I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!

I oathed never to share that space,
Either because I pretended to hate it.
Or
But,
All the while,
secretly reserved it for you.

I know nothing about this discontentment,
This irritation and friction with sanity,
Suddenly it feels like I have not known my sanity,
Ever.
I have a confession to make.
To my parents,
3 decades older than me.
To tell them that I’ve been lying to them,
Lying about my degree, education and academic wealth,
For almost two years.
The fact is,
I had no choice but to tell them all is well
When the awls were pricking into my tender innards.
The time has come now,
Because I can no longer continue telling the untruth,
I tried if I could crawl in the campus,
Under the tag of being institutionalized,
For them.
Every day that I kept a straight face to them,
I trembled and felt the roars of the rising schizophrenic worlds, bit by bit, all around me.
I felt the unknown telugu that I heard in my mother tongue,
In my dad's voice.
Him renouncing me.
Him grabbing his head,
So as not to explode from the dirge of my living dead.
I hear my parents abusing me, in the random shouts of my neighbors.


I saw it all so clear.
I screamed.
I ranted.
But, found no warmth anywhere.
The fear, anticipation and confusion have killed my sanity.

Today, I flutter like a half-winged bird,
In the darkness of yesterday,
That my parents count as lit.
But then I released,
Knowledge is free.
And, knowledge is everywhere.
And knowledge came to me,
not with the stamps and seals of degrees,
But the enlightenment
From a concoction of three snorts of ******* and a dash of a little LSD on a Hoffman blot.
I rebelled mad in my high,
That I will no longer be institutionalized.
That I’m a free soul.
I became sober,
But my interests did not change.
Its been two years,
And I’m still astray, waiting to fully feel the freedom I have opted for.
For the pain of the mismatch I pour into my parent’s ears,
It kills me each day, second and time.
I have the guts to confess to my parents,
With neither shame nor embarrassment,
That my path is true and solid.
I wish not to be trained no more, to live.
I wish to simply live on my own.
I want them to know the truth.
That I have my house.
My kitchen.
My milk pan, mixer and fridge.
Today, if that **** that happened 5 years ago to me,
had happened now,
I know how to stand.
On my feet,
and hand him, my ******,
over to the law's eagle blind beaks sharper than the awl of my gossamer mists. Rather than bend my conviction, arrogance and identity to that ******* of a coward.

I want them to know that this is the only way.
Today,
I earn myself.
I live myself.
I’m free.
I have to be free.
I write all that I will.
And do forever the same.
I just,
Have to be free.
I will be free.

You look at me.
I look at you.
The heat rises.
Arousal is overpowering.
The nausea begins.
You ask, ‘Shall we?’
And, I blush, wondering if eternity will come together at least this time;
Going against my celibacy of a year,
Bowing to the blushing nausea of the routine arousal of a forgotten yesterday,
Awkwardly I crawl on the bed, sliding closer to you.
I sit on your lap.
I feel your ******* in between my thighs.
I rhythmically move with closed eyes.
Blushing, I open my eyes to look at your long black curls.
I cup your long brown beard in my moist palms
My eyes meet yours and they stutter, scatter and flutter.
Blushing, with halp open eyes and wide open *****,
I ****** my jumpsuit harder on your hard-on.
Your hands wary over my ***** and I clench my fist slowly over your manhood.
Suddenly, I become faster than you.
I kiss you madly, rub your beard over my tender cheeks and almost bruised lips.
You pause.
I don’t see you no more.
I heat up.
I remember kissing your manhood, loving it, eating it and  nibbling it for what seemed to be forever,
Until I choked.
Paused.
The clothes are gone.
And you pulled me by my hair.
Bent my waist before I could grasp a glance  of your rugged beard,
Of your sour kiss,
And, then it was just thrusts. And thrusts. And Thrusts.
And a million more thrusts.
After an eternity of an endless void,
It pulsated inside.
I felt a mild tingle.
Nothing much.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing shivering, to me.
To you as well.
It seemed strange.
And then you were out.
And then you were gone.
I dripped.
I dried.
I spilled.
And, I oathed that I will be celibate for the rest of my life,
Again.
Because you grow upper, and upper,
You forgot to make love.
You forgot to kiss me.
You forgot to look into my eyes.
You forgot to caress my hips.
You forgot to clench your nails into my neck
Because the ground does not move anymore.
To let me see the passion in your eyes when you're inside me,
Because there is no more passion left of this copulation.
This coitus is a blank frustration and none more.
It is just a routine now.
It will just be a routine again.
I swallow the pink-butterfly pill.
And I know, that this nausea
This arousal
Will enslave me the next time as well.
And next time too,
It will never be the same as I moan in my solitary void,
Feeling the tingle in my crotch,
Awaiting a warmth,
Tingles, and all the other fantasies.
I will just stand, stare, hope and die without the holy tingle,
And you will too.
We are just jaded, and Jade till it all dims to an oblivion of a momentary jade.

