Vespa,
the live wasp
of paper house,
feeding the insects
to little ones.

Silicon valley.
The oranges were very sweet
and carpet beetles
eating away the fabric.
I have come from a faraway place
to taste the blood-stained raisins.

Do you know why we bury
our truths? The ancient gods
were very pleased to eat them.

The hymns don't tell the lie.

Indicted,
the firm grass―
will start a fire. I was trying
to find my path in smoke.

On fingertips, was at stake,
the creek's departure.
I would wear a mask
hiding my emotions.

We will wait for the spring.
There was still a mound of snow
at the door.

The **** of the moon
was not in cards. We were ready
to sit in moonlight, reading
our hands.

Philosophy of death
has many questions. Religion
of birth has many answers.

It was just my time.

To become responsible for
me and I had become recluse,
to lose my memory,
to pay back my debt.

I am returning
the gifts,
of night, birth and
sacrifices.

The wheels―
had pulled me to slavery.
I am now floating,
wingless,
weightless,
for I cannot see―

the parental fall.

I hear your voice
coming from within.
The disconnect, the cultural clash,
from river,
from tree,
from the golden nest.

The circle was complete,
breech birth,
the explicit insult.

The parched moon―
will bring the cold
tears, to extinguish the sparks
going home.

The roadway leads
to nowhere land. You will
again meet the wounded
cuckoo which will always sing
the hurts.

In blood and grass
lies the snowman.

I must not look at it twice
after the spring melt.

The black magic has failed.
A mooned night will―
not reflect the real intent
of song's proxy in dark.

A lethal mix of twilight
and solstice, squats in gloom
to listen the surrender
of shine.

The glorious name, ultimately
drops the hint,
of profanity, written on wall.

Not knowing―
was a bliss, writing
a poem.

Words fall―
Like small birds,
flying.

I pick up
the sorrow, of the
blue sky
inaudible.

Amnesia.
I want to drink tonight,
purple hellebore.

Like to protest―
the display of private things.
The humming.

The alphabet of
betrayal. Who wants
the award?

Amnesia.
I dream of dying,
feeding the doves.

Was it too early
to start getting dressed up
without a show?

Amnesia.
The hyphens don't
connect now the broken strings.

What happened? I would
ask the realness
of genocidal face.

The blue ****
was numb in the laser thin
commentary.

The face was mirror. You
can apply a salve by implanting a womb
in the barren dream.

Beheading a thought
was not sufficient to **** the theme.
It will come back with revenge.

OCD. I come back again and again to
look at the portrait
of a failed god.

Burning the pages
unread.
A daunting task
to rebuild the bruised relic,

of future, which I see
in my dream. This was―
the desire, till
the last flame dies out.

I am not sure of
myself. I will chase
a spider, climbing the
wall. I want to know where

it was heading, carrying
a headless fly, to bury
a spotless name in the
web of mortal threads.

In a starry night
an adolescent thought starts
a rivalry. A baby moon squirms.
No hour was safe from terror in dark.
I climb the stairs breathlessly.

The great divide deepens in hearts.
Incisors bite the tongue,
grey cells bleed inside.
Thick ash has not stopped the cinders
smouldering under the veils of flushed peace.
Cupped tears wash the feet of death,
a caravan of words moves desolated,
cutting on the edges, before you say
goodbye to green vision.

Today I am pulling out the nails
from the walls. No hangings of departed centuries.
No portraits of exiled flames.
Only the face of truth, burning
at the interface of unthruths.

Blackened silence was holding the reflectivity,
reality was on the run.
Exile was complete.
Dark secrets, standing on head
remained buried in your chest
absorbing all colors of sun.

A night remembers the friends
who went over the hills one by one
to find the pugmarks of panther
that was killing your infant biographies.
The world stood bodyguard
not allowing any immortality.

Your speech was clear, but unheard
in terror of burnt-out principles.
New sleeping cells are coming up for a
metaphysical revolt. A heron was
stabbed by soaring kites
in the golden valley.

To you, I
send my silence,
before the fire starts, to engulf
the open barn.

This mourning must stop.
I will wash your feet, of mud
and wet grass. You have
come after crossing the jungle of black roses.

Tomorrow I will call swallows.
A peacock will replace the
ruined, plundered, silk poppies.
The bleeding sky turns blue.

On the road, echoes
of greedy words will eat the smiles.

You drape me, with wet kisses
O moon.
I will not forget you
in freezing rain.

