky.
If they’re clean enough to make it in.
Varanasi simmers below in the scorching sun of Indian summer,
perfume on her neck like the smell of piss and rose water
potent from the sweat of her own concrete heartbeat
the heat of her own heartbreak
the fire of a hundred thousand prayers
And Marigolds lay scattered like battle on the ghats
A war waged by lost men seeking salvation in her body
marked by a shield of torn turmeric cotton
and a smoke clouded smile
for the Gods they hide behind
and poker hands lose a days worth of work
for nothing but a golden moment
worthy of a better mans recognition
and the glance of an imaginary woman
but they cant touch her they cant even see her clearly
through the whiskey in their eyes
and the sadness on her face that renders her
invisible.
Dogs bathe in the shade,
royalty of their own plastic castles,
while men bathe in the river,
hoping to emerge a little better
And this place has got me by the soul -
reflecting it back at me in a way that breaks me and builds me,
shakes me and bites me
until I throw my head back ferociously and say…
…nothing at all.
I just open my mouth and take it all down
drowning my voice out
with a dangerous chaser
of bones and soul-filled water
I shake like the dogs on the street,
barking and howling inside of myself
just itching for a little piece
of space to call my own somehow…
and this is what its like
an alien in a world of color and texture,
a world of big Indian eyes so endless I can hardly look,
fearful that I might fall
and get lost
in the ancient alleyways that catch me