man bun
Disheveled
Hair, soul, shorts
Gleaming sweat

Palms screaming for warmth

Alluring smile in a dark mustache
Covered in cologne
Of Potatoes and ***
Of Chapathis and chillums

Murky embalming
You were a slice of the lavender valley
Distant
Intoxicating
I tasted from afar.

I decided that, I would like to be a radio woman,
With the accelerator on my foot,
The right,
And mike on my left.
Blaring aloud,
A beetle bug motor-bee,
To sway and jingle over the traffic
Of the whole world
In a Tea’s Daze;
Blaring it aloud, to the supposed society,
The majority,
To it,
To the Together,
Aloud,
With a resurrected rebellion,
Howl all my cramps off,
Sans the punctuality, morality
And ethics.
And, free it all within a session,
A million worth of cramps sediment,
Waiting to sneak into the coffin for my afterbreath,
Just, free ‘em all, Whenever I feel it.
Aloud. Lucid. And, Crisp.

I oathed that I will not think of you.
Like, every oath,
After a while

… One gentle breeze ruffled
through me.

It pauses and paints itself with your face.

How can I ignore your lovely eyes, whatever may have become now.

I leave everything and grab it, the wind.

Then gently …

the breeze starts a rollercoaster
From
All the way up above the sky.

Everything,
all over again.

I hope what they talk about time is true.

That, with time I will no longer remember that feeling when you held me safe in your malnourished arms
And made me dream of your home in Thiruvananthapuram,
That someday I’d felt invincible holding your nimble hands.
That unforeseen, yet delicious kiss that once you took from me,  just after your puked.
And, how I remember that as the best kiss of my life.

I wonder,

If you ever felt the way I did.

The rollercoaster landed with a thud.

And I grabbed the good ol’e breeze that reminds me that, I am delusional just as I was after I met you and before I met you.

And

Gone are the days that you're welcome back.
Au revoir!

Humanity Plus or Transhumanism,

This is the It.

An elixir,

to the Crooked, twisted and shrunk a world Right now.

The only Elixir to any sense, sensitivity or Sensibility of an unknown Sanity.

When the gore began, it was just a flowing river of reddy blood.

Out of an aquamarine fireball of yellow out of the Sahasra,
I was nowhere but inside my head.
IT was pale green and bright indigo all around.
Crowded.
Enchantress Revealing.

Twists and turns did not stop the telepathy.
With a pastel smile on a pale beige brawn, everything blended in flesh and blood of my dreams.
Were it mine?

Or was it that of the girl from the screen?  

For more than a hour, I loved everything that I despised and the other way too.
In fact, I was even one with the smudgy blades of the cooler fan in front.

When it ended, I knew perhaps the rainbows and rainclaps on every planet across the cosmos.
A day after, everything is monochrome with a dash of anger.

Drums beat the endless chords
Of something that looks like an agony,
A vague aftermath of a smoky carcass.
The crowd remained enthralled or detached.
In excitement, in boredom and in unison.
They seemed to know the routine of celebration,
Of enjoyment,
Of the rejoice.
But still not eat at it,
into themselves.
They seemed to even echo their claps and nods so parallel,
To the rhythm,
That they all became another maestro
The deaf Beethovens.

