Stoned words

Often these words, which I hold like
A proud patriot, start becoming like us. They
Also become conditioned to our erratic demands...
They too demand from me a passport from flying page to page..
Coloring images or swerving in ink. Eroding nightmares or
Blemishing walls with crazy doodles.
So, they too should get stoned once
And let their fragile cords flail over the rooms as they
Elongate like amoebas blown into balloons..
They start forgetting what they really mean and just deluge
The poets with a relentless rant of existence and get drunk
On moldy tattered pages, sniff the aloe paste smeared
On women in Prakrit poems and bring me a world closer
To the legendary romances of Gods.
You can choose to be Apollo or Zeus Or Vishnu.
I always was Parvati...
These words have wet mouths.....they crave more water.
They have fully functioning brains...
I hustle smoke into tiny packets and all the
Words on your face seem a little relaxed.

Pecos

There is a permanent (beautiful) odor that
Slings Pecos whenever you enter through the
Wise old green door that embraces people with a smiling
Flit of beer pitchers and juggle of popcorn on a distant, dark table...
Where voices jangle like invisible trinkets and you wish to
Find the source of this myth. This magic that suddenly rips
You when you are inebriated on the fifth time they played Dylan..
They nicotine-ized nostrils with train of smokers lodged on the staircase....
You smile back at Bob Marley imposed on the ghoulish wall and it’s innocent
Rapture..
The creaking wooden table
And our eulogized nostalgia..
The colors, people and voices continue
To jazz in eyes. Like a monochrome picture clouded into vision.
The door rolls open and its one more of us...
In the yearning of beer
And the shelter of dark tables....

MYSTERY VIGNETTE

Mystified
You sit with a post coital cigarette and write everything dirty with the whirling smoke..
Draw phallus es with magical heads and little pounding hearts
That would immerse themselves in poetry and not just anal pods..
Or jump at it like a discounted product because it suddenly shines
In the dark with tags of sweat. Swear.
Dirty, dirty.....
You build globules of grimy, lascivious stories
And crane them on breasts the next to you meet a man..
But it’s the cigarette to blame for all the sex that ink consumes..
It’s this someone there, crept well beneath within, to fill in something..
To make more meaning than the ritualistic words..and see things apart
From what eyes derive...and use something more lubricating
Than spit.
Use green apple condoms
And abbreviate the used wrappers in solitary dust bins.

FEAR OF MORNING

Light
That spreads over the room like a screeching phantom
Every morning, recovers my mutilated words and leaking books.
Recuperates a history of excessive talking and works on the sewing of silence.
Finds myths and surreal foam, scent of sea salt and a pinch of hilly whiff
Tucked neatly in my brows. Lifts the thoughts of love with
The brightest granule and the drops it again..
In the laces of foot marks and soggy biscuits
On the tray....
Doors bang. Clocks melt with heat...

SWEATING SAND

Thar’s sand dunes have
Hot bubbles of venom in its loins...
These are secreted with the spools of moonlit sweat
That dances down the forehead of a snake charmer, his
Legs curled like his pythons over his mistress...the polished
Silver of her cunt intoxicated with his sighs.
He has the scepter of
The desert in hand.
A hissing lizard and the stemmed brown, powdered
In his eyes. She smells the stories he carries through Udaipur and Ajmer,
Through the chilly incensed bazaars of Jodhpur. The insidiously masqueraded
Roads to Makrana, where once Mirabai flowered her madness for Krishna
And the honking of drunken trucks racing down to unknown towns. He has crept
Abundant tales in his one tepid breath...coated them with his dramatic zeal.
She rummages for some more granules of soil on his face, the scattered atlas of
Sun’s heat which has half marooned with dehydration...
She pours pots of water on his body, sluicing him in dreams of
Cool river jungles and immensity of her breasts. The aroma of wet leaves, pine wood..whorled
In her nipples..
He has to smell, he has to drink the flavored milks she boils.
The leaking run of her greed that he serves religiously, jamming
One, two, three fingers at once..raising her body
Like a grove of lilies stormed by winds. Her wrists breaking down like mud...waiting for more of him.
And she comes whirling down to the loins that generate the venom in Thar.
It is her man, she knows..
The snake charmer with ganja and cobras..Who breeds the thirst
She wrestles all day. It is the mirrored lakes on his member, splashing rivers into her...
The
Irrepressible vigor of his tongue that slithers like Shiva tasting Parvati...
Take away my bangles, take away everything.....she hollers
Repeatedly.....but just stay with me...
Paint my world with your candor, the sweetness of your touch. Let me be filled.
Don’t leave me thirsty in these sand dunes.....
I am too weak to resist this poison.

