Do you remember the sky sinking?
That fall, when we climbed up our vague tree
and watched the nights burn
     softly on
Those naked arms,
                 and our pricking skins
You told me that
the dark seemed quite obese
I wondered how it could be

remember the dawns
  that lingered before us
and birds with jewels between their beaks
    Sun like a bruise clawed its way out
We never did see— never unseeing
ever on watch, yet the clouds
    grew above
and we only drew forests with our hands

yours upon mine upon
  yours upon—
and down, down plunged it all
First, gold
          then the glass
We jumped in weeping puddles
and forced the mud into birthing birds
Then came
     the silvers
and with them, those malnourished winds
Do you remember

the smoke that descended down the cliffs?
That winter, we melted
            with our pink flames
and slept away those snarling wolves
Beneath forts built of woollen quilts
        our limbs tangled, tangled
     with our tales
You told me the dark
     seemed quite obese
I nodded like
  a broken, puppet horse

then—
Dust gushed out the vessels of air
   and cars coughed
And down, down
                came it all
Dawns befriended our solitary dusks
and moons sped up their dance
I ran my fingers down
     the green of your strands
You introduced a ladybug to my skin

down, down tumbled nothing
       First the browns
then the blues
We buried our barren feet in sticky sands
and you told me
It hurt
where, I asked
here.
and there were you kissed

And blues fell upon blues
’til cold, shivering, stumbled away
And our tree was a painting
    on the lips of a stream
Restless, it lurked out our reach
and the sky
swelled and swelled
till a heavy haze came plummeting hither
And above us was left nothing but—

It hurts, you said
I asked you where
here
     here
  here—
the blues embraced the lonely of our land
and kissed it all over
  all over
Huts, playgrounds, markets—
Wells, trenches, hills and hills
children, the rest
     and voiceless shrubs
All devoured.

Do you remember the bleak stars
as they struggled to flutter
    in the smothering vacancy
Then the summer smiled
and stole our dying skies, and
  all the quiet broke loose
        in our bleached towns
We in a moor sprayed with stillness
    treaded through
the misty of our eyes
        feet upon cinders jagged
where does it hurt, I asked
  nowhere
nowhere, nowhere—

the universe watches with her
mischievous eyes
as silence stretches on
between me and the mechanical city

from up here, in winds’ embrace
the cars are decades away,
and lights only a vivid memory
straining the back of my skull

the universe, too, breathes
I hear her now
hear the vacancy stir
in her bones

one— and the archers running
down my throat
two, like the lambs slaughtered
beneath them eyes
three and four and nine—
cracked toe-nails laden with mud

—ten women weeping
eleven wishes for the wilting weeds
I sense a chariot
bumping down the ribs
twelve for the wounded boy
limping up the hill

twenty— a hundred
and hundred more

inhale

I fathom the seconds kiss their hours
and hours melting into days
weeks and minutes,
years and more
all chopped and cooked
to a frothy stew
I feel it fill up her being

and vehicles with their horns
midway
halt—
an owl’s scream stopped just
beneath his beak
and sun, statued, stands

a thousand and the stilled plane
twenty and five
for them frozen flames
sixteen— and the shooting star
taped to the night
— seven prayers left unuttered

three for now, and three
for the past,
three more as all, into the unseen, falls
two shivers, shivers still
—one and a lone worm crawling
down my veins
one and the blue child up, up the swing

exhale

I swallow
as the ticks sink back into the clock
centuries dancing again
— and months  
come stumbling home
millenniums and moments
back to their protests

as all the circus is born again

What’s with the bees?
You’ve asked
    several times now
What do I tell—
   I had not noticed them
Maybe, it’s because my lamp bleeds honey
  all over the floor and the walls

Maybe, it’s the soft buzzing of the fan
or the colourful paintings
        that are now anything but.
Perhaps all these thirsty flowers I’ve hung
  Or leaves on the wall paper
Maybe, it’s the wooden texture
of my shelves
  Maybe, it all screams ‘home’ to them

a break from those gossiping towns
    and manic roads

What can I tell— I don’t even know
Maybe it’s me they desire
—though I doubt it
                 Ask the clock,
ask him what he knows of me
I put on some music and
  it tickles my soul
—It pinches
I turn it off and all the world is left alone
  Birds ask if they can join me
I deny—
Foxes invite me to their hunts
         I deny
Owls have stories in their wings
              but what good are stories in
   a world so loud—

Sun dances from east to west to east
—untiring
I’ve lost count of her rounds
She asks me about my hues. I say,
I cannot read
    I say, I cannot write
I say, I cannot will myself to flutter
         I say, you see those wilting blossoms?
I think I’m turning into them
       (What a cheesy thing to say)

She sings me songs and paints up the sky
—I smile pink
though, why, I cannot tell
I tell her my hues are smiling, too
     She pats my cheek
and gracefully glides away
   and it is

        all still grey
the houses grey, people grey,
cars, plants, towers and stalls grey
Maybe that’s why the bees prefer
  this quiet cell

   It is still golden here
and blues still weep in the curtains
   This is us—
          I and the bees
they live on the silvery walls,
In the sheets, under the bed,
     behind those empty canvases
and inside drawers
          next to the books,
      next to the clock,
           —the picture frames

    over the fan,
the pillows, the carpet
—inside, inside me
Around me, around the poems
    taped on the door
around me
What’s with the bees?
   maybe, they’re
maybe, they’re just my friends.