At dangerous arch,
blue-veined―
milk in milk has made me red.

The ecstasy digs out
the hidden lyric,
I would never sing.

Will you find any
questions, to defeat the―
intimacy of a ****?

A hurt here, a bruise
there, my faded shirt
covers the poems.

I do not want to become
plaintiff or defendant.
Untethered, I will punish myself
for metaphysical nuances.

Sometimes a silence talks to grieving sky
about a fake truth.
The tears will never stop now.

Give me my freedom to cry,
to exhume the body of justice
and bury my future in memories

I do not sell the dreams.
Eyes tell it all.
History repeats itself
when message dies on legs!

To become or not to become a renegade,
or to die or not to die for a semi-god?
These were some of the questions
thrown at an incomplete script.

What elevated you to a celebrity?
Your **** or deep wrinkled groans?
Age is abating, abattoir is empty.
Exile from the past is over.
When you intend to comeback to childhood
and become a simple star?

Behind the mask lies the embrace of death
I am afraid the flames will engulf,
the genius of pathways.
Everything will turn into obsolete gossip.
A patch of sunlight becomes a costly exposure
bones are entwined in eternal cuddle.

I will gather you―
through the uproar,
when moon picks up the sneaky path,
from dizzying heights
of hunger.

The poverty of words
hides the bread, ..
You cannot eat an emblem.

The calibration has failed.
Milk contains the
contaminated water.

Everyone has one's own
book, where you write your name
and bear malice for everybody.

Night comes like a
black dog
around the corner.

I start paying off the debt
cry for cry, with a
ceremonial sword,
cutting off the shadows
falling from the
distant hills.

My questions are burning―
on pyre. How did I fail myself?
Why some mercy
was unacceptable to me?

Standing in midstream
I let go your hand,
and drown in quick sand of thoughts.
Now a poem will
lift me from the ruins.

Between the hope and
betrayal lies the truth-
a terra cotta version
of time.
A vitrified china will
not reflect your face.

You search the word's
tragedy, in a wound's
profile.

A speaking book repeats
the sermon.Do not
go after the questions.There
are no answers.

Prepare for the last rites
of porcelain.Only the plastic mind
knows the reality.

Poised to confront
the improvised explosive device
of winds,

good moonday
stands
in melting snow.

Church was
unselling the ***.

In-between the spaces
body moves
untouching you.

A poem crashes
on the tongue. You
will not confess.

The wordless thoughts
swim like swans
noiselessly.

Unreaching the abode,
you will invent a god
for a knifed boat.

The sea is turbulent,
you will still sail,
not to reach anywhere.

You were shrinking
like microcephaly,
the mankind's evolution
in expanding universe.

The new thoughts-
do you think we were
always talking nonsense.

The real tragedy was
here, in your hands
when you held the
gun.

The lead in water,
and arsenic in earth.
Like celebrating the man's
victory on space and time.

Was it kosher to wake
up a sleeping poem, when
someone has burned the book?
A rite of passage
between the poppies?

The soaked swans
were not ready to accept
the challenge of the defining moment.

A smart moon walks
behind me, snooping around the pines,
to drink the brazen lips.

Why small girl walks on the snow
to get the blessing
of the bells?

Like today.
I walk myself, in my footprints
tasting grassiness
sending the runners,
on the anniversary, of the brain's death,
when no deliverer was in sight.

The empty chairs in black rain
wait for the parted windows
to let in the screaming light
for a reunion, with the children
of tongue, who were lost
in wilderness of vows.

Looking at the world
from a keyhole, at an unearthly hour
you viusalize a miracle,
to heal the blood apart, wounded
grains of golden dawn, a mother
thrashing for charred hunger.

A mystical dialogue
in swirls-
to drown you.

Blank pages draw you
for a suicide, without
moving your bones.

A thin worded threat
to conceive a sculpted
dream, deranging
your sea of
cadavers.

No dissecting table
you need to solve the death.
All the arguments are tilted.
You will rig the answers.

They will come
in bunches, to beat you.
You will not hear or see anything.

The cells,
climb the fame,
unperceived.

A bit of nose, blue eyes,
jugglery of stances.
You catch the body art.

The eagle
dives, for a legal ****.
Hail, the beautiful
execution.

To shut the voice,
you bring in, snow,
white blanket for every
one deprived.

The shadows sit,
under the words, to torture,
to bring,
perse memories.

