What you don’t see is not necessarily not there

by T. Wignesan


Take out the caked grimy faucet plug
Let those unseen crawlies dive and duck
under the rust-ridden slime
stuck to phlegm and saliva globs
dried blood and flaky semen
shot through with crap

The seen and the unseeable
The sane and the goneforsaken

This glob of virus a syruppy eggdash
got rid of in a hurry
close your thoughts
to the raw genital-vaginal whiff of public lavatories
the brothel closets’ stained sticky sheets

the stink and the dirt and the stinging hell
that comes from under

all stuffed with fizzing
fuming water
cloacal wind
and the aftershave lotion

Nothing that wouldn't burn forever
when we all disappear


Even if you slow your rhythm down to a stilled beat
at rest
haven't you heard your blood
coursing through in a reckless lickety-split
past the pinned ear in the pillow

The silence of the hour
your pulse down to a twenty-five or thirty
cutaway from the clatterbanging engine within
beating a frenzied time
racing round and round in a cataclysmic din

Whoever jams it all from the eye
hears its thunderous roar in the cells
The cells that slither
and ooze
acidic enzymes
down the washes of stuffed putrefying canals

This the great manufacturer
of what oozes in lethean sewers


cell into cells
in the coursing blood
the car jams
the myriad alleyway mazes of city cells

valves that stop
white-red corpuscles

In the city's centre is the heartless pulsing leviathan
and through the aorta highway

everybody alights on a wc cuvette
and back
through the ventricles
the carnival parade of
spittle and slime

Die City
Die like bodies
and empires
disease-clogged sewers
funding plagues

What is left from afar
is a clouded-over scorched patch
fossilised cellular forms under the microscope

Who cares after a thousand billion years
What went on during a trillion light years
I care You care We care
Do All ALL care

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About T. Wignesan

If I might be allowed to say so, I think my "first" love was poetry. Unfortunately for me, the British curricula at school did not put me in touch with the Metaphysical Poets, nor with the post-Georgian school. Almost all the school texts after World War II contained invariably Victorian narrative poems and some popular examples of Romantic poetry. I chanced upon a selection of T. S. Eliot's and Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, and a little later on Pope's An Essay on Man and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. That did the trick. Yet, I regret not having taken to prose in earnest earlier than the publication of my first collection: Tracks of a Tramp (1961). There's nothing like trying your hand at all kinds of prose exercises to come to grips with poetry. Or rather to see how poetry makes for the essence of speech/Speech and makes you realise how it can communicate what prose cannot easily convey. I have managed to put together several collections of poems, but never actually sought to find homes for them in magazines, periodicals or anthologies. Apart from the one published book, some of my sporadic efforts may be sampled at http://www.stateless.freehosting.net/menupage.htm