Misty little corner
In a blue Room
Calls out to the mourner
Immersed in doom.
Grey furniture makes
Greyer memories
Faults, taunts and insipid
Fallacies.
Blue is the colour of the eye
It's inside is filled with a neon so fly.
The pink tree of life ******
Venus flytrap dissolves in juices.
The eye looks, the eye appalls.
The eye resigns, the eye dissolves.
The pink trap reopens again.
Lust curls into the corner in vain.
The misty blue corner like a white canvas,
Fills with all its colours again.
Pink is the monster,
Blue is the perpetrator,
Green is the debilitator.
And I, the wild colourless mind,
Sits by the wall and conjures this mishap.
All dreams are flies,
And I, the Venus flytrap.
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 4:04 AM UTC
A mutilated corpse in the middle of the city
Frothing at the mouth
A suffocating hostage
A sacrilege
A sacrifice of religious anonymity
You flow and stagnate
Making us all ruminate
What life has created
Is nothing but destruction in its wake
In the hustle of the city
You remind me of pity
Not for you
Not for your desperately dark waters
Not for your absence of tethers
But for me
You remind me how small and insignificant
Is the mind that dares to see
Dares to write
Dares to referee
Against your will to end
No destiny can revoke your decision
No human can make you bend
In your twists and turns
Your tortuitous burns
You are resolute
That the ones who killed you
Will not play the immortal flute
Or their resonating glory
Of conquering what you are
They tried to claim you
They tried to blame you
They tried to reduce and maim you
But from your eternal sleep you may never wake
The city may run
The city may burn
You will support no flora
No fauna
Rest in peace, Yamuna.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
It's that pretty time of the night
Where I would sometimes lie wrapped up in you
And the smoky sky and the wispy clouds
Would wink down at us
In plain sight
Far away in the oblivious distance
The mountains would call a peripatetic wind
And my heart would respond to your indistinct whispers
In that pretty time of the night
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Suddenly it feels numb
My body restive
My words gone dumb.
Muted grievances against the window pane
Are wiped away as insane.
Something inside, yet miles away
Resonates a perfectly eternal dismay.
Sweet are the tears that embrace,
Coursing down the contours of the loving face.
I ask myself,
“Why can I never write about important things?
About Philosophy, Politics and similar meanderings?”
Reasonable things.
Inklings of promising meanings.
Instead I struggle with my tempestuous heart,
Unimportant to the world, yet the most excruciating art.
The pain and the glory
Is the never-ending selfish story
My childish mind can recall.
Despite all this wondrous melancholy,
I always choose to repeat my folly.
Up and about to write I go,
There’s too much heart material to forego.
I lie under those dry lifeless branches,
Sit, stand or walk around in hunches.
Only the grass understands
Under the skin in innumerable strands
Pain is the only conspicuous poison
Reigning the veins, arteries,
Defining the venison.
I couldn’t look at you much
Since you drank from my cup
Travesties of my past break-up
And chose to inflict it upon me again
To see if our old life
Could be regained.
But nonchalance has a way of defeating you.
It looks odd on you,
Like an unaccustomed parvenu.
Love wrecks your heart like the shivering of an earthquake.
When my insides tear, shrivel and menacingly rake.
You realize that your nonchalance was odd indeed.
I was the friend in need
You fled the deed.
That could have saved me
From depression.
Earthquakes don’t mean any harm.
They simple do their job
And leave destruction in the wake.
Naïve.
Nonchalant.
Dilettante.
They are not exactly wrong.
No culpable intentions.
Only humming a deleterious song.
Yet
We seldom recover when the grounds from below
Shake.
I thought you were the soft breeze, drizzling rain.
But turns out,
You are an earthquake.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
There is a certain injustice
In the way this life unfolds.
The beauties of birdsong,
The tapestry of nightfall,
Eludes the bustling hunger of life
That survives only during the tragic monotony
Of light and days.
Nothing balances the weakness,
Or the misbalance of joy
Giving simplicity to have-nothings
The pleasant sweetness of no loss
And directing every woe, every jealousy,
Towards the one that has.
This injustice unfurls,
Myriad patterns of thoughts;
Where the thoughtless discrimination
Of black, white, yellow, red and brown
And all the spectrum of colors that the rainbow has left unadulterated
Gets tinged in meanings,
Meanings the hues never intended.
