Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Knives

Too much history has been sewn into these
skins

fucking human leather

lovers, abortions, murders, suicides,
vomit, death, laughter, guns

I thought of being raped last night
wanted it with a morbid fascination
that made me think something is not
right with me

I haven't understood rape
Just like that lucky bystander at the back
who imagines life in parallel universes.

Hell

I think i'm a bored
girl
with deep deep tunnels of ennui in her
body

because the relief brought a soft disappointment with it
the disappointment of being alive
so easily

what kind of world do i live in that
makes me want to wash my hands
and touch things
compulsively
and want to remember the smile
of my ex-lover
on his bed

I
feel like
I
will
explode
one
day
unless i just melt away into some
gutter puddle across the road
and die
enormously
under some truck at the crossing
one truck
two truck
three truck
love struck
that is what it felt
i think
to love

to be raped and
then left to die
in the shame and guilt
of some one else's crime
like melodrama

hahahahaha
A fate tune
this
Melodrama
though God knows i deny it
and try to be cool
even though
im too suspended
for those kind of beliefs

i deny it.
why i do,

Let me tell you how-
a) with the full thrusts of my lips
b) with the smell of saliva on my wrists
c) with the way i rub my self all over the house
so the walls have a human odour
d) all of the above

***
i like being alone
with possibilities of someone watching
so that i can piss them off while i put on a show for them
even titillate maybe
show a little flesh here
and there
lick the mirror
crouch and dig my nose
maybe piss
and splash the room.
the sink
tiles
so that i feel alive

Meek Fantasies R US

Fuck I ask
Why don't I feel alive?
I must not remain
just this human girl
without her analities.
The artist needs a flux
i am no artist
but i am the flux
so some artist
come tell me
that you need me

extract this
bottle rim
out of me
the one that bargains with a cork
for space

Also,
Some afternoons
when swimming in nonchalance
I feel like
our words
have been
washed with the acid
of encoded love
so that butter and knives drip
fromthemallthetime
coming out like empty boxes
when you
walk past the door
to work
and
quick conversation tumbles out
from your dear nuances of horror

WORDS:
the ones that don't touch you anywhere
but your brain
turning into spools
of repetition
in a meat packing factory

Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.

See?
Perfect symmetry
The kind tombstones have
in mass graves.

Maybe I
what I
I what?
I really want to do
is to live no walk
(living is what I do)
in a world
where no one will ever tell me this
but just quietly suffer it
like me.

Suffering
is beautiful.

***

Im brain
brain
brain
brain
brain
brain
and
life
dead

See?
Perfect cemetery
The kind where people live
in mass numbers

Please tell this
to
those who come to
see me through
the glass
that
my eyes have juggled
too much hunger
in their dreams
and that I am
not the animal
I once was.


***

I knew this girl once
he said later.
"She wanted to be raped
and kissed.
often"

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Punches to Self.

No I cannot reveal tonight
my stings.

You will not know of my sigh, the pinch in my cheek.
Or the man in my latent dreams.

Shit.
Stars were carved out of my throat.
Pulled out, spinning mercury in the kitchen.

No you will not reveal
your hands to me.
Because their misery makes me sad.

My eyes cannot burn for you,
Toska.
t
t
t
t
t
osk
a
who was sold at the meat market.

Boy you loved another girl
Boy she loved you too.
Boy, why aren't you happy?

I've always put the finger on my lips.
Have I not?
I can become moist for you even
all hot breath and cotton panties
7 year-old innocence in my palms
and Toska written on my navel.
I had barley in my hair
when the ground grew dreams
We rode together, remember?
On afternoons that reminded us too
much of fate.

Boy,
Oi,
She says she'd jump for you into hot milk.

I on the other hand, speak to wolves.
and we
we and
and we
we and
we silently scan the miles.

I've cried with proper punctuations even,
in the bathrooms of my life.

No
You cannot know me,
I was born much later than language itself,
mute and deaf to planet roars.

Boy
Oi,
I have one regret.
though.

I never told you
that your chest
reminded of safe places.