He’s dead, the *******
Last I saw him up the Bombax tree
Stealing wool out the clouds
Rolling it into ***** and
hanging them by the boughs

I cracked its hollow bones
He helped cut the rest—
Together, I tied them firm
And covered with leaves
covered with dreams
with paints

Houses, and red bushes,
and green birds I made
All, beneath them bruised skies, I placed
I gifted them all to him,
He hung them by the cotton *****
— by the fiery blooms
of that flushed tree
We carved songs out the dirt
Carved for the withered,
and the birds

He’s dead, the *******—
Chopped down the Bombax tree
and buried our flowers
— buried them breathing
My paintings, he nailed to the sky
Pieces of clouds lie bare in the mud
Where he planted a poem
and spilled his soul to
water the seed
that would never sprout

For the dead, we wrote,
—for the winged
They at my colours laugh
and I listen, and I listen, and I laugh
A dreamer that he was,
a dreamer he made of me
He lives there now, the traitor—
plucked the sleep out my nights
One by two by three by ten

Bombax tree, we joked, ******
red out the stilled
now we do not joke, now we’re still—
Red flowers stilled—
He’s dead, the *******
Chopped down our home
Left me with those empty boards
Red, his very own paint
Blue, stollen from the dawn

A thief that he was
a thief he made of me—
I, too, borrow yellow out the daisies
and trick these frogs into spitting green
But what do I paint?
He’s deaf, the *******.
Dumb, even—
What do I paint, huh?
The whole **** world’s
a painting gone wrong
What do I birth out these tired hues?
Last I did, he sold them to the wind
The *******—
beautiful, dead *******
Traitor—

Golden bees
over purple seas
Lies etched upon their wings
It is, I think, like that—
I cannot force this ink to scream
— Black flies
and brown moths
Dust knows what verses we carry,
but what good is she
Restless wasps
beneath a crystal cage
quiet— quiet carved over the bodies we bear

It flows like this, I suspect
They say death laughs when a man dares fly
But I dream this body
—not mine
hands
—not mine
Not mine, I swear
And I plant my smirking blade
into a soft earth
It giggles red, and red and red
and I pluck the gleaming fruit out
It smirks still—

So beautiful do they look
to my withering self
—not mine— not mine, I swear
Red upon red upon grey.
She spills for him,
and I let them meet, they
kiss and kiss and my heavy hands allow
—not mine
And I dream this dream
of a being so mine, and one so not
The flesh blends in with the crescent
a closed fist with an open chest
and I cannot tell who
smiles, who pleas, who wilts, who slumbers
Cannot tell grey

from red, from gold from black to brown
and bees
It bows like this, and you do not
part the slave from his king—but death
does not laugh
I’ve heard her weep somewhere inside
She says her wings hurt,
her wrists do
I think I tied her up with the walls of a skull
Where bees are buried
and moths lurk drunk
I do not remember now—
I did, when the blooms were still yellow
when ships talked of snoring oceans
and beetles listened—

and I dream this castle where
a maiden is ill
Walls silent,
and dresses, useless, lie
Slave girls and boys with dusty hands
and sweaty necks,
are blamed—
They have buried her in velvet quilts
and cushions stuffed with jewels
The graceful curtains
sing to her and
paintings their stories tell—
but I doubt she knows

It is, I think, blue
I cannot squeeze the beauty out my blood
and isn’t heaven lightened
by the very flames of hell
Do them heroes hear the moths’ shrieks—
up up into the sun so bright.
And I dream this canvas
where a maiden has died
Death’s song rang,
and she followed it out—
and the physician is hanged
for he could not stop her

And the queen to her lover,
surrenders her life
But far is the lover now, music sunk
deep in her bones
and the queen her voice,
surrenders, but—
The beetle never stirs
And the wasp still laughs under
Its glassy sky
— I dream the lightening
kissing a red sea
and I cannot tell purple from the queen’s pleas
And her lover’s dress
lies vacant in my chest
I cannot—
I cannot will this fly to move
and the moth—
Oh, the moth

