Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Human Angels

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

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

I saw it eject shit and blood
I saw the breath
Saw the
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

"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
it was hit by a motorcyclist

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

Saturday, February 11, 2012


(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
that the damn mouth is a succubus
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?
or bold?

Maybe even
like sharp keys,
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
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
of timeless carousels whirling in a prosperous time.

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