She can't jump into safe places,
can she.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Familiar Blades

i give you four days
and i gave myself blades

gifts
hard thin gifts
that are newer
strangers
than
my own body.

slowly, like a thought
climbing through the pores
up the spine

i saw things
i saw blood
and the calm knowability of death
or what is before it.

i made soft slices

on my legs
gifts for my mother
she needs
to cry at night
and know that her daughter is still
that she cannot move

om my arms,
where the skin
is tender
hands
for the street to finally beg some life
into my life
into my death
because of an errant bus

on my waist
the womb, kept precious
for my molesters
for those creatures who seek
solace
in a woman's body
only so that
they may destroy it.


on my breasts
coloured peaks
a mother's flesh
to the butcher
so that the meat
is mixed with all other genders
and animals
that are otherwise owned
by the world
i am owned
my breasts were pawned
in childhood
to wolves
with human teeth


on my neck
that ordinary
curve
for my lover
to know
that he can rest
his sighs
and restless hands
and pure tongue
to soothe the
poisons that
his fairies fed him
my goodbye
is in the vein
that once was like stubborn lightning
aroused,
when he came close.

on my eyes
on my nose
on my ears
on my lips
slashes
appear like
the poet's despair.
Like Walt Curtis'
hopeless love.
They appear
like lyrical erasers
delicately lacing
the shapes
that were once living
once alive
in these
places


My mirror
never could tell me
about the girl
with unknowable skin.

Ah,
freedom,
my name never was
what it used to be.

Instead

My words
were always
familiar blades.

Friday, September 21, 2012

Soul For Sahib

Poets, what do they know?
they know nothing of the world.
They can only cry.

Sometimes,
they write in small places.
Tear paper and
their skin.
Talk to themselves in trains.
Cry in front of strangers.
And take your name.

Sahib
Sahib
Sahib

In small places they
stare at walls.
and wish to lose their voice.
Want to run away
and have no memory
of your hands.

***

Tell me Sahib,
How have we forgotten each other?
Do you remember my name?
The Levi's paper bag
is the only
evidence of your
smell.
Have i forgotten you?

I no longer know.
Because
There is no grave
that i can go to
for you.
Because you remain here
inside other cages
that are like the bones
in my body.
Because I have imagined all these stories
Sahib.
Because we were poets once.
You and I.
But you will never know,
Because poets, what do they know?
They know
nothing of the world.
They can only cry.
So sometimes,
I cried.

But now my sorrows have gone
And nothing makes them return.
Not even the fear of forgetting your name.

In this part of the world.
Kingdoms fall.
Sahib
So have we.





Touche.


Thursday, September 6, 2012

The Last One

There were wings we had
and history
you were a tragedy
and i was a nymph
you were small
and we were
regular lovers
but we loved
i loved

you
i dont know what it was
that you loved
maybe my body
or just my blood
but we loved
what is this kind of love
that is not love?

i was told tonight
carelessly
that i
have never known love
but i have i said
i have loved
the depth
of your smells
searched them in
people's clothes
their jaws
(they have never known
they are too wise
they do not know me
i am mad)
your nose-pin
i have dreamed of it
your pictures
i have cursed
i have also rubbed your
infidelities under my thighs
so that they always stay
with me
so that i never forget what love
tastes like
what love touches like
you have been salt
on nights
and catatonic gazes
on most
but you have been
these
i have loved you

i have loved only you
maybe i still do
maybe that is why
i feel empty
as if my houses
have slipped my name
as if i have no colour
in my skin
as if i have no eyes to
see the world

nothing moves me
nothing stills me
nothing reminds me
of the rains
nothing fills me with more poetry
than those words that come
back like
child Julys

I feel like i must know
no more
I must not love anymore
Oh but
i do not
my love has dried
it has decayed
and become
the gypsy of rust
my love will never exist
the way your
wisdoms could

you could charm a lesbian
they'd say
you could fuck men
they'd say
you didnt love me
they'd say
but what do they know
they know
nothing of unlove

you left with footsteps
and a jacket
and a fatal camera around your neck
but what do those things matter
nothing matters
like it did
when we agreed
to love

and now you say you
were sorry
you were blind?

fuck you
you have no right
to make me cry
fuck you
you have no right to
make me love
fuck you
you have no right
over me
and my sadness
fuck you
dear love


you were the last one.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

I & I

Blankness-
we visit in our own ways
I pay my dues with
silences
hanging
like wet clothes
in small houses.