The morning is mine
when people are asleep
Sun and I talk
Birds say their greetings
when passing by
I wash oils off my face
scrub the night off my teeth
I open the windows
—the war rages on

I boil milk and blend in
some coffee
she runs down my throat
burning and waking all
of my snoring folks
Sloshing, she plays in
my arid stomach
—the war rages on

I put on some music
Arabic flutes and gentle drums
and open my books
I read a passage,
then read again
—the war rages on

I reread the passage
What are they saying, I
write it down,
I rewrite, then cut
—the war rages on

—the war rages on
I could scream or tear
apart this book, break this
cup where an abyss now sleeps
jump off, I could.
oh, dear vultures, I could run
away, away, away, and
wither on the way. Oh wither!
but I hide under sheets
and wait for sleep to come

Mercifully, she does.
she always does and I
will wake up and gulp some coffee
and reopen the book
reread the passage, reread
rewrite, rewrite, cut
—and the war will rage on.

there is blood on your breaths
and the shrouded world is watching
as we hold these empty sheaths
wind—cold and blue
holds us
a siren from the sea.
noise— noise
of humans talking and
laughing and rotting
—drowns us
but this shore is lonely

and our castle melts to sand
over our heads—
suffocation—
something too full sighs
in our vacant selves;
and in these purple waters,
surface
we’ve never known

but there’s blood on your song
and flies crowd about
my hands—
silence sleeps in my lap
your fingers grazing my heart
something loud blooms
between us and
—bees buzz
your feet clothed in earth
and we’re alright.

—we’re alright
I ask you how we are so—
what did we do for
this quiet.
—you shiver.
and the shrouded world watches—

before she was death I
often saw her in the orchard with
her pet ducks and fluttery dress
when ancient pear trees abandoned their leaves
she’d pick the weakest and tie them to her hat
collect the newest, give them to the river
the longest, she’d knit into baskets and matts
gift them to old maidens and lonely men

and the rest, she fed to the flowers

and I know that before she was death
she loved flowers but she
never plucked them
she waited for their mothers to let go,
then she’d take the cadavers home
and make beauty out of them

before she was death, she liked
to talk to the graveyard at night
dark wasn’t ugly to her,
and silence was only the trees talking

now, night lives in her obsolete house
when sun goes down, he likes to come out and
pluck stars off skinny bushes
her brightly painted walls are old lattice leaves
behind, the mountains laugh
and beneath them, a kingdom flourishes
not like corn fields near the bank,
a dust-storm, or a mistletoe

and no one talks of where she went though
the talk goes everywhere—

but I know she too feared lone woods
and moonless skies
she saw beauty in all, but nothing
sweet in the softness of flesh

and I know she despised the old cave
behind her house, for it was where she went

her crown is beautified with scared salvias,
petunias tremble at her name, and
daffodils don't even speak, and I
know I don’t want to take her place
so don’t offer me these pretty tiaras
and silence is so much more than trees talking

and some plants like to crawl up on others
**** the life and spit it out on the dirt but I’d
rather be towed down by those furious winds

and meddle not with me or my blood
I could show a softer way in—

like how her blades cut through grey grass
and how her fingers twisted to tie them strands to sheets
and meddle not with me or my blood
I could show a faster way out—
how the leaves bid goodbye as they glided
away with the waters; how her paintbrushes
emerged, soaking, out those liquids
and how she painted poetry out of dust

meddle not with me or my blood

she, who moulded the ground
into toys and pots, taught me
to befriend the daggers, and trust them
taught me how stinking corpses were better
than scentless lilies—and fanged
wolves were often what willed the sheep to live

before she was death she
used to sing a ballad unusual,
'I do not wish to take your place on that
throne, dear death,
I’d rather rot in your prison cells'

but death has not time for pleas.

i stare at the ceiling and hours go by.
clocks tsks—
and cars, outside, laugh
lamp paints shadows on the walls
and the chocolate melts
—a flute sings
and winter settles on the floor
the fan hangs still— still— still.
a bear snores in her cave
and baby owls, with their moons, watch—
a river hisses meekly
and crops bow before the night
air chokes on gold
—and crescent yawns
the clock tsks— the clock tsks
i stare at the ceiling and hours go by.
the clock tsks.
the clock tsks—

Could I have seen them,
I’d tell you
in words—tunes—or hues.
but there’s more an eye can do

an eye can want.

cobblestones—
wooden benches
Skeleton trees, and pretty profiles
Sometimes, crimson skies
or crimson dirts— liquids even.
—she touches all she wants

          she wants all—
glimmering,
       teasing, deceiving—
Black boots on cement old
—yellowed pages sewed together.
  she wants all.

an eye can breathe.
And that was where they came
in caravans.
—inhale

perhaps snow-covered grass
   Or cracked desks
Perhaps trees laden with beings or
just—nothing.

