Entitled Dreams 101

Your body sweating,

hands sliding down south, mouth following, breaths drowning ~

The radio had stopped long back, and

the static had mixed with

moans.

All in a dream, I wake up with

lingering smell of your

breasts. If the windows could open,

a thesis could have been written

on desperation;

But the world is saved, for now.

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No cure for Loneliness

Sometimes the moon is too bright and near; that your eyes dazzle and blinden at the

same time.

The fish-trollers that roll with every passing wave of a grey river, swinging harricanes, islands of

memories.

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?

Wendigo

Boasting in your light, you

have forgotten the strands of flesh that

once made you human.

I had to be conjured

from broken

Memories.

 

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

carcasses.

 

Bone and ashes under

a licorice sky;

Lust stamped with a smell of

Wilderness. My screams

unrelinquished, yet

familiar.

 

How many bullets have you left,

Traveler?

Let me show you the way.

The hope of a city amidst pop art, cubism and neverending psychedelia

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

by undercurrents.

Distant Memories

There was a time when we sang lullabies.

Artificial – be it, yet magically believable emotions

ran wild on our skins, in our

hearts. Those

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’s just start by saying I’m partly human

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

vermilion.

Tethered echoes

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.