When I open my legs
there is only a fixed
trembling in my fingers.
My shapes have shifted
and all my moods that
have been carved in natural anger,
ask me of my doubts.
I bind carnivals of sadness
to my ankles
and touch them often to know of reality

Not only this, i have forgotten to dream
and become beautiful.
There are tragedies on my mind and a fear of blindness.
My lungs are falling apart and I will
become still
with the loneliness of this aerial land

Bury me carefully
And let me wait.

I think touching is just an evasion of the inevitable.
let us ask the wind to make us cry



soon.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

The Civil Circus

My puppy.
There is sick butter
dripping down
these aisles.

Today I sat in my bell jar, and contemplated murders,
That cost the trespasser, his bi-polar
nerve.

My body negotiated the
most faithful
turns into absurd fires
while i lay in silence,
confused through mad nights
with clowns of all cities
and clowns of all clans
and clowns of all languages
and clowns from all lust-beds
wanting to rip my eyelashes 

I was a queen even then
A defeated one.
I was a courtesan of windows
I was the goddess of tongues
I am
I was

I am
Night

The thought shifts and declines
down
this very digestive tract

All my men
and clowns have receded
Only you remain puppy.
Only you will lick my wounds
when i will be slaughtered
And I will be minced
And I will be eaten
alive with the philosophy of
men and their
horrible beauty

You will wait to become
the soft angel
of my deathfulness again
You will be careful with my hair
and you will cover my nakedness
from gone head to gone toe
And you will sit with me
with your errant paws
whimpering with sadness

Oh puppy.
You are great.

Maybe
You will forget me
And that will do.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Such Goodbyes

We have been lovers
yes i have kissed you
even though, i do not know you

my words have eaten through
the gaze
my words have reached places
my words have held you
and 
my eyes have seen your bed

my hands have touched your chest
my breath has warmed your ear
and i have stood by your hips
and spoken to you of poets

in your kitchen,
you have taken my name
though you do not know it
when you walk
you think of me
when you fuck
you think of me
when you love you think of me

you have never seen me
and i have never wrapped your bedsheets upon my chest
but i have lain there
naked with you
i have dreamt with you

i have been your vision
i have been a dream
a mirror
i have been things
in your room

i have been your anger
and the salt on your chin
when you shook
on steady nights

i am your stranger
and your woman
i am your theater
of the world
and your disdain

i am  the madame
the whore
and the saint
i am desire
and a gaunt dizziness
that grips you
namelessly

i am your occurrence
when food pales
in your throat
i have gripped you
helplessly

and you have sat by me
as these events
have unfolded
you have seen me
unclothed


i have held your head,
your chest,
and your lips,
to mine

and i have taken you with me
inside me
outside me
i have moaned to you
and have soothed you


you have been several strangers
and so have i
but both of us have never moved
away or near

we will always be incomplete
you and i

so
dont talk about me
to your walls
your chest will collapse

dont think of me
in your chairs
you eyes will swell

now
my masters have changed
dear love
now
i am a secret

your postcard arrived
last evening
and i did not cry
i only placed
your words
under my bed
to never be uncovered

i must punish you
for this sort of love

Do not
take my name
again

Remember this,
you do not know it.

Sycophant of the Grotto

I make nightmares
with the palms of my hands
place them over my eyes
and carry them like
totems

I carry them like freedoms
that are violent
i carry them like
futures
that do not exist

I carry them like
my children
that will die

I carry them,
sure of their nudity
and sure of their
stubborn
rise into my
stomach

the way a man's
kiss pollutes my gender.

I carry many deserts
and many lips
that stay frozen
on nights
falling
into moon-rises.

i carry my ego
with clusters of sugar
and borrowed guilt
to drown them
slowly in bathing water

I fuss over
things that
have broken previously
and are under the arrest
of public gaze

But I persist in carrying
things silently
even as my nightmares
make me ill

They have eaten through my palms
since sometime

I think i must wash these
things from
my routine.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Assumptions

Creature with
fore arms
made of  sad gold
that are kissable. Just.
And barely hidden.
His arms-crisp lines
of augmented reality.

He moves
with uncomfortable grace.
Like a childish gust
of shy fingers.
Woman's mouth-
biting
anxiety,
and chewing,
sadness.

