What am I but a speck
of insignificant dust
that floats aimlessly
in the infinite skies
of the cosmic mind!

A bubble that bursts
even before it grows to be one
A thought that's still not a word
A note that's still not a sound
An infnitessimal bit
of the tiniest...

That am I
that spans all
Space and Time
And every other dimension
that's yet to be named
yet to be conceived
infinite and eternal
This now, That then,
and both ever.

To you, my dear,
I appear, maybe,
as a footloose Camel
grin, ****, beard and all.
An unkempt shaggy nomad
smelling of travels and travails
and seemingly carefree
stubborn and eccentric.

Trust me, I'm not me--
at least that's what I think.
(For that matter neither
are you you, I suspect)
All you need is maybe, like me,
to look upward and gaze
at the nightsky
at stars long dead
and meteors dying
when you're already yesterday.

I won't blame you even for a moment though
if you think I'm so and so
who graduated in Chemistry
but went on to be a journo
and then a merchant,
and somewhere in between,
a loving husband and a dad
and a demented wordsmith
tinkering with ideas
with hammer and tongs.
I'd rather give you the benefit of doubt
for I'm seeking the truth myself!

In the gallery of my heart
hangs a lone naked lamp
that sputters and swings and smokes sooty
as if buffeted by unseen draughts
and it casts shadows distorting
upon its mirrored walls.

If you were to enter ever,
If I were to let you in,
or if you stole in like a thief
when I was weak for a blink
you'd be stunned-bored-
intrigued-saddened by what
a little boy picked up on his lonely road.

Tiny shiny marbles chipped and split
-And bits of toffee wrappers
-Collages of smiles from sepia-toned faces,
derisive guffaws, frowns and sneers
-And gently billowing tapestries woven
from strands of happy memories
-Magic carpets that swooshed crazily
over fantastic surreal realms
where people wore nothing but
their emotions and desires
-And books, yes, books of all variety
little ones, big ones and yettobeopened ones
-And clocks and watches that kept
their time to strange metronomes.
- And in a dark corner, a trashcan
of dashed hopes and stillborn dreams.

You'd hear my mother call my name,
and bits of truncated babble,
you'd hear flutes as if from afar
and streams gurgle
and birdsong and sighs of longing
If only you'd listen,
you'd hear the calf call out to his mother
eager to **** at her udder
and of course the music of the night rain
ravishing the Earth.

I warn you.
You'd be bewildered
by the swing of the lamp
You'd lose your way
among the swinging shadows
not knowing for sure
If you were for real yourself
or just a mere shadow;
If you were a figment of my imagination
or I yours.

If molten clocks and midnight roosters
don't scare you,
If unspoken guilt and silly peccadilloes
don't haunt you,
maybe you'll survive
my chamber of mirrors.

And if you think even for a moment
that you saw in the mirrors
a thousand grinning camels,
Well then, you're surely my friend.
You can walk in any time again
and explore my gallery
without permission.

O mother
of all entities,
thou art but pure desire.

I feast my eyes
on this big vermilion dot
on this plate of pickled mangoes

I reach out
My finger tip stretches forward
To touch that dot.
What moves my finger upwards?
What makes me open my mouth?
Why is there that gush of water?
What is that which thrusts my tongue tip out
In expectation of an ******?

That moment
tantalisingly eternal
tantalisingly fleeting.
that touch
of the fingertip
on a million buds.
that one moment, o mother
is when I know
satiation and desire
are both you.

I bow to that you, o mother!