In my city

In my city, I have forgotten what it is like to
Call it mine...

The ancient fortress skirted over the skyline, glimmer
Mirrors in the moonlight. They leak some of their radiance down to the
Urban mad child in her lap and I, one of her patients...
Soak in the stories I heard in school. The rhymes of mighty queens
Who wandered through Rajasthan’s desert to find the sparkling gems..
The sages, the mystics, who never spoke to me...
Lay curled in their secluded erotica. The epics
Written on the Peepal leaves, woven with confusions...
These legends, the folk tales. The masqueraded beggars.
The dance of poverty stricken hijras

At the stroke of twelve, the alcoholic murder of an innocent mother.
The gothic silence of the city at night, the crickets from house gardens
And the roar of televisions in the tiny apartments.
The jarring tractors, the tumult of school life.
You will love this city, whispers an old woman. But what does she know about
My love’s vision? My barometer of loving.


A man? Who despises my touch and dons a fake mask.
A friend? Whose life is now seemingly a suicidal drama...
A dead poet? With whom I fumble
In nightly hours, lined in a perfect synchrony.
There is nothing that I have learned about any city in these nineteen years.
There is nothing I have felt that resembled love or its smoke...
I don’t know Jaipur. The city I am supposed to call mine.
I regret.
I won’t even know Bangalore. The city I crave to call mine.
I regret.

So my excuse is the post modern confusion and the sensational overload...
(Some more intellectual bull crap)
And that is all what I hold on to now.

This city is a witch of dream neurosis.
This city
Is a scheming middle class mother, straight out of the soap operas...
She spends her days in luxurious loafing and with dreams of
Settling in the US. It has turned into sweet vicious cage of
Countless foreign education institutions and “Learn English”
Offices. All I hear is chanting of money machine. Humming
Of laptops busy in stock sharing, its users masturbating
Afternoons with Katrina Kaif and bad clones of Angelina Jolie...
Couples

Decaying with their energies, they discuss money even in the bed.
They make children with planning...
They use expensive, specially engineered condoms
Because they have forgotten what it is really like to fuck..
This city has imbibed its mad children’s flavor. It swallows the gin
Of its ruins, its old heritage. The stumbling wraiths of Hawa Mahal, the
Magical birds guarding the windows of broken palaces..
But there is nobody to savor the dance of loss. We all have
Relinquished the battle long time back. We are terribly comfortable
With losses..and that is what I have learned too.
We have become accustomed to drab lectures of non violence
And then delighting the street brawls. Confiscation of a prostitute’s earning, her rape
In police stations....After the same constables have drooled over her cunt
And licked it like melting icicles. So which part of the city
Am I supposed to call mine? And start learning it?
The more I learn, the more I forget. The more they talk,
The more meaningless they become.

City
Is a glorified corpse of a thousand dreams and I am just one of them.
One of the dreams which are sold at the lemonade cart by
A fifteen year old boy who wants to be like Brad Pitt.
A city..lost in its own translation.

Missing shadow

Today suddenly I am reminded of you
And what I do title you as? A lost friend?
Dead God?
A delusion-ed mother?
And perhaps this delirium made us the insane souls
we were together.
In drunken stupor, we delegated
our future plans carefully sewing
them with our wavering tone.
Remember?
Our hands were perpetually glued. My fingertips
flashed your caress.. and we were gleaming
in our mystic spool. Someone called it
subliminal sex and we giggled under our breath
Our words still anchored with each other.
But it all changed....
So dramatically, that I cant even recognize you.
I cant lick the tender sweetness of your
curvy silhouette. I cant trace your babbling down the
streets at night...
Dear love.
We are now a city ravaged
by a tsunami. Our monuments have been devastated.
Even our wind is pungent now
Is it the flesh of our dreams decaying? Or the burning fetuses I once dreamt of?
It is pouring today and you are silently away...
You have just stopped talking
And that makes me wonder, If you ever talked. If we ever met.
If I ever wrote.

UNTITLED

My grandmother cooks the most delicious kheer
Garnished with nuts and cashews. Fragile lacing of her
Childhood songs traced along in its cooking.
She hums lullabies, pushing pins in her impeccable jooda.
The coiffed white strands, grounded with the soap essence.
I come from Pindi, she tells me and hands over
Her old black and white pictures. She, draped in
A plain white dupatta and her pearls placed
Calculably right. Right over her v-neck kurta.

I am an emotionally deranged person sometimes. Over dramatic. Over surreptitious ..sometimes.
So I ask her, if she laments loosing
Her entire world in one night.
What was India , is Pakistan now. What was youth, is a puckered dough now
What were the strands of pearls, is a map of wrinkled sacs.
Her voice is still the melodious tone, although
Highly moderated by her sighs.
But she never replies to me and says she has always been like this..
She has always been ready to suspend her childhood
In a frozen haze. She has always lost her lovers in
Tickets to chastity. She has always raised grandchildren and helped
Them in home works.
So when finally she finds a little nook for herself...
She wails with her London settled sisters and celebrates the decay on phone. All alone.

CONDUCTION

You come around with me
Everyday equipped with your tools of infection.
The schoolboy smile of
A fluffy innocence, brimming inside
A body of a young man. The tussling tan of your
Perfectly chiselled chest and my favourite, the microscopic
Hair matted over your nipples.
You smell impeccable.
But i know you have been rinsed in marijuana mist
Thinking you were the ultimate saint and dosed on your
Staple of rock music. Just few minutes before hugging me
You were arrested in surreal orgasms with the girl you love. She
Too comes now days with you, moving her snake like waist.
And you don’t need to speak ...because i see your saliva
Luxuriating her canal. Oaring currents of envy.
Till now, I have just been bored about having a dick
But after seeing her, my craving to arch a vagina grows more insane.
Touch me and my skin pores are seething like boilers...
I will carve it out tonight.
I will make it artistically with scented drum sticks. Sprinkle vermillion
And violets..you will see concentric lights.
Ultra white and luscious pinks. I shall sail to you
With pious waters from Kailash. Satchel full of Kailash’s leaves.
Smoke, grind and spit...
For the vagina I will architect tonight.

NIGHTLY ROAD

What conversations did we have..
In the sleepless stupor, ambling up and down
The nightly roads. The abandoned lamp posts
Salivate some of their glow over our distanced silhouettes.
Nothing binds us.
Not even the fingers (of course mine) that
Skitter around his like an inebriated girl. Our
Bangles crinkle, that girl’s and mines...
As we feign swoons over his chewed words and their
Temperate radiance. But still he doesn’t
Behave like a lover with me at all.
He struts taller on the shadowed pathway
And night lamp’s gallop in my eyes
Along with his dizzying shadow..
Then it’s all a blur.
I spend nights with a blur.

BROKEN PARTS

1. Down on me.
Fretful faces, anguished by their existence. Drugged email boxes, skimming tales of unknown passion. Laces and saliva of death, skewed like glimmering acid. All the words, all the ideas enmeshed in granules.
Down on me.
Mobile messages burring in the wake of night. Myriad mysteries of gaining conscience and yet zeroes down to an imminent sadness.
Down on you, are the all visions of sages repressed in the catacombs.
The blues un-sung.
The alcohol un-drunk.
2. Death and death again.
Its flavor, its narcissism......well stitched in the six yard. Death again, flowered in hydrangeas. Death again, salted in the semen. Death all over the creepers.
3. It doesn’t matter how many syringes traverse through the skin. Contusions of history will be stained in skin. Violet mosquitoes and flying objects- all are the drugs for the doomed.
4. Fugitives are omniscient citizens and I am a refugee from utopia. Clogged, cleaned and hurled in brackets of tales which no one would tell.
5. All the visions are swirling into triangles, their pulchritude are their tops and the melting penises.
Lovers die.
Love lives.
But I walk with you in
My criminal chains, policemen unaware of our escape.

