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.
Friday, September 10, 2010
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....
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.
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...
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...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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.
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.
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