Saturday, August 30, 2008

Five Years

You drove me across
Five thousand memories,
To leave me in a patch of
Your morning glories.
I rummaged among
The savaged crowd
Of the other tiny lives in
This one big world…
And I still chose this life,
I still chose this life…
For me...
For you.
Oh…discontinuous scenes
They touch you like the wind.
Oh…disappear they will
Remember or not, like a dream.
But they will find a way to meet
Your end at the Confluence.
But may they find me sooner…
I wish to go before your end.

Five years past from now,
You may or not be here,
But let me tell you now,
I really cannot care.
Can't even wonder
Why it couldn't be
Some two other
Human beings.
'Cause its more than wishes in grant.
Too perfect the way that it is.
This you...
This me.


He was a man
Who waylaid
The weathered steps
Of the staircase
Winding down to hell.
He was a man
So very shriveled,
He looked long judged
And proven chaste.
He was a man of Age.
He hummed a little,
Before crying again
He lay splayed
With his vessel
That jarred to jingle
With rusted coins
And finally disappeared
One day soon.
But cling he did
To his place there
Through the dawn
And night after.
Nobody knew when
Last he breathed.
He was a man
But a man long dead.

An obituary rested
On that weathered step,
As a non-existent,
Reverent absence.
And the concave silence
Of the voices that claim
Their blessings that he
May rest in peace.
But who needed them
His life would say…
The life that never
Asked for much.
He had been tested
And proven chaste,
So god bestowed
Him with the taste
Of the hell in life
As a life in hell…
So he may never lose
His way after death…

In the sad way angels
End up in hell.
In the unknown way
They deprive men
Of a taste of heaven.
And in the same game
Angels recruit men for hell.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Lucky Decision

Went down that weed-flanked watery path again
Six years ago was the first;
The congealed bags of cement are still there
With footsteps scooped out forever to last.
They break the clear water’s flow,
They curl, wrinkled and shallow,
Then they move on, forever in thirst
For the rims of clothes of walkers to soak.

Perhaps I would have thrown
A coin into that thread of a brook,
Was I not, myself, today
So completely broke.
If I was myself, today…
Completely alone.

There’s a fluorescent hint in that gong of a bell
It defies the all-consuming night,
Yet when light is seeping in through the cracks
Under windows, the night must have complied.
It darts, cornered, from corner to corner
Alleging, struggling for its right to linger,
Before it yields to the all-seeing Light,
Trusting in hope of being remembered.

Maybe I would’ve inhaled deep
The first kiss of dew-diluted air
Had I not heard the gong
Command the rules I would
Shadow soon, all day long…
In forfeited pursuit.

I never crossed that stream again...
If I needed, I went around.
I never opened my eyes to that bell...
Deaf to the lucky sound.

Will it come...will it come...

It will come when it will come...

I am done waiting for you.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Threatened Zebra Crossing

Forget me not, forget me not,
As was I before you took hold of my cane,
Its four o’clock, its four o’clock,
And I am going by your rules all the same.

I will not deny,
I too have a mind,
That you want entwined,
Around your silver knife.
I will not help you find,
My splintered mind,
As we both stand
With locked eyes.

Begone, I’m not you, alone I am blue,
That hazy shade of X-ray plates,
Your rosy cheeks, your rosy hood
Fume alienated by trace of innocence.

Past 4 now,
The city square clock
Has spoken,
Policeman’s whistle has already
Been blown,
You can’t feign to kill anyone
Accidentally anymore…

I see a blind man tottering on the edge
Of the weathered pavement,
Trying to cross the road, great distress.
I see you run to his aid,
I cringe at this sight.
For I know later that day
You will be found
Narrating to another man,
Blind otherwise,
About what you had done
At 4 o’clock…

About how you empowered the man.

Monday, August 11, 2008


My feet dug into cacti thorn,
I stagger awhile to regain control,
This journey has led me nowhere, so far…
Yet one must simply go on…
I shade my eyes with my hand,
I let not my eyes waver away from the sands,
This afternoon has lingered longer than I thought…
I know I may fail finally soon…

I see, oh I see, shards of glass
Tinkering in the bright sunlight,
Flirting with the sun’s slow progress,
It could be real or a mere mirage.

Your wide line of defenses
They wring your life of mistakes,
But I know I might drown, in the sea of my own,
Still I trust no defense…
I would rather plough my wilderness
Of weeds that sprout in hollow darkness,
Than hear in my own head,the voice of reproach…
I would never know regret again…

The past is blind in its death,
I mourn it in the colors envisaged
By my tomorrow, my beautiful tomorrow…
I leave my dreams to you…

I know I am soaked in your blood,
I will do anything to guard you but
Not the contrite words of a religion,
Regression they are, my cremation.
I will not die, with the past…
I will not let it buy my soul.
I will not regret, I will not regret,
Call me stupid, call me cold.

