Your body sweating,
hands sliding down south, mouth following, breaths drowning ~
The radio had stopped long back, and
the static had mixed with
All in a dream, I wake up with
lingering smell of your
breasts. If the windows could open,
a thesis could have been written
But the world is saved, for now.
Sometimes the moon is too bright and near; that your eyes dazzle and blinden at the
The fish-trollers that roll with every passing wave of a grey river, swinging harricanes, islands of
A city within a city within a mind. And a thousand doctors in wait, like predators awaiting a baby gazelle;
The book they want to open is barely read.
Trying its hardest, the solo kite flew once from a brick house roof; it got stuck in the coconut leaves, and then somewhere else.
Who is singing at this time of the day?
We talk about utopia,
and then it breaks down in a fell sweep;
Skies wander around cities in
crimson-orange thoughts, and
all of it doesn’t
Boasting in your light, you
have forgotten the strands of flesh that
once made you human.
I had to be conjured
I’ll feed on your stories of thunder.
Your charlatan tales
of valor, creating you
but not you.
Read me in your legends.
I am the one who roams in fear,
creating grandeur out of
Bone and ashes under
a licorice sky;
Lust stamped with a smell of
Wilderness. My screams
How many bullets have you left,
Let me show you the way.
Drip. Drop. The darkness takes shape
like a building, or the sky – shifting
in between often. Lights and lives
twinkle into existence at their whim,
and then flee into ether.
Somewhere, a camera whirs
and grainy diaries are made
from whoosh-hushes at the Phoochkawallah,
dreams by a gray river, rickety trams
with nostlagia ; failed poets and cathedral bells
collide. A chime of untold stories
on an Empire State, a state of Empire~
Once, centuries ago, now
buried under slogans, curry draped
melancholy, mom’s food – vapid
relationships of body and a maggoty
mind, screaming for air,
breathing high, sniffing low, stifled
There was a time when we sang lullabies.
Artificial – be it, yet magically believable emotions
ran wild on our skins, in our
were eons ago. Now you and I
are just a mix of yellow wallpapers
and history books; the purpose lost, the intent
buried, the spark dead.
We are just timid memories, not asinine, not pungent
not the least repulsive. We are bubbles that forgot
to breathe unto air.
We are just a notion of us, of what was, and
what could never be.
Let the bionic hand that caresses a child be
more machine than motheresque. The eyes that
only see, doesn’t shine
be vermin and not
floating through our conscience – let them
drown in the black abyss
of the burning smell of
capacitors, resistors, transistors – silicon and steel.
The isolation, let it be
complete, man from himself, reveling
in things that he invented, but forgetting
what invented him.