the artist extols days past (with land carved onto the backs of men) by Prem Sylvester

there is a sun behind you  as hollow as the sound from  
  within your claims to the land it sets on        kranti weeps not within
the inward-tar outward-star        me      thrown ad nauseum   
  crunched    on crystallizing bone        on padlocked seats in the sky
you worship the glass house                on the grain hill
  when you ask me to consider             the abused do you consider
if they asked for your consideration before     detainment turned jail
  turned home turned old land     we know where we return but not
our place      here is a stage for all your mistakes       all your answers
  spliced from stories        only stories   not lives       not detritus
yellow-bellied applause the         food of the artist    not food enough
  for the artist's muse        or entrapment        a mirror reflecting
and swallowing               all at once an echo  and the chirp of a lovebird
  we dovetail to caricature dance only in the outlines
sing the discordant tune out of            the rattle of burning currency
  the pomegranate tree births blood      diamonds misophonic
on teeth that have naught to chew        digestion turned to mere ritual
  out of the theater we are lacquered     with our hands we feed no one