Could I have heard them,
I’d tell you
in clinking bangles— carved ice— or weeping flutes
Could I have—
—could I.

they walked in— nay
flew. Nay, swam.
nay—
Could I have fathomed—

Carried torches, I think.
they marched deep into my caverns
—carried mirrors they.

what of the paw-prints engraved in mud
Crumpled letters
    lying naked in puddles— nay.
my caverns bore silk smoke over velvet nights.
dark—
and dreary and dying
and dead—

but they marched still
And their torches hissed.
Sapphire boots on sooty rugs—
     They marched.
They sang—nay.
painted— nay, moulded a
world out of cinders—
Nay.
Could I have touched, I'd know—

on every turn and every crease
They placed a mirror pure  
    as an infant’s tear
—or maybe a sharpened gem
who would dare to know—

In every dungeon and every hall
Their stares flickered like neon serpents
—nay.
Sun-licked butterflies, nay.
halos above mountains chaste—nay—
Could I have felt—

But one
—exhale
and they were no more.
Went into the rain perhaps,
or past moonlight
    maybe in pine trees under the sea
Could I have tracked them down—

but there’s more an eye can do
An eye can want.
light—
Between the dawn,
    between the darts
Children in smiling yards
light—
   inside coal,
Inside a broken sword—

She touches all she wants
   —she wants all.
and a ray falls on the mirror
and the mirror tosses it to the next
  and next, to the next—
Sun knits a web inside me.
beams and glitter—

Like a child’s song
or a kitten’s roar
—a war cry
Could I laugh like a spear
or mould the starlight into words
I’d tell you—

but the rays marched on
into me
   swift like kites
warm like— like iron.
nay—a mother’s hug
Nay,
beating drums
—or an armour’s clatter, nay.
Could I have known—

But there’s life in piercing screams
—And I was burning
But is it not a privilege
to watch the world wither
from the very roots of the flames?
to be their very mother—

when your wings melt
and towards the ground you
wilt
but you’re flying still—

Practiced pain and misery memorised
A shawl swirling round but nothing is covered
—nothing safe
Little woman—

Why do you roam so free on these greasy roads
People—
people are everywhere, don’t you see?
Do you not know how easy a shell is broken
—how swiftly the pearl is stollen
Little woman— little woman
Where do you hide your crystal wings—
Did you sell them for some loaves of breads?
Don’t assure.

Your eyes bear no tragic fruit and
I wish they did— Lord, how I wish so!
Anything but this casualty
Placidity—
Have they long forgotten
the sky-high castles they were robbed from?
All those moon-struck crowns—
Don’t, don’t assure!

Don’t spread out that hand
Don’t show me that tight stomach
I beg you don’t show them that
stomach—waiting to be filled—
Where in the hell do you sleep?
Don’t you have a door to lock?
Don’t assure—

You priceless, prince-less little woman
Why do you roam so free on these greasy roads
Why do you beg? Why do you—
I wonder why I ask— I with my flowers and bees
wonder what I even know—

I know that in some other dimension
—perhaps beneath a crease in the warp of time
They like to rip flesh off bits of bones
of lovers and friends
dress it up in spices and sauces for feasts—
And their kings do it, and they do
Children are taught, and
house-wives prepare them for special guests
Humans, wrapped in sacks, are sold
in markets— or traded like rice

I know some take pride in the love-kisses
their whips leave on flushed skins
And tallest of corpses are chopped like logs
—carried like crops; cleaned and
beautified— like porcelain; somewhere,
screams are sung on weddings and
Lyre strings talk about mothers’ pleas
Where gatherings of men and women and wealth
are served with their own roasted limbs

Where molestations await invitations
which are not scarce—
I know some like to beautify battlefields
and scattered fingers and ribs and feet and—
I know that tulips are planted in blasted skulls
And children leave paper-boats in warm, rosy puddles
— stars are extinguished for their
unbearable lights and moons are
exploded on festival nights—

I know you look at me and wonder
if I admire canvases gigantic
with stories loud and heroes bewildering
I know you ask of my role on this street,
at this moon, with you of all planets
—and plants, but I only
know of the canvases they burn

—and canvases they tear and
canvases used as shrouds and— canvases
that wipe away clogged ruby tears
I only know of the flowers I painted—
Colours I yelled at
for they were not bright
And the painting I buried under coats of white
for it was not pretty—
The memory I killed over and over and over and over and—
Watched the cadaver walk right through
its death

I know I was not called, nor welcomed
And I know there are worse wars to be ceased
but I only see the bruises on
this child’s dusty face, and bones—
bones and how they push at his ragged flesh
I know not of the demon that lurks within his shadow
Or what tales you carry under your glamorous suit
or what told him to try running with your coins—

