Tonight, the full moon looks so beautiful
that I am crying. I have lapsed on my knees,
the pulp of every love- shared. subscribed- streams
through follicles of unpardonable zest.
Nobody should know, but they end up aware
of the malpractical jingling pulling us
into the cartoon turbine that wants us first,
into the scratched longing poised in our collars.
Nobody should know, but they end up aware
of the unplanned lobotomy of wrong-
with opaque grunting, sure, maybe,
the necklaced ash-bath, the causal antibiotic for dummies
who dream about a bite instead of the consequence
of our bodies.
There's a full moon, and nobody should miss
on the engine-knock of our throat;
we've not loved for a while, but we still hug warmly
before we leave, smile at the odor of food,
spill it like the children we have never hated or loved but were,
clean up like the hankies we became.

Smell of (fantasized) cell number on a napkin-
wheat-colored, taking stride with the outcast wind
bouncing off the sleeves of Monte Carlo-
barks with attentive seasoning;

I remembered that smell inside the subway car
in the jute-fiber knot of flesh,
furnished myself with its contour,
mucus fondling of despair that unfolds
its sorry, coy sequence.

When we're asked about the imagination
we who can't smell it as well imagine
a ribald audacity on our part,
like a whos-who on a pinned up list, like
sunlight thrown like a muffler around your neck

Every shelved poem (if there are any)
(and there aren't a lot of them, to be honest)
(when they exist, they exist like a barbaric
sizzling television static or what-do-you-call-it)
(but usually, there aren't any, and the rear
of my neck feels made of curd when I wake up)
(but yeah, there aren't many, which drives
me to make some monumental mess ups)
(because there aren't any I indulge myself
on my college educated words, inherited
from hours of labor, and I shuffle them, save
few hours of sleep, post like I know something
about the gravitons of regularity) (but, its cloying,
really, very juvenile, sappy-like) is annoying.

Heard him say "No no-yes-but-";
left the no-yes-but in the polyodorous mess
of the alley where the ardor of the brick
faced the lost yet hushed, holy counterforced stress
of dank tea-breath that pressed against
the soaring, dressed-up, early, out-of-it kid
whose face, buckled for the forced haste of a mollycoddling kiss,
strikes against an elbow. What a jolt,
we wonder. Of course. What a jolt.

While scratching my beard, I vacantly
warmed my face in the sunlight
infiltrating through the dross window.
Spoken about car horns many times,
will resume many times more
although they don't share their language
with me on any level, preferring to cleave
the jangling nature of bylanes, almost as if
to summarize the gasp of coal.

I refix my eyes on the book,
find a beard strand on Partha Chatterjee's extract.
I, as it turns out, shed on the problem
of imagined communities.
My friend's laptop plucks data for her eyes
and its charging wire hangs precariously
like a ratty bridge that's newly renovated.

My my who tells the tales?
The elaborate johnny walker way,
corporal dodgeball stayed on stride-
my my who rakes the age,
who shapes the leg
for their cotton arms to pluck, to tuck
the cushion where my back will rest
though my arms won't stray
from the lethe of your soft leafing urge,
from the sap of your *****,
from the fireplace of your lips
that run flyby agendas
of such dark dignity that stylized
the breath out of caving sun-dust,
grabbed to deify, the only role
we've assumed is to die right,
in arms, shut-eye tight.

Intrepid   punked   my love

truant in dress, a true sucker
like him who turns an ear like a page,
a brute man who sides with the perched rage
eating with family and choking on news;


the stains of palm-grabs on the drainage pipe
beside the window where the branch chuckles
at the swan-traced latticework.
I don't remember when I'd seen a swan last,
but I know they are comfortable in water
(which I can never be until)
and they are rather sedate fellows;


this calls for a musty retreat
where no delayed trains can haste,
where ideas plank on to merge with the urge
to surge in the splurge of steak-
mixed sauces, the way we love
is a mix of tastes that smells
like a damning auto-tale.