Show him your knife, oh! lovely killer, he wouldn't mind,

Seeing your weapon of destruction before the bull is felled,

How much should he suffer,not any more swiftly bring to an end

Was your's love?In such ingenious disguises, how clever!


Well polished and sharpened is the weapon, such meticulous care,

For the precision expected, never ever you missed your target.

A gleaming cutting edge, you sure want to make him proud.

Now I  see this clearly, the magnificence darkness processes!


If a sanguinary end of love life is thy pleasure, may thy will prevail,

Yes your love has been expressed tarantula like , from the day one.

The dark angel, with a vengeful gift, you are, the dark bloom too.

Yet another martyr of love, all his pain equals to your one searing kiss.

Minty fragrance of the gently
stirring morning breeze
buzzed something in my ears
I have a vague memory that
it carries deeper echoes, than one hears
but what exactly,how to decipher?

Musky scent from a wild orchid wafting
had an intimate thing
to remind me from a day distant
but still melting my heart at times.

Do I hear that sound,
flipping of a slip
while youthful shapely legs
does a spirited jig, spreading verve
making me sit up mesmerized,

The sultry breath of someone
still too real and couldn't erase
from the memory tapes, do I feel
behind my neck sowing goosebumps?
What is this, time travel, I can't believe
from here, I slip in to a time warp, irretrievable.

Dusk is busy with her daily bit of frenzied painting,
in the western horizon messed up by dark, fat, nimbus
with an intense wish to make it look strikingly different,
from that was in display yesterday and the day before.
The colors appear in fluorescent flashes and in the next
instance changed in to mixes of more  ruddier hues
suggesting a separation, an invasion of black  night long.

The beating blue waves of sea are all red with empathy
and the sun is pleased to come down for an ablution
in a sudden change of mind, swims to self immolation.

The  ghost town yellow evening, I did wake up
in a dream, was strangely familiar, painted by him,
Vincent Van Gogh, in flames of creative fire, who else?
kept  it a secret, until I've stumbled in to, as if it's a well.

I fell in love with a girl in a yellow sunflower gown
on it were sea waves swirling in his signature style
in the blue sky, below her waist was  challenger deep,
I held her by the waist, like smoke in a flux, she swirled,
it wasn't in here and now, in the past or in future.

I wasn't present anywhere, just a thought sowed,
got embedded in her brain. This mystery of us,
Van Gogh's echo and the creative universe we did exist
wouldn't figure anywhere except when we meet.

Night appears in an avatar
of a sweet chaperon,
coming with a lovely dark gown
to dress the shy, blushing evening
cajoling her for a slow make over,
she implies, it's better letting
the will of darkness prevail.

Now she is a perfect charmer
night, lets her long dark tresses
loose, that flows in waves
down through her back and
caresses her rotund proud buttocks,
adding to her silent grandeur,
till the next spectacular day breaks.

Night is an ace  temptress
with full moon at her side
as an irresistible  magical charm
to sway even nature, catch
the sea in her net,
of attraction and makes it  dance,
bewitching night makes
the stars in her coiffure gleam.

Night is an agile courtesan,
having royal patronage,
eyeing you wistfully,
hellbent upon her this day's conquest,
her amatory skills one can tell
will be *****,she is classy nevertheless.
In her boudoir, women are salacious,
hungry men too dance to her tunes,
what you gain after a spirited
amorous duel, is the gift of dark eyed night.

There was a river, near  my village home
a perennial silver memory of my childhood
in which my mind  still in hallucinations swims,
a life line once ,no more exists,  because of our sins
alas no one recognized her might,when she was
alive and full, roared  tigress like through ravines.

From above the hills, a girdle of gleaming silver
comely like a village belle on her way to the market,
in that jungle village they never noticed her charm
or the amble through rocky paths and an occasional prance

From the hill roaring aloud she jumped down,
ran through the sand bed in mirth, on  both sides
coconut groves and rice fields performed welcome dance,
but times changed, they daily removed sand in truck loads
as we watched in pain  the river turned to a mere rivulet
one day the river became a myth, a tearful story to tell.

There was a river once for our childhood whims to swim
for beauty in the form of lush green to come, stay near the stream
a river of plenty that we thought was ours  for all the times to come
it's now a distant memory, seems like an unreal  sad dream.

The bee I did like,  buzzed around me in circles,
with a nice tune, and  tried her best to impress,
as I wasn't a flower, just bloomed and could'n't offer
nectar even if I wanted ,because I have exhausted all by now,
such devotion, I guessed is because of misplaced affection
or result of some confusion, so  I prepared
to say good bye to her.

                         but I did underestimate a  bee's frustration
she  came direct to me and stung with all her vengeance
left a thorn in flesh that spoke of unfulfilled desires in general,
But the pain I thought, I deserve though could plead
not guilty in any court. Oh! her sweet vengeance is an enigma,
let her feel good about it, leave me to  nurse my paining spot,
no more  friends with bees as the season of flowers come to a close.