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...