And I know there are worse wars to be ceased
—I know there are worse wars to be ceased
and I know— but please for the sake
of dawn’s first ray, of sea’s first breath
don’t hurt him—

Tell you a secret
I’m going to meet the crescent tonight
He followed me around
As I ran though the woods behind my house
a denim bag bouncing on my back
Behind the coal-coated trees, he hid
and emerged only when I begged
—Where do you go, he asked.

away— away from it all.
I locked myself in the basement
Left her nothing to live for
I’ll be far when her stinking body is found
asked the wolves for a ride
We are to meet by the arid hill
Go now—banish like you always do
I do not wish to be seen by a light
So he crawled behind a placid cloud
And I was off again

Ran till eerie voices begin their waltz
—and coward of this heart yelled for him again.
We talked till the dawn
And I walked back to the sick brick cottage
unlocked myself, I wiped her stained cheeks clean,
—apologised
And she was out again—
for yet another day with the world
her mysterious lover

now I am to wait by the window
Where a caravan of dark will pick me up
And carry the light of me
away— away from it all
up; up into the deepening sky.
and he has promised me a circus of stars
We’ll sit at the shore of night
—dream of horizons undreamt

and he has promised me a swim
we’ll plunge into the sun-kissed waters
and watch galaxies collapse into each other
—eternities and breaths away
explosions, explosions and explosions
voiceless—voiceless— voiceless
Remnants of wars between stars
memories of folks who withered
centuries ago—

Then I’ll come back to myself
At waking of the light
disband into the scattering crowd
—confetti.
and in return for his favour
I am to live with myself
till death comes to lift the day away.

Where have you gone, little child
—my little child
You told me all your secrets
but never told me your plans
and was it nothing to you?
—all those golden weeds we plucked
and laughs that bloomed
I should’ve built you a castle out of it all—

I should’ve covered the windows with dry leaves
and letters
I know well of the temptation, but
what was ever so promising in that hazy night?
My little bird,
didn’t I teach you how to fly
didn’t I adorn your feathers with petals
—and poems
I wrote tales for your wings and
Will this be your repay?

What of the endless hills we sailed over
All the gleaming waters we kissed
I should’ve built you a kingdom out of it all—
We could’ve been queens of a starry land yet
here we are

I sit with the weeds, they chew away our lilies
you have long run away
with the dark
and the world is dry—
the world is dry without you.

“Where is the assignment?”

You ask a question the philosophers have argued over

“Didn’t do it, sir.”
“Why?

Because..because…
Where do I even begin—
I usually begin with stories
They fly in through the window, peck at me
Until I emerge out of my cotton caverns
Today, they brought along a fox, orange like melting sun
She hid under my bed and didn’t crawl out until
I sacrificed to her some of my food
had travelled villages and trees in search of her child
Streams and bridges and bushes, she had asked

told me of a little, blind boy with a ***** sack
He wandered about streets, and parks
Every turn memorised over years— every fortunate bin.
His scarred hands searching for softness— of
half-eaten fruits and soggy breads— of cloths.
Dry papers, he collected and sold to people unseen
He slept on the grass, sang songs and gave her food
Then one day she waited but he never came
Then one more, and one more, then—

But you don’t want a story, do you?
right.
Uses of crystalline solids.

“I’m sorry.”
“Were you sick?”

Sick?
Yes, I was sick. But not like that girl, over there,
With a runny nose and funny coughs
I was sick with strange blisters just
under my skin.
they itched and burned, and I could not calm them down
Instead I winced. I curled up like an injured worm
And when the doctor asked me where it hurt
I said nowhere
I said there was a campfire inside me
I said the fish hanging over it had turned to coal
wild-grass soup was spilling out the ***— it’s hisses in flames
I said the people had fought themselves to deaths
And now the fire was alone, and the camps too
And the mother fish calling for her son
And the moon,
And the bodies—

But he said it was just my brain talking

“No.”
“Did you have to go somewhere?’

I did. Past the raging seas, beyond all mighty peaks, I followed a jolly fairy to the hidden garden where all dead flowers go.

“No, sir.”
“Any guests?”

A guest, I did.
But I didn’t invite him. I don’t even know his name.
He banged in through my locked door
A hazy grey shadow with two horns, four fangs and many claws
He ate nicely and didn’t judge my dying plants
He made a blanket fort out of my unfolded clothes,
we had a tea-party,
I painted his claws pink, braided his fur
he crafted me a paper-sword
And we duelled till our weapons creased and sun stopped burning
Then we sang together in our husky voices
And I’d tell you more but I swore
to protect him.

“No, sir. I did not.”
“Then where’s the assignment?”
“I forgot.”