While the elephant,
danced.
               And sang.

In a pristine celebration only known to him.
Like the seducing dance of the King Cobra,
In the Jungles of a drenched Wayanad.
Green,
Yet so Aroused and red.
While nature became its charmer,

She,
the nature,
Juggled with the soul, vigour and energy of the King.

In one plate,
altogether,
The art,
The music,
And the rhythm became

The dirge of a new cemetery                  
                                                        of an old heaven.

I have worn a ring
Ever since I remember the first.

I woke upto a lit’le golden shine
On my li’lest finger.

I grew into a walkable,
And it got tighter.

Then they removed it
and gave me a diamond studded one on my 8th birthday.

I wore it on my index.

I grew into my teens
And it got tighter.

Then I got outta teens.
And it got tighter all the same.

Then a brown haired chap took pity on me
And proposed me.

With a ring.

A silver one.

I wore it on my ring finger.
Then it saw me for a long time.

And it got tighter.

And I separated direction from
The brown haired chap.

So, I dropped the ring

And whoosh it flew into the tracks
with the faintest bounce.

Then, I was a woman.

The ringless finger ached my periphery.
I thought of my diamond ring .
And I sold it next morning at the Jewellers.

I got a Platinum ring, after a lotta confused psychology to take the decision.
I felt a pauper signboard afar.

I wore it on my *******.

And, I smoked a cigarette
And I drank ***.
With the platinum shining on my *******.

Then I took pity on a black eyed fellow
And slept with him in a drunken state.

Morning I woke up with my bright sneer  dimming down.

My ring was gone.

The black eyed chap stole it.

My platinum ring.

I never wore a ring
Ever again.

I smoke the cigarette
And I drink the ***
With none a ring.

I will, Will to be buried without
Any of the Same.

I’ve been walking
So long
So far
Weary eyes
Sweat cakes
Blood soaked rashes
My best friend’s taunt.

Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.

I’ve been trusting
So long
So far
Wronged tales
Spiked hormones
Nauseating future
My mom’s warn.

Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.

I’ve been resting
So Long
So Far
Gliding on tides
Erratic refrains
Clumped bones
My doctor’s threat.

Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.

I’ve been blind
So Long
So Far
Stuttering steps
Coal filled iris
Yearns mourns of woes

Sing a song, Songbird.
Please, Sing a Song Songbird.

When I look into your eyes
There are sparkles
Confetti
Icecream
And Noodles

Fly away?
No, crouch down.
On all fours.

I want to see you scream.
I want to see you wail.
I want to see you moan.

Waiting a charade for a lifetime,
that does not cease to breathe or reap,
that merely glutted.

Gloating away in chagrins
of Purple apples and Silver grapes.
Enwrapped, uncertain, and detached
there's no more thread to be broken any more
on the sweaty rope that my life hangs onto.

The point is not just to realize that all things are momentary,
But yes it is all, momentary.
Even if you are ****** thankful that things turned out miraculously alright,
It is flimsy.
It is fake.
It is superficial.
Even if you are ****** sad that things turned out awfully wrong,
It is flimsy.
It is fake.
It is superficial.
Everyone likes to predict,
Prophesize
And, do things a step better than how things would fare.
Just to emphasize that everything is customized.
That everything is superficial.
That everything is fake.
That everything is flimsy.
It is not just enough to say
That you’re different.
That you’ve gone past the worst,
The worst than what anyone can ever imagine,
Or even nightmare.
It is not just enough to say,
That you are happy,
That you are content,
At peace,
That you've gone past the best.
The best of what anyone's best enlightenment is,
Or what they dream of it.
Hence,
Even though it is momentary,
Flimsy, fake and superficial,
The only way is to
****, and let the killing go on.

Could you talk,
To Bite My Fears,
Widely beaming beside.

I am on Everest
But it’s suffocating my breath.
Wish it was like the Dream
Breathless Trek
Upbeat Track
Dirging my glory all around.  

