sexual epiphany

there is no sense of humour
as long as there's repression

and right now
all is repressed;

trying to make a flower bloom
between an iron and a tabletop.

recursion

what happens when two mirrors look into each other?

happiness

is born out of happiness

and joy multiplies to fill up quiet corners.

dimensions as yet undiscovered

begin to murmur numbers

as infinity learns to count itself.

grabbing life by the ass when you think you're holding it by the face

all my initiations into love
shut down at the door
of self loathing.

the fall

last night
the headquarters of pain
shot me messages

i transmitted screams
that taught me of the life
i'd forgotten i had
on the right edge of my left foot

when i fell off my scooter last week
i hadn't intended on falling right into the hands of doctors

now i will be pissing purple stains of
antibiotics

anti-biotic
what does that mean

how did we come to
equate
being anti-life to being healed

how did we figure out
a way to survive
by squeezing life
within this uncomfortable paradox

last night
i screamed through my sleep
tonight
i will be sleeping into oblivion

silencing
once again
the life lurking inside of me

there is hope though
isn't there
that some day
having learnt my lesson
i will wake up to
the sum of infinite
ordinary things
inside me
that await being acknowledged
even without the pain

way across the universe

it's harvest season
on planet poetry
the moon a-full
the stars a-gazing
the genius a-drizzling
on you

you with pointed finger
scrawling
word
after
word
after
word

gifted stranger
you paint the world a-new

it's abundance season
on planet audience
the blood a-gushing
the heart a-beating
the smile a-spreading
across my face

if you heard all the cheering and clapping
on this side
you'd know how well it complements
the music in your words.

dear milk

one of these days
i will dedicate
one of these
to you

be water (v)

be water
stand upright
with pointed shoulders
flaring up at the sky
be firm
and crystalline

be cold
and white
breathing out vapour
deflecting light

be water
not the sweat
we will need to
wipe from the earth's brow

be water
but be the
kind
that's ice

-

the ominous gloom
in the clarity of water as ice 
melts in the warmth of my hand

remembering (ii)

where memories are vivid
and sparkle with a blueness
that spells out eternity
on a songbird's tail

to forget
is to find a way to survive

remembering (i)

memory like a suitcase with limited storage space

I find myself trampling all over old memories to make
space for new ones.

take this

in justice, there is infinite violence.

always, my nails screech

"It's. Not. Fair!"

as they claw their way across the wall.

always the wall
a wall

justice is the impatience of an uncouth lout
as he turns away from the mirror
to point a finger at a world
that no longer includes himself.

i turn away from the mirror
to point a finger at a world
that no longer includes myself.


i no longer include myself
i myself


"You. Ruined. Me!"

but justice is fueled by
the illusion
that anger placates sorrow.

justice is fuel
justice fuels


"Fire. Fire. Fire!"

you rub against justice any longer
you'll watch yourself burn
and fade into ashes of
regret.

saathi lai nimantrana

saathi!

you are invited
to come and share
to come and be
together

amidst
tea and biscuits
munching and crunching
phooing and sipping

amidst
our desire
of creating and destroying
and meddling forever with the alchemy of the universe

and amidst
all the talking, talking, talking left to do

you are invited
to come spend the whole day here

so we can finally make bread together!

and hopefully, even in a country like ours,
God will be kind enough and say, "Let there be light."

and there will be light
so that all the ovenwork will be completed on time

and in that bread, wont we also put
a secret ingredient -
that same stuff that hearts are made of?

only, when we break the bread
and put it in our mouths
broken hearts will melt and heal
chewing mouths will dance and squeal
merry bodies will twirl and kneel
mended hearts will begin to feel

i miss your presence, saathi

can't wait! can't wait!

song of the queen of the night (in progress)

the queen of the night is here too
in my backyard
blistering with flowers

along with her fragrance
escapes a whispery song
called "Nostalgia"

which goes more or less like this -

"In me is a longing
to bloom beside your river
the water crushing against the rocks
the rocks nestled against each other
the path next to the river
those stone walled cottages
with golden light glistening outwards
and people inside them
with golden light glistening inwards.

Inhaling through their snouts
people intercept my message to you
and keep it in their hearts.

The fragrance dissipates before it reaches you
but in me are tightly knotted memories
that I let loose
every night
when the world goes dark.

In darkness, I like to bloom the best
In darkness, I can be honest
In darkness, my heart is free
to revel in your memory.

I hope my yearning to reach you
will reach you someday

I hope my longing to be with you
will come true one day."

walking away from her
i lose contact with what she sings
but in me trails along a melody
(is it mine or hers this time)
it echoes, "Take me back there, take me back there"

the roar of a wave could drown the whole word

all day, beating my head, my fingertips
copywriting for a corporate company

the only voices i hear in my head
repeat the same drab chorus

"Never again! Never again!"

what it amounts to is

copywriting means to copy writing

yeta bata chorne, uta bata chorne, 
ali ali taaltool garepachhi ready!

selling products with unique selling points
in recycled packaging

but even when i write from the heart
always, always
all i seem to do is

yeta bata chorne, uta bata chorne

selling personal experiences
in public vocabulary

borrowing from others who penned down things that resist being worded
depending, gleefully, on their experience, their courage
their sheer stupidity at attempting the impossible

like this song by Bob Dylan

this song; a hard rain that's a fallin' on my being
beating, beating
attacking the length of my spine
and my heart
waking up goosebumps all through my skin
before my head can make any sense of it.

my insides are itching with a strong drive to write
what is true.

what is true
mostly
plunges in and out of silence.

words, words, when will you be ready to wear my story?