I didn’t forget. I sat down to write but my brain
started talking. It talked and talked
and didn’t cease. Not until I hid back in my caves
and walked away from the night.

“I’ll give it tomorrow.”

Uuh...

“You sure?”

You ask a question the philosophers have—

“Yes, sir. sure. I’ll give it tomorrow.”

Bless tomorrow.

she comes to me with every star
— every bird
greets me on my creased bed
She smiles—
in the long-silenced alarm clock,
in dry roses tapped on wall,
unkept cots of all my jasmines and shrubs,
— my missed classes,
in the cars talking outside

she says,
the dance has long began
I say, I am not awaited
she says she would like a waltz
I say,
please, go without me
here, I'll leave the window open—

she says,
I live in the dusty shelves
— in your abandoned body
I say,
I’ll clean today, scrub off my skin
I'll pull out the weeds

she says,
the air reeks of me
I say,
I’ll put on a song.

but the song wobbles like a paper-boat in a stream
it sublimes away with my breaths—

she watches me—
bath,
as I strip the bed naked, and redress him
as I feed my plants, as I
fold the clothes and tuck them neatly away

her lips meet my neck, as mine
meet the porcelain mug—
tongue trials down my back
as the sandy tea falls soundlessly in me

and I shiver

and she’s there in the unfinished painting
here on my dry skin, webbed eyes,
my jagged lips

I say,
I want you to leave
out this room— out this dressed up city

(her willowy fingers betrothed to mine)

— out these voiceless books
and feeble veins
my ****** sketch-pencils and
and the pictures you **** hue out of

(swords clashing— she aims her lips at mine)

I want you gone,
here, I'll leave the window open.

(and rips them apart; she turns me to glitter)

tell me to go and I’ll go,
she says, later.

tell me,
she says.

tell me,
she says.

I wonder what lonely sees
 women with pretty eyes
— a library in the night
a classroom with broken chairs

white-boards
         and bullet-holes
echoes in the halls,
giggles on the swings—
a group of laughing men

wine glasses with their clinks
an unread book—
     a wet matchstick box

I wonder what lonely sees—
when he wanders around the towns
  — whether
endless moors beneath    glass-lid skies
  empty roads,
and emptier cadavers —

or
— just the world

as it is—

— but I did not dart into the field with a sword in my hand
I stood by the archers, choked poetry out a quill’s hollow chest

my sisters could slay heads in smooth, swift motions
their tiaras glimmered in pools of enemy’s blood,
but I only gagged at the sight of rotting flesh

led no soldiers on my armoured horse,
I sat by the rocks and stared at the ocean from dawn to dusk
picked up the flaccid of my limbs and willed them to endure
one more step, one more step, one more step,
one more—

shook and whimpered under weights of my velvet sheets
I drowned a hundred deaths beneath the layers of silent nights
— could’ve fought dragons, I chose shadows instead
and I did not win wars under the silhouette of my cape
I curled up at the sound of cannon *****,

shrieked louder than the wounded every time
an arrow kissed a heart
and I saved no bruised kingdoms with my flowing blood

sat by the roses and talked to the bees
cried out tears for a carcass of crow,
******* my bones with my feeble flesh
and I begged them to not break apart,
begged through every sigh of the air,
— every burning book,
— every hissing of the rain
every drop tiptoeing out a mouldy tap
I begged them to not break apart

walked though the forest with a lone wolf in my skull,
I sat by a newborn **** singing her back to sleep

and I cried out in pain when a knife ripped open my wrist
did not jump through dubious cliffs and roar with the winds
nor did I fight a hundred knights —
with a broken arm and a tired blade

I winced at the sounds of slashing swords
— shivered at the thought of a dagger’s stab
I dragged an obsolete chest through aisles of dusty, empty shelves
and I whirled around lilies and laughed with the frogs
all while melting away—

I Inhaled, exhaled all night— all day— with these rusted lungs

escaped a thousand chains that snarled in my bed,
I forced dry breads down my narrow throats
and saved a young jasmine from a greedy bird,

fell down thrones and I kissed a hundred grounds
through bleeding lips and muddy gowns,
molded my hesitant voices into tunes of ballads hand-stitched
I brewed tales upon tales for the lonely moon

I willed the vacant of this heart to breathe
every day,
every endless hour,
—every whisper of the despaired firefly
—every flutter of the wind
—every chuckle echoing in the sea
every tick of the yawning moon
and every tock

and don’t you dare—
don’t you dare
tell me about the battles they fought—

to those who randomly go around disliking comments:
I hope it makes you happy.

breathe—
like mint shrub under a drizzle,
Ink clawing it’s way up a quill
Like lemon grass growing
Like steam rising from a cup of tea
Like parchment.