I am on Sea
But it’s killing my gut.
Wish it was like the Dream
Featherlight walk
Suspenseful score
Wailing my glory all around.

I am on Cliff.
But it’s breaking my step.
Wish it was like the Dream
Gladiator circus
Dropping riff
Lamenting my glory all around.

.......... ..............................................
Afterpleasures,
Co­ndemned bits of divinity
Call me to breathe again
Slowly Walk
Through
man-eater buildings
if it suits the taste
Come over, bring an ecstatic Tuesday,
More wind and an exception to beauty's calls

You know me as the pretty mistake of two.
Moonsong of a million.
You will doe-eyedly
End me for a night's sleep.

Subtle misery amber soot
Soothing its way numbing mute
Dopamine Aye!

I faint at the glimpse of the first heartbeat of a known nightmare of an unknown tomorrow,
I look up to the heavens,
Wondering if God will come down this moment,
Embrace me and Erase my decaying past.
The past that has corroded my innards,
With an immediate recovery for the pricked,
I vaguely whisper the chants of a mourner’s suicidal rush,
Hs wish.
I tremble with the blasphemic sweat and the unnerving chill
Of a child with Malaria.
I wonder if I have the guts to die.
I wonder if I can stop all that I want to stop
All that I want to hail.
I wink at the worldly judgement of praise,
For me.
I grunt at their superficial love,
Directed towards the unreal self.
By now.
Thanks to you, my fellow humans.
For now
I know not.
Who Iam or who you are.

Sitting around the patchy tree stumps at Sagar’s Cafeteria,
Campus was not solitaria*.
Listening to songs saved on our tiny phones, decade ago,
We devoured the sound of silence and the fields of athenrye
Together.

We lit mary jane and made merry singing along to ***** Gun
in broad daylight without the purview of uni cam puns.
Who cared if it was just a five-minute break from Hemangadutta
Or Sheeba’s hungry call for relief,
we made it seem wakeable in the dewy morns.

Sagar’s had the tastiest samosa, chicken puff
and Tiger biscuits so cheap we could fudge it in the lassi whuff.
Days and months went by hovering around Sagar than classes.
We never saved pennies, we spent bills on choora
from our pocket monies for bura.

And, you finally feel absolutely safe
To just lie down, cup your skin with your warm palm,
And stretch the breeze on your *****
With closed eyes.

It took her Seven Years to complete
That Precious piece of Writing she called 'Toska'.
It saw her through 57 writer’s blocks,
108 Reader’s Blocks,
Odd 6000 Cigarettes,
Odd 7000 Joints,
50 Acid Blots,
1 Kg *******,
3 break-ups,
34 One-night Stands,
114 new Friendships,
3 Suicidal Attempts,
9 New Houses in 7 New States.
All it took
To be
Wiped
Scraped
Drained off Earth
And its history was
her neighbhour- Li’l Margaret to tear it in just a three hour span,
When she was away at a Restaurant Fixing a Deal with her first Publisher.
The Willpower Failure was too Strong.
The belief in the reality called life,
took a wink’s duration,
To make it her full and final success.
Her 4th Suicidal Attempt was a huge success.
She died unknown,
Just like the death of another starving Orphan in the Indian Slums.

She told me that she wanted to kiss me.

I’d swooned over her curves since a long-long time

Dreamt of the moment she was ready to say yes to my 2-year long request to share her warmth.

So, I jumped with joy, but was numb to say anything more.

I thought, she’d be different.

I thought, she’d know.

I thought she’d understood nothing more, yet nothing less

Than what I’d always said-
At the end of the day, leave me alone!

Like most people,
She too thought that this was merely ornamental.

And she said that I hated love because I’ve not been loved enough.


Gwaaah! Such lies.

Such coarse hopes people prison within and dream more about the torture.  

But, there was a difference.

I was not one among them.
I had no rousing dreams.
I did not want any romance, I merely wanted her body.

No.
Co-existence without ***** was prettier.

Wetten.
              ****.
                          *******
and Clean it off with a gush of the jet.  