Stares sharp and dark
into a melting world.
Gone from my lap
My talk.
My arms.
My body.
My waist.
As easily,
as he lay over them.

Carrier of death in his brows.
Furrowed
image
of wanting.

Sexual in his desires,
and man's eyes.
Poppy
of female circles and triangles
between the legs.

Is soft in sleep,
and warm under moon coloured-sheets,
night in his hair,
on his torso.
Slender neck
that fits heads perfectly

Cannot hear me crying at night,
because of wild dreams
and pedestals that have formed him.

Moody fingers
sometimes.
And perfect forehead for smoking.
Lets loose
in full laughters
that are aching with
the words of birth.

Glad teeth,
that open generous
to all beings
and noises
and are sometimes scared.

Silent eyes
that fill mountains
with gut
and brine.
And
the fear
that they may
undo
your






happiness
all over again.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

To Master With Regret

Master

Tonight I write to you

[The rains have formed fireworks on the roof.
The soothing shadows
of fat raindrops
and addictive love
loom in the windows.

I am a textbook page,
imprinted upon your slender body.
Your mouth hung open then.

You were lying broken,
from all the lying.
You whispered secrets,
you wanted to forget
in my ear]

Remember?

How can you live with yourself master?
How can you?

Do you know that I have been hunting?
Hunting for you across these mountains?

I have been hunting for your pages of poetry
in the streets
for your Navajo ear-ring in the lupine mischief of boys' ears?
Your voice, full of anger and dreams
You, sitting cross-legged on a stranger's bed.
For your un-made films made of music and people's feet and dumb girls who like to fuck.

I am you.
I have become you.
To know your poisons,
and to know you.
I have become you.
To see what you often told me of,
sitting with your hair soaked in an escapist fantasy.

Your mouth could never hold mine,
Neither could your hands.
But, they hold the sickness of love.
Why master?
Why are you?
The holy whore?
So profane?
So unpure?

You are unpure.
But you were mine.
You can deny the rituals,
You can deny our beds,
You may even deny,
the history of our hands,
sewn together at night.
But your truth, is illusion
and mine is full of truth.
Your words are gone,
but mine are here.

Master, you were sprung forth
from the womb of dementia.
You were born of regrets.
You were born of high tides,
that drown Echoes.
You were born.
And now you have died.

How can you live with yourself master?
How can you?

Tell me of my goose-bumps.
Tell me of loss.
You charted it across my skin.
You signed it with your hands.
You sealed it with your poetry.

But your pictures?
Where are they now?
Where are the colours of your songs,
the scars on your hands?

The old meat in your heart?

I am a piece of the fate-machine.
I am a slave in the scheme of karma.
But i am also a girl,
Who has loved your shades of melancholy,
Who has worshiped your black hair,
Who has plucked your smell,
Who has kissed your cheek,
and breathed on your stomach,
in shyness.

Do those girls,
cry into your shirt?
Do they send you diaries?
Do they go mad for your grief?
Do they kiss you through the computer screen?
And write poetry about your smile?
Do they love you, like I did?

Master I have become a widow.
I see your mind in every mind
I hear your whispers in every mouth
I see your darkness in every being
I am afraid
I am afraid
I am so afraid

I fear my love
for you
I fear my love
with you
I fear my love
of you

You have died
But I have too
I have become the holder of dreams
I have become the holder of rains

It is July,
and it often reminds me of your
gate that skinned my thighs.
The banyan tree,
with its ancient ghosts.
The wet walls,
with their smell of the earth.
Your warm body,
with its,
many fires.
Your darkness,
so cold.

Master, you have corrupted
love.
Master you have undone love
Master you have sent love into therapy,
into suicide,
into starvation,
into derangement,
into paranoia,
into an asylum of the mind.

Mater you have broken love,
With the truth that set it not free,
but falling to the ground.

I am love, master.
I have been love.


How can you live with yourself?
How can you?

But you live with me master.
Even in death you live with me.
You live in the blank spaces,
That have forgotten the light
in my love.

Tonight master,
I write to you-




With regret.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

Hibiscus

Stupid thing with fishbones for a head.
Have you not heard the priest say this before?
Have you not heard them preach to you?
Have you not been defiled sadly enough?

