What is poetry to you?
The faceless man’s obituary on the newspaper nobody cares about?
Or is it just what I write?
What do songs mean to you?
Nothing much, just sounds and rigmaroles
Or is it just when I sing?
Don’t you like a quiet drive- no radio no honking- or is it just a drag?
Or do you only hate it when I drive?

Were you awake when the night turned purple?
*And battleships invaded the silent civilization
Of mystical beings
Army men-like grass blades stung the sky at the horizon
The gravel road shone like a milk white drape
Out there, a faceless man escorted creatures of the moon
Down where you and I stand
There was a shiver down my spine and I called soundlessly
All sounds dampened by this heavy droning that swooned
everyone , but me.
A cloaked man stood by my window, hitched breathing,
As my throbbing head paced in double time, I thought that was you.
Next moment, I was out cold.

There was never a soiree without her-
Until the day everything changed.
Strangely that night, all too blatantly
Glasses clinked’, giggles echoed
Inane but spirited chatter
Churned together with the air
The very air that had usurped her being
And not left a trace behind
Pallid evenings gave way to pallid daylight
But like an inkblot in the night sky
Her bright eyes and ever so fervent smile
Were beclouded irreversibly
Her pictures vanished and so did her memoirs
So did keepsakes of her bleak existence
A familiar kind of existence
She breathed in every word ever said to her
Cried with the morose, bumbled with the inebriated loner
Cordially marveled at the disillusioned old man’s jokes
Not too high-spirited and never overbearing
An ever-smiling sponge- a beast of the worst kind of burden
Devoid of desires, complains, broken dreams-apparently
No one seemed to remember her at all
Or notice she was gone.
A raven sweeps over- a little boy stares, everything’s still the same
No wretched tears about the girl who’d never bother a soul
Never mind that she’s gone.

Damsel in distress
but in Indian streets.
Look how she walks
and, look how she speaks
she takes too much pride in her being
she's asking for it, isn't it?
Look how she talks- her hands fluttering
Look how she weeps now
Her hands quivering.

If I pen down why I'm this way now, will it be a sad truth?
If the yellow-ochre walls turn grey somehow, can I call this a gloomy day?
Can all people bear the sickness inflicted upon them-
Or are some of us superhumans and the rest just ordinary men?
If I scribble some things I saw in a dream and feel better about today-
Will you tell me why the last day we met was the last day I wept-
yet I'm not doing better now anyway?

The hot wind's soaring and I can't rhyme
    dastardly pedestrians stare from time to time.
It's a beautiful conundrum- this madness.
As I stand here now, in your old address.

The author of my favorite book would’ve never said ‘favorite’
He does talk about sacrifice and really deep things
And that word can’t explain any of it.
He says we always choose what we can’t have and cry over it
But now all that just sounds like a pop song about a pretty girl
With flaxen hair and long –long legs figuring out her way
I wish my tale was more cinematic, but it is dry as hell.
Today is no better than yesterday
Just a different shade of sickly blue
I deliberately keep avoiding the context of love
Because it’s so basal and we’ve refined tastes
Or so I think
I know little boys don’t think that much and
Little girls are told good girls don’t play with fire
Wretched, needy begging bowl of a soul
Invested too much on a gambler’s lucky streak
Now I’ve woken up to an endless sabbatical from relevance
I hold on to a smile
One that remains long after it’s gone
Like the sudden flicker of street lights in a rainy day
Doesn’t make a big deal about itself
And eyes that don’t melt concrete or anything but
Eyes that could make a cold-blooded killer cry
And they hoodwinked me
Perhaps we’re naked in heaven
To make up for all the deception in our lifetime.

Tonight like every night,
the lonely crow will visit my windowsill.
I can almost hear him breathe if I keep very still.
It peers, never breaking the ice-
Not a sound provoking the serenity
If it's not here tomorrow
I'll probably spare some time wondering why
and peer at the windowsill
like a creep.

Ever heard of the fire that burnt
All I never really cared about?
The curtains are reduced to ash
But the lagan in my head’s left untouched.
I’ve had a lump in my throat for the longest time
So I couldn’t call for help.
But I took the longest time to reach your walkway
They say I was jaywalking most of the time.
My eyes are too tired to take in your colors
I’m not sober enough to be able to take in some more of your words
But tell me how you feel about today
Suddenly I know I’ve said too much
And you know all about my shameful inclination
Towards revisiting the darkness you remind me of
But what can I do if that’s the only part of you that’s left with me?
The next second your smile curves into a morbidly straight line
You look indifferently at me, but not into me anymore.
How you just draw yourself away so exquisitely I’ll never know.

Poetry was born out of artless desperation
Even though I've gone down that road a few times
I like to think I’m not there yet-
Where light only comes through a forgotten window
Where nobody can ever hear my screams
Where I can’t pretend
Now and then I catch these sounds
A dull clatter of banal days and drowsy storms
I can wash my head clear of all the change
And break a rule or two, deceive the pain
Lapsing back is pitiful but I laugh off the warning on the pack
The truth is so much simpler than the way it manifests
Such a beautiful waste of time
If only my version of events could hold out for a while
You’d notice how quiet the leaves were
For people like me and you
How happily I could just drown in a moment’s cacophony
But you were just going through usual motions
Being a catchall for your vagaries tore away my being
And you abandoned every shredded figment of my soul
You suddenly break into my poetry which failed to be about me again
How I wish I could draw simpler pictures in my head
Have sillier dreams and slap on a sickly smile for all time
Never gaze into people again, just the vague tendencies of passers-by.