Myriad meanings dictated by space
And spaces in time,
Meanings that lurk behind your eyes,
Towards the way I look.
How the two meet to create a wonder
That violates every injustice
Which had crawled on this earth !
That half broken gleam,
The crack between your lips,
When you part them to smile,
Reminds me, why every injustice,
Is a pain worth bearing.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
When I first thought of your beautiful eyes
Opening up to my waking lids
I expected a certain compromise
A shield against the impertinence of probability
But you shocked me
Your gaze met mine
And in a moment I knew
That every shield of immunity
Every grain of apprehension
Every instinct of war
Had condensed into a transcendental wonder of powerlessness
There was no armor, no protection
From the raging defeat that permeated both of us
Incessantly
In a moment I knew
There is no victory
Without loss
And loss indeed it was
The loss of consciousness, the loss of pride,
The shredding of each morsel of doubt
But ultimately the loss of mortality,
The defeat of time,
Because when your beautiful eyes
Met my waking lids
An eternity had succumbed
And we lay in the ravages of war.
Alone and victorious
Us against the world
Us against space, time and continuum
Despite the unreliability of victory,
One certainty reigns supreme,
There is a war.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 8:11 AM UTC
Breathe in the rustling leaves
Hide behind the unwanted plants that arise
From the creaks in the concrete.
Perhaps they have discovered a source of life
Far sublime than the one you dwell in.
The wind, the wind,
The wind blows opposite
To where the bird wants to go.
The wind, the wind,
The happy eucalyptus oscillating in unison
Bidding adieu to the birds in flight.
The wind, the wind,
Making fishes out of thoughts,
Myriad corals and hydrae out of trees.
The water tank
Formidable in its all absorbing blackness,
Contains the most lucid, transparent and fragile,
Of man’s ultimate conquests.
Water.
Which drips from above sometimes
When the sky salivates
At the hot porridge
Of a lifeless mess
Beneath itself.
Birds are like kites,
Leaves are like fingers
Dexterously typing whispers
Like signals to the wind.
Limited is the vision
Where we sit now.
Our backs immersed in the restlessness
Of the occasional writer;
Our eyes fixated on the botchy
Grey watercolor work of the sky.
Everywhere we look, wherever we see,
A band of seven colors break the reverie.
The enthusiastic trees type harder
All leaves in the virulence of a martyr.
Close your eyes.
Step beyond the panorama which
Refuses to bare itself before your soul.
Step beyond the boundaries of the visible,
Into the consolation of the miscible
Voices.
Moribund shrubs,
With faces of the half dead,
Half faced creatures of the unformed,
The cruel monotony of their demands resonate
Wildly with the marginalized.
How in their knots and hunches,
Leaves drooping intoxicated
From the light stolen away by
The more representative, the more vociferous,
Lies the silent acceptance of their abandon.
Here and there taller branches,
Crane towards the sunlight,
Hoping for the winds to listen,
Or perhaps,
For the sun to burn them away first.
Old cranes and their ignominious hoarse throats,
Can only coax words that are coarse.
The dull, blotted uniform grey
Densifies at certain places
A somber sleep indulges the sky.
The winds now,
In their frightful fancy
Scour the floor of your feet
Touching you soles,
Your shoulder, your spirit.
But the playful naught of the wind
Derives insatiable pleasure from
Tickling the trees,
Rocking the eucalyptus,
Till the moonlight washes away
All the eccentricities
Of the frivolous day.
After a joyous revelry,
The tree laughs less
The vigor in its chuckle realizes,
That it is time to retire.
The sky rearranges its clouds
To cast a pallor
Loses the yellow
The grey, for a darker, almost impenetrable
Black.
The water tank camouflages
With our beady eyeballs.
The transparent water fills up
You and me.
Our eyes dilate, staring into the sky
Bidding the dusk good-bye.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
The forests are deep, dark and menacing.
Distance from the plains are ever-increasing.
A desert of bright sand-dunes
Seeps through waterless moons
And shines a lantern on
The hunter’s myriad faces.
Her delicate self, ambushed behind the glorious paw,
Shivers and amazes,
At the ruthlessness of their trances.