Monologues of a lonely girl

I.
The hounds of night thoughts are draped in
Golden skins, plucked from the temples of South India
And delicately adorned on their fingers....
You have lost the touch of magic
That resided in tongue, flowing out the spells
Of power. But she has seen you struggle with your
Imagination and rubbish it on the canvas and easel.....
Leave it down, today
And rest your head in the taverns of misty water
A foggy sun and crocodiles swilling
Flowers into raging opium.

II.
You were bargained from the vendors
Of death, scattered around the immensely decorated spire
Of breath and disease. The traders of birth
Seated on leather couches with leopards snarling
In the moon’s gleam. Their whiskers twitched when
You were being traded, packed in umbilical and sealed with sacs.
You flickered your eyes as you zipped past the
Real land of your origin..where churches are always singing
Psalms when moon is lost in cobweb of thunder.
The decorations are maintained by the airy hands
The same hands, that works on your vagina.
Doors have slammed and locked with
Unbreakable vows.
Your return is impossible now.
There is no exit.

Monologues of a lonely girl

Crushing, wailing and smiling
Crushing, slapping and smiling...
Are your daily ambitions. The grind of fistful emotions
Being repeated listlessly every... single ..fucking..day.
How long has it been that you have experienced
Something that has exalted your madness
And made you oblivious of everything that surrounds.
That is the only suffocation you have hunted..
The only feeling you have yearned. But nothing has detached
You from the rasp of monotony. Your lover (she is deceased), your painting, your poetry and your womanhood..
Would you leave the surreal thoughts down on a wooden plank
And let them be devoured by termites. Might be, just might be
Its wasted skin peels have the energy to evoke you again.
You can burn them along with turmeric and drink it
In bowls of terracotta.. imagery seems beautiful to you.
So, you want to fly again in this maze.
Be sucked, juiced amongst dry stones.....

Syringes, smoke and leaves..
These drugs are a bit too common now.

Recycle Bin

I would never bear a child
Because someone abused me
By denying me a uterus.
Toyed with intentions
And molded a fleshy lump
That hardens to its own indulgence.
I would never adopt a child....
Scared, fraught with apprehensions. But I do
Cherish the tiny digits
Scrolling my skin.....
I cannot protrude a lactating breast
To quench a child’s parched throat.
My milk would never be squelched by cribbing mouths
I have to sit resentfully in a corner
Seat and feign a man’s happiness.
My sisters wrap their children in a divine
Womanly cover....glowering at me.
Have you ever seen a man so ashamed of manliness?

I envied and stayed there.
Like I always will.

Swear words

When he uses swear words

Wheedling on the tip of his tongue

Like automatic bloopers

“Bitch” becomes a hyperbolic sigh Of his most innate threads.

He enunciates the F word

He jams it with a couple of more

Obnoxiously sweet words

But the moment he vehicles them

On his tepid lip curves

Letting every word to comfortably

Numb all of his other words

You will be entrenched in his saliva’s warmth.

You will cuddle.

He will fuck.

Everything in his language,

All over his body

Seems to spiral like a python

Which advertises his Romantic crimes

He would commit when

You are naked in his infinite

Universe, dripping and viscous

Wild, schizophrenic.

I know

It centres a lover’s existence.

Drink from him

The poison of scented nights

When he strands flowers on your

Chest, like a child matting

An old drawing with an excess

Of colors.

Smell him

When he begins

To undo your horrors

With his slick tongue

Nebulously gauging

The fathoms of your survival.

And he would curse you again

Even while his thick hair

Foliages your pubis

Like lush weed

Even when

His eyes are pursed

Like they never opened

Before a frustrated morning.

You can quietly

Thumb your fingers on

His placid throat

And try to investigate

How does he say

The word “fuck”.