Like most liars, she too lied that she hated commitment.
And echoed with me.
Like more flimsy folks, she was flaying too.

She was not my falancho.

So when I finally told her that I didn’t have time for her.

It was with a heavy heart
                                              because I had time for her body, but no time for her emotions. Or mine to be shared.

It’s a burden to even think that I may start it all over again.
                                               So ….

When she told me that I will never see her again,

               I was smiling inside.
                                                       And I silently told her,
*******!

Miles past, on the road ahead,
I saw the man pause while on pace-4 speed,
And fall down,

Through my balcony.

He was not that far,
Just as I’d caught up with the twists and shrinks
On his face, cheeks and limbs on a bare whole.

He looked at me.
He told it all.

Yes.                                       From miles past my window,
I could feel his gaze, no, the silver strands of his corny memories.
Coming to me,
Without a stamp, seal or crossed arms.

                                                               ­       Searing through me.

Without an apology, fear or want, he fell with a shushed thud on the tar.

He told me that he was afraid.
He told me that he had loved just one girl in his life.
And that she had crossed Seven seas and eight worlds by this lonely moment
That we were caught up in the swirls of the green grassy smoke of Mary and Jane.
He told me that I was too pretty for his eyes, mind and soul.
I told him,
It’s a heat and that I was not there to **** him.
I told him that we were just caught in the jingle of the purest heat,
I told him to relax and sleep.
And that I will not touch him.
I told him that I’m a sweet ******.
I told him to stop staring at me with those sweet puppy eyes,
So that I can control my arousal, nausea and heat.
I snuggled close to him on a single bed,
Lulling him and sending strong telepathic heat.
After a while, he turned.
He asked how wrong it would be if he would go soft in between the sacred art of love,
I told him that is the passion and that is the heat.
And that it is to be simply genuine to your rushes wherein *** comes.
I told him *** is not an exam.
I told him that *** is a rush.
I told him that *** is the Heat.
I told him to be simply genuine.
I told him *** is to love.
I asked him if he loved me.
He said, ‘Ami tomako Bhishon Bhalo bhashi’,
Which is Bengali for, ‘I love you very much’.
I creased my brows
And scorned at him saying that he’d just met me,
He said,
That was enough,
And that I was his own soul,
In flesh and Blood.
We made sweet sweet love,
That night.
All night,
On the cold floor of his shabby apartment,
On that sweaty night,
When power was never there.
I went to my flat in the morning,
I bid him goodbye by the evening train,
I never asked his name.
It was as if I had to know it later,
Not now.
Not today.
Not this week, month or year.
Just another age.
He never asked my name.
He must’ve felt the same.
For telepathy, never cheats.
Today, I wonder. I trip.
And I imagine him as all that I want,
For all that I know is his sweet puppy eyes,
And the ablaze heat that taught me that somewhere,
There lies a momentary passion bigger than me,
Inside me.
Waiting to burn, Roast and Shrink
My ego, my identity and myself!

They decked their bodies on the hexagonal stairway,
That primed up into the heavens of boulders.
Decked boulders,
Eyes from the dead shoulders,
That ran the dust of time and concern,
With double ambiguity;
That ran the cobwebs of melodrama,
Of Purple voids
And dainty scars,
There were just blocks.

There was no God.
No Owl.
No leaflet or Foliage.