Like confetti circling a cyclone
Like a whip kissing skin
a branch cracking
Like chalk against cement,
Like nails on sandpaper
Like glitter.
breathe—

But sometimes I lie straight on my back
Under a heavy quilt—
let my limbs slump away, let my fingers sink
weakly into sheets
And I think,
this is how we die—
Insipid eyes blanketed by skin
A book incomplete—closed midway, without a mark.
They may tie our chin and skull with a strip of cloth
to prevent our loose jaw from falling open,
this— is how we die

Like the carcass of Morning Glory
hanging— swaying in the wind
Like coal left behind by a burning log,
Like a dusty painting.
Like a moor.

No wings sprout out of our jagged backs
they put us in a box and clothe us in dirt
No earthworms spare our clotted blood
Clouds don’t come bowing down
nor does sky break to shards— for our escape.
solid bricks, we never did mind sleep
nor the warmth or tight embrace of our beds
the world's too big anyway— for our shrinking selves

Silence—
Like a beetle crawling down a leaf
the ocean behind a portrait
Like moon, yawning
Like a folded paper, filled with scribbles
Like dusk.

Like a still child.
a tongueless nightingale up a bough
Like words in a bottled letter.
Like rubble under smoke
Like a palette, unwashed.
Like a bone.
Silence—

And someone knocks under you—
You dig out the coffin and break open its lid
But it’s filled, to the brim, with mud.

And time spirals on—
Pushing us behind, and we fight against it.
A puppet tied to the sky,
wishing to see the end of an abyss
Like a stone under the ocean, dreaming of stars
breathe—
Like a newborn leaf.
breathe—

But the time spirals on—
and we, with the dirt, reunite.

this house reeks of joy tonight
a teary-eyed girl— laughing
the gas heater and its sizzling flames
crimson socks with golden stripes
and a woman eating a slice of strawberry cake
a boy revising his lessons,
a man listening to news
the sound of oven and the roasting chicken
a boy making jokes
an old woman, on her rocking chair, smiling
— sipping tea

and the lights flicker off— the oven passes out
but the silky strands of fire in the heater keep swaying about
— burnt shadows on the creamy walls.
roast rests uncooked in the blazing heat
and the girl gets tired of laughing
— maybe it’s the sleep.
and her eyes ache
— maybe it’s the sleep.
the boy puts away his books, stretching his limbs by the fire
woman places her blood-stained plate aside
and the boy runs out of jokes
—maybe it’s the sleep.

but the heater keeps hissing
and gas fills up the room—
air packs up her bags and leaves, unannounced
something heavy slithers in and out our lungs.
heat and suffocation drip out this overfilled room
the roast waits, patiently, to be cooked
and slumber sinks deep in our bones
and our lights go off—

and though the flame twists and turns
—no one sees her
and the roast screams
but only the metal walls hear.
this house reeks of a peaceful joy
and the old woman dozes off to sleep
the girl covers up her feet
the boy yawns and hides his face under a pillow
and the news go on but no one listens
and only the heater stays awake in this house
— reeking of a flammable joy.

and the roast curls—
the roast curls up in his deathless form.

Sun! dear sleepy sun.
Do you know what the squirrels are saying?
Say they heard from mice and moles
there’s a land beneath this land
Could you believe so?
These rooftops that you melt on
These trees— these roads— these waters—

But the lakes there, a frog exclaimed, are colder than dark
The buildings are grey skeletons— sometimes lesser
And trees— leafless— fruitless; tongue-tied with the winds.
threads stretching out in those nightly depths.
And humans— oh humans
but the snake shuddered at the mention

They’re raw! He hissed
like coal! Like a child’s burnt sock, alone on a blasted road.
there’s no flesh, no blood, sometimes not even—
But they’re alive, continued a worm
I heard ‘em talking—
Walking soundlessly in those ruins
saw crowns glimmer vividly over their heads

Sun! dear yawning sun.
I see you’re beginning to fade
I wondered if the folks there knew about you
—There’s no light there, not even a flicker!
but the snake told me.
and birds soar deep, wingless though they are,
in a sky choking of mud.
No one breathes for there’s no air to spare.
And the rat trembled,
and when I asked him why he did so
he only shook his head, closing his eyes.

And I thought
There’s a girl beneath my feet
A girl— withered and alive; alive
her inhuman sounds scaring away ants and spiders.
a sparrow up that bough
a crumbled mess of bones below—
And as your crimson colours pour over these silent moors
we put on our white-gold tires, and diamond rings
lay our worn-out daggers down to sleep
with only the dusk as witness

But sun! O should I admit
That I was bewildered
What land do you talk of? I asked.
The land below, said a rabbit, then pondered.
No, this land you talk of! a sky moulded and pounded
ash-white trees, sooty chirps,
vanquished beings with kingdoms and gems
— living and talking and—
and a squirrel scowled—

But I see you’re exhausted now
Here, I’ll cover you up with these clouds
And draw all of the curtains
the moon is only a street light far away
and stars, our locked up jewels
And I’ll guard this mortal sky for you

You, my sun, shall now be off to sleep.

