I found a penny buried within my throat,
sitting inside my stomach,
burried within my temple,
whispering words of my stars,
telling tales of my future's past,
guiding my fate down a musky road,
laying me in clovers,
tangling within my curls,
dripping into my drain,
over, and over again.

Are these girls for real ?
eating outside the cafe
its a cold day in April
they have no stockings.
Little sparrow show your dare
pick up bread crumbs
from their clueless table.
Somethings got to give
your fledglings are more deserving

born when i was
and when i die,it does the same
reflects my unique style
and often stay close when
people just turn it away

I. CHICKENS

I am The Great White Way of the city:
When you ask what is my desire, I answer:
"Girls fresh as country wild flowers,
With young faces tired of the cows and barns,
Eager in their eyes as the dawn to find my mysteries,
Slender supple girls with shapely legs,
Lure in the arch of their little shoulders
And wisdom from the prairies to cry only softly at
          the ashes of my mysteries."

                           II. USED UP

    Lines based on certain regrets that come with rumination
               upon the painted faces of women on
                   North Clark Street, Chicago

               Roses,
             Red roses,
               Crushed
In the rain and wind
Like mouths of women
Beaten by the fists of
Men using them.
     O little roses
     And broken leaves
     And petal wisps:
You that so flung your crimson
     To the sun
Only yesterday.

                            III. HOME

Here is a thing my heart wishes the world had more of:
I heard it in the air of one night when I listened
To a mother singing softly to a child restless and angry
     in the darkness.

Cities aren't cities,
The people are the cities,
she'd say, and I didn't understand
what she meant until I realised

That Hauz Khas was our first stroll ever,
Khan Market- our best cup of coffee,
Humayun Tomb- our first stolen kiss,
Dilli Haat- our first quarrel,
The Lodhi Gardens- our biggest quarrel!
The Jama Masjid was where we'd always make up.

Now I know which market sells her favourite
bags, which gully keeps the anklets
she loves most, which discrete stall in the
by-lanes of Old Delhi is her best chaat-wallah ever,
Every nook, I know by the fragrance of her memory,
I try forget, I try erase,
But oh, I remember,
For she is my Delhi

Delhi is her, only her,
The city of first love, first dreams,
a million rights, a devastating wrong,
The city that now stings with the thorns
That make my feet bleed when I try to enter,
Even with my back turned,
The city hurls
Stones at my fragile heart and screams at me
to never return.
*I'll never return.