The Ghost of Man

In the aubergine clot of the eye
the world wrestles for space. Each thought,

uglier than the last, each feeling, heavier
than the inundated ocean bed. I am naked;

running through the forest of life, cold and lifelike.
The flesh is incoherent, its songs are red sirens.

I imagine a single strand of grass, lemon
and dark emerald infused into a breathing tunnel.

I have been summoned by this tiny life
on the occasion of an unearthly summer.

My eyes are wrinkled pomegranates, washed aside
in the current that sweeps everything.

The body is incoherent, beating loudly,
thumping even, against the ugly silence of life.

The body is a mad woman; that is its only stature in life, its solitary mount, its cold truth.

The eyes are tired, two tiny pearls through
which the rotten earth has cleaved its livers, dug

its endless fingernails, plump roots that desecrate everything.

The body watches across the liquid, black night that grips everything by the throat.

The body is a clock, ticking,
its blood singing against the barometer.

The body has been summoned by this tiny creature,
this single luminescent flake of light.

The body is driven mad by the sight of a blade of grass.

The body fails to comprehend its existence.
Its legs are red, wounded

by the worms of the mind, plagued
by the sorrow of existence. The body watches

from raisin eyes, the body watches a single blade of grass, its exhausting beauty, its strange demand for love,

the body watches, it blinks, it blinks.
The body cannot separate its sickness from the world.

The body strums like an empty carton, pouring
its wrist out to the world and watching the red blood

sing to every living thing. The body watches
as the world consumes itself over and over,

as one part tears the other, as everything engulfs everything else behind the singular cloak of beauty.

The body is paralyzed by the innate violence,
the violence in its own chest,

the murder on its hands. The body sneezes
into the thickening clot of death and snarls.

The body is a frenzied mad woman circulating
in her own tongue.

The body is wired to the irony of all human existence.

The body that cannot laugh, cries.
The body that cannot understand, shivers.

The body that is tired, vomits.
The body that cannot die, breaks.

Artwork and Poem

©️ Aakriti Kuntal

7 thoughts on “The Ghost of Man

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