Perfect Plan

A swirling mist
Over a lonely road,
Your fogging silver frames,
And your asphalt mirror.
You clutch your left wrist,
Couldn't it bleed rather?
You ask...
But one last time you look,
Your face clouds over.
Your watch, it says…
Your game is over.
It’s that time already.
The perfect plan uncovers….
Its gnarling claws.
Your game is over.
A new day is tomorrow
Today would be never,
You and I shall be always
In a way, two lovers.
For now the ransom
Leave it there,
Turn away---not a look
Over your shoulder.
Oh no, what is happening?
I am bleeding here!
I ask...
What have you done?
Tell me how, traitor!
You bid my dreams to come undone...
And my game over...
But you never let me tell you the plan
You bid our fate together
To be ran over.
A new day is tomorrow
Today would still be here,
You and I shall always be
In a way, two lovers.

The perfect plan,
The perfect day,
The perfect hour…
Will never play
At petty fogging silver frames over lonely roads
Look up,
There’s a piece of satin sky taut above you.
The other side of the bleak and fateful evening...
It was a perfect plan,you have to admit.
In the was a perfect plan.
So I smile, reclined on my velvet floor
Knowing what you will never know,
Knowing that you will never know,Love,
The truth of my planned perfection.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

A little prose is like a perfect rose...each of its fragments swirls in one uniform line around and around from a fertile base and opens into a broader vista of meanings and perceptions.
Poetry...just trails off at every chance it gets.Like a poet of its own device. Trails off deeper into some imagery, and a little near the surface in others....but stray it does...
I have three very precise realisations to note down.Maybe I will 'poetry'-fy them one day..but for now,prose is my best man.
1.Wisdom. It is not about speaking wise words in an emotionless,levelled voice.It is about speaking of emotions at an wise stance.
2.Life.It is not being thrilled by books,images,of the 'unknown' and hence seeking them out as beauties of life.It is about discovering the beauties that no scholar has heard of...mostly in the smaller things.Not Taj Mahal,but the crooked teeny shack by the canal.
3.Love. Its not one thing.But many things.And one can love many,in succession,in a lifetime,and anyone who tells you you're fickle has no idea how short life is and how generous love is.

One of my older poems/songs,I forgot to post---HAND OF REMORSE

Dig a hole for me
In that ground you stand.
I need to look deep,
To better understand
The reasons you give
For the ground you stand.

I don’t need your alibi,
I need only explore your pockets
I need no witnesses,
I need gather only your fingerprints.
Show me your hand.
Darling, show me your hand.
Of remorse.

Bear to me,
Your disciplined fangs.
I need to feel
Their sharp bloody gnash,
For the threat you give
Of your disciplined fangs.

I need no alibi,
I need only explore your pockets,
I need no witnesses,
I need gather only your fingerprints,
Show me your hand.
Darling, show me your hand
Of remorse.

Does it hurt to open your eyes yet?
Does it bleed to breath through your nose yet?
Does it burn to move your feet yet?
Does your chest spasm to feel it yet?
If you're dying to feel remorse yet...
You're finally there...then...finally there...

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Sanctuary- The Song

It’s a translated world
Of silver mud,
And honeycombs full
Of golden mud,
Meandering streams
With murky mud,
And, knee-deep, legs
Wriggling inside.

All held by,
The dirt of nature,
Singing melancholy on and on…on and on
All in a bind
Struggling together,
Screaming sweetly on and on…

In an evergreen world
Green faces grow…
Green-lights signal
The traffic to flow,
’Long with mute glances,
Across windows.
No one to know here
Salvage in tow.

All held mute,
Trying to seem foreign,
Singing unfathomably on and on...on and on
All secured,
Struggling in vain,
Screaming sweetly on and on...

On and on…and on…
On and on…and on…
On and on…and on

And though I know
That you have seen me
I will let you think
Like you want me to
That I did not see you
Looking at me
to imagine
How it is my mind thinks.

Sunday, August 3, 2008


You leave me not,
You leave me never...
In pain,in recovery,
You are always there...

It always gets better in the end.
Soon after the horror grips you from within,
Leaving no trace of the spread-eagled glow
Of the morning sun,
That you flick away when it reaches your chin,
And makes you turn over the wet, spotted pillow,
Legs intertwined, and hair undone.
But somehow it always gets better in the end.

Your saddle, your gold brown saddle…
Do they still clink the way you told me?
And your mare, your dark brown mare…
Does it still frisk the way you showed me?
For I still dream of them night after night,
Though the reason has left our lives…
To ride away…
With you…to run away…

The meaning in it was lost.
Like the lingering creak when I opened the door,
And the shuffling behind the rows of books---
Left to itself to rot;
In my memory, they would all rot, books and bookstore;
Do I surrender to the death of my nook?
I could think not…
Somehow now the meaning in these fears is lost.

Your saddle, your gold brown saddle…
Do they still clink the way you told me?
And your mare, your dark brown mare…
Does it still frisk the way you showed me?
For I swell with hope to feel you again,
To run into you every other day...
To cry on...
Beside fight on...

Now that it is better, so much better in the end,
The meanings in the seconds of the time spent
Is lost down the path of that hastened end.
But,though the need has left our lives,
It feels know that our ride
Is always there to bear us away need we might...

You leave me not,
You leave me never...
In pain, in recovery,
You are always there...