You have most often been seen with fireworks,
in your shoes.
You have often had a rough throat
from all that crying.
You have often danced with your walls,
afraid of freedom.

Now, how can you sit here?
In this land of skies,
and white moons.
And pray to be loved by hearts that are not yours?
Your priest is fed up of you

He says you must be sent to the asylum,
He says that God cannot cure you.
Only death can

Sit with me and I will tell you a story-
Of children who flew at night,
with hibiscus in their hair.
They spoke of a well,
near the side-walk of a cliff-road.
Where hang holy people,
by their collars.

Sit under those collars, and drink from the well.
And you will forever be at peace.

The well had been poisoned,
long ago.



Baby.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Lovers That Undress

My lovers undressed me with their eyes
on the streets
In cafes
In the shops
In the faint mist
of mountain air

Searching for answers in my hair,
the curve of my waist
or the shape of my thighs.

One touched my cheek softly,
in worship,
as if tracing my wheatish belly,
with his bare hands.
He was beautiful.
One stared as if,
my eyes revealed the,
soft swell over my breasts,
and all it's-
Woman's textures.
The knotted nomad,
with his porcelain
jaw-line
smiled
as if we were
bodies,
and cocoons.
The one,
with the shy eyebrows,
stole,
secrets out of my words,
wrapping them,
with his,
breath,
at another table.

But the blacks i carry,
would never unravel,
in their fingers.


I felt nothing.
Nothing then.
Only polite discomfort,
because of,
body politics.

My mind,
only gathered the storm,
to my lips.
Which froze.
Smiling,
and
bare.

Where can i carry my legs?
Where can i unfurl my thighs?
Where can i join my hands?
to soothe,
my aching,
ciphers?

A mad war rages,
across my skin.
Because I cannot cry.
A mad war is made,
across my skin.
Because I am silent.

These mountains cannot ever,
hold the truth of my mistakes.
These mountains will never,
move,
with my war-cry.

I will be drunk
again with words.
A full mother-superior again.
I will birth sorrow out of
the sockets,
and cafe-contained
body language.
I will become,
a mild creature.
At once quiet,
and sheer.

Do not cover me,
with your art.
Do not weave me,
into your poetry.
Do not touch me with,
hunger in your words.
Only sit with me,
kind, and open.
Only kiss me with truth.
I am not a muse.
I am not a body.
I am not a mind.
Just a girl.
With prayers roaming in my soul.










The gentleman
is
a perfect animal.

Poetic Justice

I let the bile churn in my stomach
shivers, like waves of hunters
carried rhythms in my body

I slept less
just to forget my dream
I slept less
to form poetry,
with the innards of my mind.
Gutting all purity
and making me a lover

Black curtains
fell across
my eyes
as i lay in bed,
a comma.
A fetal curve of
desire and sorrow.

A slow fever
sharpened its edges upon my neck
and stomach.

She had said
WOMANIZER
WOMANIZER
WOMANIZER

poetry
poetry
poetry

Fucking
Fucking
Fucking

Through beds
Through photographs
Through myths
Through stories
Through words
Through muses
Through snakes
Through folklore
Through dreams
Through women
Through RED

Just fucking

and much else

I did not have enough skin
to collect my misery.
I did not have enough tongues
to cut between my teeth.
I did not have enough
of a woman within me,
to stop my,
wandering denial.

And so i hurtled
and stumbled
through dry heaves
of the mind.

Cut open
myself
and lay quietly
for the jaws to cool.

***

It is 5 am and I want to vomit
with the sheer contour of my nausea

She speaks the truth.
Her truth,
has pierced my belly often.
Her truth has saved me often.
But today it makes me shiver

They say crying is therapeutic.
But,
the language has fled me.

I have an unfortunate heart.

I fall in love
With minds.
Often

Friday, May 4, 2012

Imaginary Friends And Gentlemen

Oh but sir, yes i do remember. Oh but sir, I if i do say so myself. Oh sir, dearest thief. You are the muse. You are the thickness of the tears. You are the dismembered chameleon. And to you i dedicate my faithful life. And to you i dedicate my nights. And for you I have said all these things. For you I have been all these beings.
For you.

Pardon me and the anal heart sir. We have a tendency to be wild slaves. I hope you are well and think of all those things unwritten. You are cold and child-like.You are boyish and wise. You remain untouched. Unlike the mindlessness in my days.I hope your breath is satisfied. Say hello to the other lovers. And most of all, kiss yourself for me.

