Relevance

I grow impatient, I grow weary.
Each day I feel a gnawing
at me—as though clawing
on my confines are beasts
of impertinence. Nonetheless,
I tire. I tire easy, fast,
I cannot imagine Sisyphus
being replaced by the limp me.
I tire easy. I grow weary fast.
How can I scale your mountains?
I cannot, actually, I admit.
Each moment that I waste
a pleasure on my part, or is it?
At least I rid myself of it.
Of what, the burden? The turmoil?
The effort? The irrelevance?
It is, I conclude, irrelevant—
this intuition of mine. I feel
the gnawing at me. I cannot
force the tears out; these beasts
do not allow it, nor can I
force a sigh of unrest, as
these beasts would not suffer it.
What was irrelevant again? Oh, my
intuition! I stand corrected!

All is irrelevant!

To Clamp

The scent lingers – monggo
Is it Tuesday, I thought
To myself, my weary self,
Distraught self, downtrodden self
Self-pity, self-abnegated
Abnegation? I apologise
For the extravagance—

That is you, the stem
Of humongous bougainvillea
Without the city walls,
But which one?

That is you: a pearl hidden
Well inside a giant clam
As big as the car wherein
Clowns with their apprentices
Force themselves in for an audience.

I look down, I cannot even see it.