Maudlin over her abandoned demeanor,
The departed herd and their mesmerizing candor,
Shoving away her characteristic mirth and laughter,
She voluntarily slips into
The hectoring trap.
A predator in waiting,
For the hunter’s slow clap.
But,
Man the hunter, must have forgotten,
That a tiger remains a tiger
Despite being overwhelmed, or woe-begotten.
And as he nears the trap he built,
To grind her might and get her killed,
He sees,
The sedentary beast transmuted
Into a monstrous manifestation that lay undefeated.
Tearing their flesh,
Destroying their jejune laughter.
With an attack far cathartic
For them to resurrect after.
Remember, the sun, the woods, the stark sea?
Her spirit embodies theirs,
It is she.
The sweltering sun, the rapturous desert,
Vanquish the chains that had imprisoned
Her abounding heart.
Expunging the landscape of infiltrating dirt,
The tiger reigns supreme,
Glorified in hurt.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
When at this seemingly great crossroads I stand
Searching for a martyr to bare his splendid hand,
I devolve and degenerate into
The unspeakable horrors of my mental dynamo.
The unsuspecting spills and splatters
Devour that cone of momentous light,
Butchering all the words that matter,
Fleeting soldiers too broken for a fight.
I saw you yesterday,
Epitome of peace,
Eradicator of dismay,
My inner eye, my soul,
Filled to the brim with condole
You have revealed to me the Universe in Verse.
Darling, don’t call yourself a loathsome *****
You’re the divine medium that enables
God and I to converse.
It’s been a while since,
My sanity has returned and
Its absence
Irrigates the dusty landscapes of the dark.
The ebb, the tide, the seawall stark
Look fertile enough to dissolve away,
All our nubile tears and allay,
What the telephone or the text message
Couldn’t say.
When sleep crept under my skin,
Like a poison numbing our love with a grin,
Bereaved of my lover I lay defeated.
A solitary portrayal, bared yet conceited.
The evening had caused us to erupt,
Into a familiar wrath, abrupt.
Your poetry was a magnificent, glorious attempt,
To conciliate the dissent,
And ameliorate the contempt.
In me you will find
Mother, daughter, child and mistress,
A juvenile delinquent,
An occasional temptress.
In all these disguises, all these identities,
You will never discover the fragilities,
Of a heart broken by
You.
Forgiveness is what you sell to the demure
For a will to live and the courage to endure.
It wasn’t a cone of light,
You see,
But a shadowy star concealing its might.
In the dark room that had filled my mouth,
You ushered like a beacon from the south,
Resplendent in the innocent purity of existence,
You stripped me of my need for defense,
The morning saw nothing but joy and peace.
Your lovely face, and
My eyes appeased.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
I remember the dark room
And me,
A singular broken thing.
My tears perennial
Coursed the ground in all directions;
As the sky of my body shook
Quivering in the precipitation
Of all identities lost.
I remember the dark room
And me,
Lost and disgusted with the self
That could evoke
Such supreme loathing from a being
Who was the altar
To all the love my heart could outpour.
I remember the dark room
Like a cage with a dying bird.
And me,
The dying blind bird
Whom the moon refused to shelter.
It was a carnage of bullets,
A rain of misgiving pellets
Against the visage of my mind.
Mutilated in agony,
I stooped lower
Hoping the ground would offer
What the moon had refused to surrender.
Inside that dark room,
It rained like acid
From the hollow of his mouth
Down to the narrow tunnel of my ears.
The salty bitterness of tears
Was the most sensible, recognizable feeling
That my tongue remembers.
I remember the dark room,
Where he made his dark love to me
Crushing me under the pressure
Of his bulldozing affair.
His venomous tentacles searched insatiably inside
My insides
Only to find nothing…
After all,
The salinity of the tongue,
Was as infertile as the salinity of the soil.
My lungs wanted to abscond my body,
And while fleeing
Spit onto him
The warm blood
Desperate to break
Into the pitch black order of the dark room
Between our legs
In rebellious hues of reds.
Before I could count further revolutions
Of the motionless ceiling fan
He had had enough of his regular persecutions.
It was over.
Crystals of sweat
Overhung over his
Serpentine back.
And in the dark room with the dusty cage
There glistened
A million shards of human debris.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC