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.