A downfall,
precedes,
before the crash of
existence.

Ah, you know,
what makes your saints
blue? The sematic shooting
stars?

The anxiety was,
how to stop thinking
of becoming,
a vigilante.

The mid-night raid
was most unsuccessful attempt
to ****.

Are you there to listen
my voice,
in the wilderness of violence
and other atrocities?

My toes were hurt
in uncharting the path
of arms and rams in avenging
the dead silence.

You will get back
what I did not give you
in the aftermath of tragiccomedies.

Life walks by pink
pythons to trade the peace
on the name of gods.

The calamity of the angels
to become hard warriors.

Don't print on the body
a pattern, grayesh red.
Damask rose?
The cilia will propel you
into the tunnel.

Clowns have assembled
on the street, to write
the history of fall.
Acts of kindness are being
translated into profanities.

You are hurt by the
petals, thrown at you.
Kingmaker, why you have become
a joker?

Red lilies?
Do you like the buttercups?
Eyes ago, there was a bouquet.
I am not sure, why you were walking
on nails.

It had touched, the wind
of sky.

The viola goes―
pansexual.

Purple, blue and white
dog violet,
one of the petal was
landing gear for politics.

A fugitive poet
grumbles, eating the dark words.

After suicide, the viscera
was found blank, except
the half-eaten plums.

My unique offer:
I want to embrace your
downtrodden faith.

A continuous buzz makes
me nostalgic of my
rendezvous with a walking
fern in early dawn of
enigma on limestone.

Would you mind to stand still
in blue light to-
read the unwritten command
of astragalus?

Where you want to
go to find yourself in
the black autumn of ashen faces?

The ice. A brittle
transparent truth of water.
Can you walk on the frozen lake
of eyes?

Twitching will not stop
after you hit the bull's-eye.
Somewhere a nightbird,
had a hallucination, moon was
scared to come out.

The game we play all
the time. Tracing blue nudes
on the beds. A gang ****
went unnoticed by the
diehards.

A sphinx was rising in
east. What you have done
to stall the riddle of winged monster
sailing like hawk moth,
drinking your honey?

Let us sit in shared light
and talk about the cove.

You take the call of a cuckoo,
and start trembling in blues.

You may sing without moving the lips
but this song is mine.

Why do you want to take your―
own life, in the drag race of bazaar?

Colors will hack you to death.
Don't climb the stairway to fame.

It was renaissance. The severed
hand was writing a letter of gratitude.

Nothing helps.
The colossus has failed.
A naked fakir-
walks in dark moaning.

You ride a torpedo
to **** the gossips.It
misfires.All around
us is deep water.

An avalanche buries
the camp.You will not
climb the peak now.

The goddess is stripped
and alighted from
the rock.Let us pray
for the wildfire.

The sparks become the tears.

It was a strange experience
coming out of the body
to understand the death.

And I watched a train
whistling by―
then I understood,

time will not wait for me.
I started running
against the moon―

to forget the empty dream,
catching a fever.
I am still burning―

in grass, collecting
the dew, falling
from the misty night.

You are brain-dead
with amnesia
in winter snow.

A frozen pulse, without blood
running, bluish-black
death.

Was death always black?
Not like supple, red poppy
leaving the stigma mark
on your white shirt?

Landing amidst the
crowd, of funlovers, there
was no exit, and I must
meet my enemy
my shore.

Leave your seminal
expression with minimal
damage.I am excluding the
human race.
Your chin protrudes
when you think aloud.
Were you becoming-
a unique animal in haste?

The man has the
erectile ego as that of
gastropod mollusk.You will
never cross the Atlantic chasm.

You always wear
a slippery shell externally,
when your thoughts are born.
God save this earth.

The dots, million times,
like fire ants.
A black mass, you want
to exterminate.

Give me a light year
to understand the gray sky.

After the blast
the mind spills.

Thoughts, endless thoughts.

How do you reach the rim―
of success, as an ing'enue,
drifting down, without raft
in the river?

Was it a winter sleep of a toad
to ward off the
hypothermia?

Tie the knot with my mortgaged life –
I have started the self-descent.

Don’t leave me alone –
I have to unload some debts.
It was very disturbing. I have again forgotten
my alphabet and become illiterate.
Your consent is must
for starting a new journey.

I am neither afraid, nor worried
but fever is rising, like a flood
and ridge was collapsing.
The death was unknown to me –
it will come one day as a guest
and stay with me forever.

