We bore holes in us, as if attrition comes naturally.
Water does what water does, slowly builds more layers
while time comes on and throws us under inch-
thick crusts of residue. Slapped on fast, this way and
that, varnish up our weakest points so we can’t see
despite being flush against the panes – we stay
sitting, smoking slowly, refining the crudeness
of our gestures until we pump ourselves outside
even then, nothing can remind you of the day
when our selves glinted, shiny new:
hips crackle and spit, and something silver corrugates lips
with not quite words slagged out in heaps.
We grow inside houses, this much is clear, yet
our hair stays flat, we count the days in single strands.
Reduced to a specimen, a set of samples:
hours kept stock in breathing bowls, broken bones
pile up with kisses, the taste of iron.
My memories clamber under skies,
fuming full of smashed clay pots and the days
when our mouths moved, and music came
BIO: Benjamin is a poet and lecturer from Wales who currently resides in Budapest, where he lectures Indian Cultural Studies and Art History at a leading university.