There was just a dainty scar
That cervically opened
Into a white expanse of rugged and dusty fieldstones;
With the waves expanding their circumference
It was hard to keep the shells afloat.
Rosebuds, it looked like,
The little ***** that dug out of dung holes,
Everywhere on the white crystalline beach;
Rose budded footprints of an animaline saint.
It might just not be the little *****.
Then the dust rose up.
It amalgamated into the purple haze
That became the tender feet of cupids that embedded
Their rose-budded footprints along the shore of the sea
Sea that circumference the earth;
A Chinese fishnet flew out of the foliage
That, that is drugged in a an embrace
Gently over the ocean’s tiny footprints.
The fishnet was not targeted or focused on oars
But it was the Oars
That roared an echo
That conjured a Wraith
With Ate by its side;
They roared in unison
In a screaming echo of the overdue night before.
One with desperate fledging oars,
In a senseless sea
And,
In an endless churn;
Then the sky drifted apart
To clear the grey remains,
That of a nuclear battleground
Of the last world
It skid along a steep drift
And found a purple pathway.
The pathway took enough time to open them
The dingy awls of ancient machine plates.
Entwined and unforgotten,
These had made a rounder depth into its omnipotent boulders
Than the mongrel-ic infrastructure of the present world;
Mongrels of a primitive category of potential.
The wisdom that was as ****** as
A bloated hyacinth in its first blossom;
It took a speck of a quarter wink.
Chaos followed obstruction,
And the dust jostled out in the jiffiest.
It was a strange new octopi.
With blades for pearls.
With fangs for lustre
With gigantic dilation of a black void of pupil;
How could it run through?
It phantom-ed the serpent in one plunge;
And a single spasm.
Then it exploded.
A million nebulas bristling with a zillion kind of rainbows,
Rainbows of hydrangeas in elixiric daze at the tip of each finger.
And,
Starlets.
Then it was all purple.
Cosmotic falancho on a curly fledge.

Every time,

Everytime someone asks
a question
Any question; I freeze.

Mind fades
Neurons vanish
Oblivion brightens
Like the beginning of a DMT trip.

It needn’t be arithmetic
It needn’t be  my love life
It needn’t be about the speed of waves in Red Sea.

Sometimes a Split Second
Sometimes an Eternity.

If there’s a question
Marking the end of your sentence
You better not ask me.

O, So many questions left unanswered
When I go to heaven, God's bound to ask another!

I have walked all them roads that you told me I shouldn't,
I have felt all them things you said I shouldn't.

I have talked all them things you told me I shouldn't do,
I have felt all them things you told me I shouldn't think.

Now, in these woods.
Where the paths lead me to everywhere.
Astounded and blissful.
I rest to stand, till you join me again, my Love.

And, then,
It happened, the answer.
After such an endless wait.
For hours, days, months and years of being away from you.
Caught each time in the cobwebs of tripping on meeting my Mexican smuggler someday
To confess the strength of my love

But. It happened already.

I saw you.
I touched you.
I drank you.

Nothing has changed.
The peace is safe within your hairy chest.
You could not hold me,
While I wanted to squeeze you.

You meant, not yet.
It took me a while to understand the new you.
The solid you.
The you I lived with for these four years were the burps of my memories of a distant yesterday beside you.
I will let you go in grace.
Because I know nothing can change the peace.
And nothing makes the least difference in that intact a peace.
The world thinks they know you.
The world thinks they know me.
But it is you who know me.
And it is I who know you.
But we will never know that knowing.
Of being the sole knowers of each other.

I run in peace, my love.

We were lying on the lawn
In the park when the Shooting star,
Made its first appearance.

"Make a wish honey, you'll not live forever",
He told me.

I looked at him with the same contempt,
I’d given birth to,
Since the day of our holy oath.

"There's an old man called God,
in the sky is what world preaches.

No.

There is just a man in the sky, ******* shooting stars too hot n bright.”
I finished with sparkling euphoria.


"you ******”,
He addressed me, to deliver a mocking pat,
But his heavy muscles excited itself too much,
And my skin broke red a drop
Upon his slap too tight.

"***** mouthed *****",
He emphasized his love again,
Hence I shut my mouth too *****.
And stared at the starless sky.

Sarah the ***** passed by,
And he asked her if she'd spotted the shooting star.

Sarah's lips shrunk too little,
And she nodded a hefty no.
And he got up on his legs,
And walked away from me.

I saw him moving his hands down her jeans,
And Sarah bent further down.

Then, I saw another shooting star.

And my rage wished for a gun in my palm,
And,

Lo, there it was.
A sleek black gun too comfy in my palm.

I could see their back.
I could see Sarah bending,
Responding to his fingers down her jeans.
And then he pulled down her negligee' too transparent,
Ripping off at his touch.

Then, he turned and looked at me.