Someone told me,
that i am no more
Someone told me,
that i am a goddess
Someone told me,
that i am in love.
Someone told me,
that i must become a good girl.
Someone told me,
that they saw you.
I'd like to borrow their eyes.

I have woken up like this.
Most days.

Dear lover
muse
god
of my sleep
Fuck you.

I cannot cry.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Those Who Love Me Can Take The Train

Yes
under the night
hanging like bus handles
We became heavy.
Yes.

We became heartless
Yes.
All because we liked our Gods a little miserable?
We have such delicate throats
That one can see through their narcotic belongingness.

We cry blood oceans and artery murders to the voiceless night,
but all we hear is the universe resound with the neon galaxies of fat hearts

Our lifeness contracts like spun jellyfish
over the bend of the world's elbow
Because
yes
because we were rendered
impoverished by the realities of
footpaths
film photographs
braindust
(Really,
father?)
hammers
mint candies
cheap underwear
and
liar's fingers.

And so
Tonight, for all the damnworldtosee
we pirouette in our twin blouses.

HEREIN LIES THE MAD RUMOUR OF GRACE
1989- 1989
R.I.P.

Prime Ordeal

I have a need to tell you,
that you are my rumour
that swells
like the 4th rib
in the cage
when i breathe

When i sat covered
with the platonic threads of my bedsheet,
your head appeared
near my chest.
And your hair stood bowed in my hands
while mine stood at its end.

I only want to see you in a selfish way.
With eyes fixed upon your mouth.
Immaculate.
Simultaneously
usurping your fondness for my earlobes.
You like their softness.

I've never known a body in all its fire.
But i rake it with other worlds.
And i suspend your eyes and their swift lust
with
my own waiting duskiness in the spine,
and arches of the back

Do you see my thighs?
My navel could be unknotted with your fingers. With paused pressure.

But i prefer that we remain impure
That i never kiss you and that your careless stubble
like other things childish about you, linger in my house.

I go mad when it rains.
It's a soft madness.
Because I sink with wet sorrows
Of almost- mouths and jumbled words
that i have never known.

I rub mirrors and walls
with my lips.
Leave my traces
anonymously.
Become incoherent because of the world's hard texture
that
cannot
become
your
skin

I only part my ribcage
when your name arrives.
Otherwise, i let my warmth
sleep with your voice elsewhere in my head.
Open me someday.



You'll know then.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

All Those Who Wander Are Lost

The pistols they affect all the women and children and men and non-children. They collected them like individual pages. And they filled their pockets with such applause for it, that any disagreement would be astounding in it's capabilities of coherence. I wished for la petit mort as well. Standing right there, i wished, for my hands, legs and chin to be elsewhere. So that i may quietly sadden myself with the world's idea of beauty. I was so restless. My revolution was restless. But the restlessness came from suffering. One suffering was that i knew nothing of revolutions. Another was that i knew nothing of myself. And another still, unidentified suffering lurked. Which made my sadness multiply like the continuous wingspans of a fly. That i could not care for the whole world at the same time and build fierce, staggering goddammit epiphanies with which to layer my romance with revolutions, depressed me. I have always been fickle. I remember being lost. Always. And i remember staging it often, so that I may learn to live with my lostness, like one lives with the fondness for shoes or a long-standing illness. My lostness, often created an automatic sympathy. It elevated my sense of the current self. It was enough. 

Saturday, March 31, 2012

The Stars Walk Backward

The
bitter beauty
of a falsetto day,
branded with
the tusks of absurdity,
gathers its guests
for its arsenal of flies.

The garden unfurls itself in the honour,
of each colour's tribe and origin of unselfish
bearing.

Pariahs and mad saints
all gather forth,
to drink from the saliva,
of tarnished brass rituals-

too cold and crass and murdered from last night's hell.

The world sinks itself into the wisdom,
of careful observation,
and
metallic hopelessness
-of every street urchin's worn out lace-dreams.

Specially when, human meat is packaged into eloquent metaphors of war casualty and degeneration of collective "consciousness",
I tremble brown and flaky.
A little hungry and split headached.
Churning, into a self cannibalizing vortex.