"I can stop whenever I want," I thought.

Days pass on in a blink or two, nights even lesser
Sometimes they linger to catch their breath
while the moon sails like a leaking, exhausted raft—
forever rowing, never moving— in a silent sea
And even if I could grab hold of the sky
and spin her till a peachy blush lit up her face
what good would it do to this melancholy land?

When a grief-stricken snake banged at my door, one stormy night,
I let him in for his toothless, shivering lips
—blue like cold himself—
became the very cause of my liquifying heart;
what could the piteous reptile be offered but
a chalice of fresh, steaming, crimson blood
He gave me his ruby smile and I tied it around my neck
How do you repay such love— how so
if not by surrendering your own doomed flesh?

Did I, or did I not
Roam about narrow alleys of ancient cities housed with words?
make home with wounded rugs left
in places even orphaned kittens avoided
—slept like an unborn child through sunless hours of dark's embrace
Swam through tireless waters—
with a pillowcase filled with tales
Crowned by impressed kings in some lands,
robbed by faceless folks in others.
Carried a plank or two when stories stopped earning me food

All worth another flip of the unheard page
Did I or did I not then forget it all—

As winter moved on to the land next door
sky stole away the very snow she had once abandoned;
lifted the frosty veil off her sun's flushed face
But even as fox gloves and lilies opened their arms,
I let the snake stay in my castle walls
sent out an army and fought wars against stars
when he said he deplored the light
He grew up fast, developed a habit of hissing—

And the neighbourhoods passed like ecstatic tides
left behind by unstopping ships

The moon keeps chasing his blooming sun,
never too far from her rays
and they kiss in the mornings and kiss in the dusks
And the sky steals quick glances at sea,
as he smiles knowingly
The snake fills up a goblet of wine,
feasting upon treys filled with meat—roasted and boiled and baked

And I stumble through empty streets, vomiting out all but him—
Vomiting out all that’s left of me—

"I can stop whenever you want," he whispers.

Arms up, fingers clawed
as if ready to rip open a sky
pants —and sweats
and she sings.
a mad girl, people whisper.
rose-eyed, she weeps
as her mother pulls her in embrace
"she never stills" she says, flushed

a mad girl, people whisper
runs through rows of chalk-scribbled women
reaching for something unseen
Sings wordless ballads
with ever-changing tunes—
a mad girl, people whisper.
Bare neck and a bare heart
arms up, she leaps as if ready to soar
oblivious to the world bellow.

a mad girl, they whisper.
as I watch her struggle
to climb up the void—
A tree laden with blossoms and boughs
she tries opening her sewed wings
to grab a branch that lives
solely for her.

a mad girl, people whisper.
but I see him too, I wish I could tell her
but she speaks in colours
and mine have faded— wish I could tell her
I too have slipped off his walls and climbed again
too have tried chewing away his doors—
away, away she runs in the yonder
never once out the chains
a guitar in her dances softly—
as notes try taking her her
— as she tries following

Eyes filling up with every fall,
you'd think she were sinking

a mad girl, they whisper.
Utters wordless words that no one catches
but I too have shouted till could no more
too have cried tongueless tears over vacant airs.
a mad girl, people whisper.
As she looks up in despair, and sobs
her mother harshly pulls her in her lap

She extends out her arms— frightened.
a lover reaching for her submerged beloved
screams as the tree disbands into gusts
taking with himself, her only home

whose sky is green and the ground soft
—leaves ***** at you as insects bite
whose winds whirl about, kissing you slow
slow,
slow,
slow
— their arms around you,
Kissing you— whole— to sleep
where only sound is that of wood talking
and your heart breathing
far—
—far away from the world

a mad girl, I whisper, late that night—

on and on it goes
deep into the past— and forward.
  Still, on and on it grows
a spiral unfolding 
                                eternity
sideways, upwards, downwards
   — inwards
                  on and on—
and where all— that could be imagined— meets
       is this now.
Is this now?
    there we all sway
        there we’ll all stay
shallower than light
empty— empty—         emptier yet.
and there we’ve been.
shining fires— vanquished stones
betrothed, sundered;                        
carved into our very own       e n tr opy
   and deformed back to cosmos.
we’ll be there—
when we are; or are not.
scattering like pollens.
      Unseen.
                       far—

far away from this now
this mesh of a single thread
         on           and on which goes
On— on still
as strings long passed whirl around us again,
and what’s to come late

— comes already.