I saw his eyes widening the focus on my gun
And his brows creasing.

I clicked the safety off.

I wanted to lock the eye contact,
And savor it for my eternal future.

And I shot once, straight into his heart,
That dragged him to the ground,
Dead with a tent in his pants.

Then, I shot again.
Just to sweep the obscenity off the frame,
His *******.

And then, I looked at Sarah.

Another shooting star passed by.

'Make a wish hon, you'll not live forever'
I told her.
She closed her eyes.

I shot her four times.

Mouth, ******, left
And then the right breast, just to emphasize.

And then, something heavy stuck my chest.
I looked at Sarah and the big gun in her left hand.
I gaped and gasped at my bullet hole.

I said,
"Shot with a shooting star,
******.
I should've ordered a tank.”

She shot me thrice, in the head.

Then, we're both dead.

And then, there was just stars.

Caged in the chambers of testaments
Fantasies
Written
at the death of dawn
Clutching me in its grasp
Hugging me out of breath

Gurgling chaos of uncertain words
Slowly
Weighing
Down into the crown
Grappling me on its tongue
Blotting me out of sight

Ever felt your worst fears
Come
Alive?

Only
When you
Write it down?

The lazy days of basking weekdays
Cutting classes roaring of Kant
Whiskers on kittens,

Just

Breathe the solace of scorching heat
Atop the ancient building
Of my grave

Didn't know
them pearly drops

Elixir was
Water now.

Life it gives.

Someday it'd shine like silver
On your bushy brows

Reflections in Martyrs

Tonight
Lay in my arms.

I faint at the glimpse of the first heartbeat of a known nightmare of an unknown tomorrow,
I look up to the heavens,
Wondering if God will come down this moment,
Embrace me and Erase my decaying past.
The past that has corroded my innards,
With an immediate recovery for the pricked,
I vaguely whisper the chants of a mourner’s suicidal rush,
His wish.
I tremble with the blasphemic sweat and the unnerving chill
Of a child with Malaria.
I wonder if I have the guts to die.
I wonder if I can stop all that I want to stop
All that I want to hail.
I wink at the worldly judgement of praise,
For me.
I grunt at their superficial love,
Directed towards the unreal self.
By now.
Thanks to you, my fellow humans.
For now
I know not.
Who Iam or who you are.

I wish I could cry.
I wish I could scream.
I wish I could howl,
Now.
For all That I felt in the dusk of my insomnia,
Was, just the searing smothering of those endless dawns,
As I wished I could substitute the passion I have invested in the fear of this bygone twilight.
For All I did was stare at him with fantasy of poesy running in my eyes,
While he threw our wedding ring on my face,
And walked away forever.
That day to this,
I think
My silence was highly poetic.
I wish I was something other than numb, for that is what poets are made of!

In the bottom of the world, where the eye can’t trace,
There is a world. Far from worlds of all kinds, there’s a maze.
It’s slopped down and valleyed to the edge of the earth. From earth it rises
and flashes like an army of ants. Mutinying army ants in hermit clothes praises.

Little huts made of clay. Ants clay-model rants they philosophize the earth. Planet of hearth.
mutineers of hard work, far from working life and politics. Licks the Saturdays to Sunday dirge.

Your sorrow will be gone morrow,
Your silence will be force of horror.

We will help you seek your justice.
All you need to do is now is close your eyes and wait for precipice.
It will bear the name of your Victor. Traitors and victory echoless.

You can rise again, stitch the rashes for Phoenix,
Fluttering to the dewy meadow of blue above. Rise above the sky this time.
Close your eyes and fly this time. Never another time to rise, close and soar but this time.

I remember you as the heat of a vague howl.
Of a faint,
distinct yet enthralling moan.
Of the ****** nubility of a forgotten feud.
Reviving and enthralling to sear.
To etch the purple into the nastiest blue.