Times have rattled me enough
and sword hangs from the roof.
Why do I dream such?
The dichotomy between gold and lies
will start one day. I cannot go back
to my dilapidated house where I met the first words.

A fear stalks me on the road.
Sun was very aloof and cold.
Cannot stop the decline,
give me prayers of your lips.
You talk of dark children dying
when I was losing consciousness.

Will not question the ink of death
or silence of night.
The random greed of man walks
in golden ruins without listening.
I am counting my years wasted
in pursuit of crazy dreams of climbing a watchtower.

Hunger had become a great teacher.
Pain becomes a face. Limbs and shadows
seek justice after **** and ******.
Something seeps in me. Wounds bleeding
on my hands, I dig the floor of the moon
where God was sleeping.

Moon was mixing the colors.
The black hole does not exist.
I was hearing about the quantum,
something was amiss.

Purple grapes had turned black.

I am trying to understand
the damages. A discreet thought hole
permits the escape of energy.

Imagination was at risk.
Can you hold on to life,
without a shock?

Somewhere you go back
to a concentration camp to collect the ashes.

In a moment
of panic-
you write a poem
to catch the truth.

The aplomb and glitter
of money's ride
shatters.

And the stones sing.
A star breaks away from
the galaxy.

I harbor your face
like a bee's sting.

I watch,
watch the ills of hunters.
Why you want to commit
the sin on a particular
day?


Orange planets, as of blood
and fire, seek another sun to light
the dark crevices
of doubts and fears.

Ask the queen of night,
who was more brutal
than the crucible.

All it took was a change in
a single drop,
and you become a beast
from an angel.

The unthinkable, was
possible. You can execute
the extended family of a dove
by sending a black crow.

The rivals will engage
the history. I have stopped
reading the dates.

In the dust
from the dust. I will see your
face daily,
in between the spaces
in between the hunger―
against the wall, where you were
asked to stand *****
before...

The clock was moving without
hands. I will hear only the
tick, in dark, like the regular
heartbeats.

Ultimately the space wins. We start
moving apart. The distance increases.
Echo becomes dull and
then acoustics fail.

Only the specks now speak.
Each spot was a name
was somebody, was a living being.

Not reaching somewhere,
I was not today,
what I was.

You seek a hand
for a handshake, and I watch
the dirt gathering
on the nails.

Sky does not give you
an award.The soot
collects on the windows.

The blue skulls dance
to defy the earth.No forehead
was formed.How would you
read the destiny?

I swear, I did not fathered
the deity in a-
monotheist gathering.
A black hijab covers
the moon.

Completely eaten up by
coherent light;
the dark niche smiles.

Your collect the toadstools
under a pine.
Butterfly will not need a siton.

You breathe tumultuously
heaving up like Himalaya.
A croc has taken a girl.

Scouring, the unmarked
silences―
for the invisible executions.

My name was
on top, for exclusion
from the list.

Now you can read the
applicant's account
under the sun's fault.

A thrill of terror
runs through the buds.
A celebration will stop the words.

There was no other
way, to know the pink of
a dying rose.

Life plays the tricks.
You become a meteor-
a streak of light, in the almond eyes
of a god.


I don; t like the grey areas.
Can you become fearless
and confess the guilt of drinking
the mercury? Blisters had
appeared on your face red and blue.


Was it a pure fault?
Mother earth smiles.When buried
alive thirty below the mound of lies
you remained alive.


Dehydrated, you speak
the truth and spill out the
false teeth.Your mind separates
from the heart and blood stains emerge.

What you would not give,
age opens
and eats you.

Finally, the fly ash
was liberated. It carries the
memories of burns, in furnace
that was life.

No android will fight
the proxy war of flesh. The cinnamon―
body will write the elegy
on sandstone.

The bronzed face, now
reflects the pain of earth.

Let the hymns stitch the life
without needles.

Seasoned,
a red hibiscus
will ask for a white name―

in winter. Like drinking
night, under the moon
for a torn meniscus.

How far was the skyline?
The snow wants to reach
the ultimate blue.

Water cries for a
beautiful weep for the sun.

The orifice was absent
from the face.
The hatred will unite the enemies.

You won't speak
in the debate, how to
****** the humanity.

Old affections are made
anew.You can score the
highest tears


Armless, you move
the clock in-
opposite direction.

The stigma still remains
after the flight.
I am going back home.