Becoming soft and incoherent
and slight and flighted.

At times,
I tremble for the melted pain in deep-set eyes,
the colour of Bombay black.

I feel
small
and ill at the altar of
the backdoor tide.

So enraged
and divided.
Emasculated
and partitioned thereafter;

by the private game of civilized society
that everyone seems to play.

Once I saw chaos in the sky of my dream.
Once i saw the hurricane of death fornicating.
Once I saw the coal of ambition burn.
through my shins.

And
split
me
endlessly
into
strips
of
technicoloured
nausea.

Where are the stars we were
promised
?

Friday, March 16, 2012

Husk And Raw Lips

The years will cough with grime...
And your face in its beauty will remain.
You will remain.
Your mustache.
Scars.
Lips like subtle beaks.
Your fingernails...
Gentle-
All of them.
The rough pores of your skin.
Your water-eyes.
The raw human-colour
of your lips.
Your soft hair,
covering the belly.
Brown arms,
the colour of beaten husk.
Sadness,
never bought,
but slipped into the ear.
Slowly, secretly,
as if on cue.
Your bones.
Malignant with a shudder.
The neck bent and broken
sideways-
Into the breast of a lover.
In the center of the almond skin,
blowing soft anger
on the texture of her rib.
Intersecting your heart and meridians
of loss,
into the sheets.
Into the muscle of the afternoon.
When summer yawns
translucent
lids of light
into your thigh
and mine.

The backs of my knees
become paper,
with barren warmth.
And salt erupts
under my soles.
My knees
uncurl,
sane.
But lift
like wings
separating
from the sinews
of shape.

I will hold you here
sexual and breathing.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Human Angels

Today i saw human angels
stoic
and anxious:
"kuch bhi kharcha chalega
kisi ne uda diya isko.
Bas aap theek kardo"


I saw
The kitten
bleeding from the mouth
because
it was hit by a motorcyclist


I saw it eject shit and blood
I saw the breath
Saw the
rhythmic
gulps of death


surely some regular,
ordinary chap
going to meet his girlfriend,
or delivering a diamond
on his boss' instruction
to BKC
It must have been.


surely some regular,
ordinary chap
ordinarily hitting a stray kitten,
a stray piece of meat,
on the street.
It must have been


"Saale non-vegetarians!
Saale zaalim! sab ke sab."


surely some regular
ordinary chap
who uncle God
(or some such type of power)
will let him know of this
when his own child
is hit by that bus
and bleeding from the mouth
Surely?


"Beyrehem hain sab saale.
Kin kin ko samjhaaogey?"


I sobbed only so much.
Only as much as i could
in time
with that
kitten bleeding from the mouth
because
it was hit by a motorcyclist


The human angels were non-vegetarians.
The human angels were motorcyclists.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Lobotomy

Philosphy
(i hear)
and all the queens of the fucking kindom are stale
(i eat)
with my eyes watering
(i dream)
with them epileptic

The death and surprising pop
of each sound has faded understandably
and all the talk has gone loose
I am so much at loss for words
even
that the damn mouth is a succubus
now
for former truths

Damn this night
and all its perplexed ends,
frayed to dirty blood-dipped bits.
Damn this living world
and it's miscreants.
And tell those bones
what use are they?
When they only like galivanting about town.
Skeletal anarchy hanging from
ivory stains.
Almost uncovering the nude flesh .

I'd want halos
for my jars
and turmeric for my throat,
but then i must question,
without hot-tub-thought-bombs,
what is the future?
Distant?
or bold?

Maybe even
dangling,
like sharp keys,
bunched.
Huddling,
like 7 year old children.
When it rains on a cold day.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Memories of July

The certain crumbling towers
of a whisper
Sweeping across tonight's skyline
Circled with bored clouds
almost sweating with rain
and a primordial
sound and what not
of all your godliness
trespasses
on feet
blades of grass
and your notebook

Your hands tightly sewn with clusters
of brilliance,
Relinquish their hold
to see the moths
all flitting
in frenzy
and daylight
sabbath
of timeless carousels whirling in a prosperous time.

And i miss you
I have
I will
and only some void of dreary
coagulation
knows
How black it has been without my eyes seeing
the pores of skin
and the corners of your eyelids.