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”.