Oh, Howling Wind,
Rupture my senses.
Freeze them.
Walk through them.
**** them.
Ashen them.
Erase them in the slides of a past catacomb.
A fragile memory it is,
Falling into the dark closed of the Beneaths.
Folded into its darker flab.
Be my accomplice in the helms.
Up till the hems,
Drag me into the deeper,
Make me another you.
A part of you.
A synechdoche.
A part of your whole.
Just a mere part.
Then, pull me to the core.
Into that black.
Sear me first.
End me with a scar.
Rain me.
Cleanse into me.
For the last sepulcher.
For the last dirge.
For that last sweet hymn.
Of the awls sealed into my ruptures.
Of my torn cartilages.
Of my scattered distastes.
Of my oblivated conscience.
the symphony of my pain.
Sing with me.
Howl within me.
Rush through me.
Be my paroxysm. My mirage and Ilucion.
Be my vortex.
And my, reason.
My wail and my groan.
My facade and my heave.
Sear me in your wrath to be the wraith of vengeance.
Reach out for the darker.
Shout out with me.
Take me with you.
Hurricane me in your divine dance.
To the Up above. Fuse in me.
Impregnate me.
Blend in.
Diffuse  me to dissolve in you.
Just howl till you die, with me.
My sweet love.

In the best high, there are two things,

either to be.

First if,

“Pansexuality”.

Or,

“Narcissm”.

As in,

you attain one of these two.

The strictest codes would decipher this for you.

Yes, I completely am sane to use,

'the best high'.

My handwriting was so ugly,
I practiced it day and night

I wanted to become a doctor y’see.
A doctor with a fine hand.

My handwriting became so good,
I became a Writer instead.

Now
I Type!

We are the dream world.


How beautiful the world would be if there were no great men or saints and virgins and wisest or the kindest and the mercifullest and the sorcerers or the scientists or the philosophers or the murderers or the rapists .
As in, if none knew each other.
If,co existence was a celebrated event.
Everyone on earth packing, and moving, and settling, more than a dozen times an year. Government computers relocating everyone in ease, and earning and sheltering. The main idea of survival was to celebrate all of it. Or, better be an entity of the whole earth. Pack and move and change the setting whenever an emotional turmoil emerged. This routine was just not, not possible, but proved out to be the best world any a baby can be born into.

So darned welcoming.

The world today that we have is anti-life. Borders forces and military and taxes and police all to guard, none to serve. Today you are reminded that you'll die any moment, for each moment of being alive. And then, maybe your body can be eaten by better wormes or burns.

Nobody wants to celebrate life. Forget about the pandas ******* a li'l lesser this year or about signing the campaign against government to support anti-natural planning campaigns, or that lesser people are celebrating the monstrous virtue of pity to hang another's redemption by feeling proud in his disgusting a state. Or perhaps you might say global warming, is amazing. Its deadly. This ******* earth has been subject to all kinds of Celestial, rapists, murderers, cheap killers, dons, mafia, assassins , corpses and lunatics. And, these notorious ones being of space, increased their strength by thousand folds and got **** names too. Asteroids, meteors, meteor showers and space explosions to name a few.
And, to assert it, earth has been surviving all these unguarded events for so long of a huge chunk of its existence without we chipping in.

See !

We are insignificant.

Try, living your own life.

Marauders
Spying shamans
How dare you mumble?

Speak up, Vermin.

Disciples
Lying barons
How dare you pray?

Shut up, Cuckoo.

Maidens
Celibate ******
How dare you cry?

Sack up, Moaning Lisa.

"Rain is the ******* of the Clouds.
Thunder its moans,
And Lightning its ****** from the Heavans.
Hence, when it comes down it gives life to plants, earth, men and Women, so exquisitely!"
Idea-Alaine Randall
Composed: Ceida Uilyc

Now,
I’m no longer afraid to die.
For I crave and greed for death.
I want to reincarnate,
Not be disqualified as a human again,
Fare
Well
To be a cat
A dog
A bird
Or even a mosquito.
And hence, there is a courage to rebel all, to just  be alive!

diamonds and rubies
fighting

splash of moonshine
on blood
cold mines
sweet spine

flowing the sweat
like paisley plowing
lightning mud

under the bushes
meadows of bats
black and beneath