Questioning yourself―
like a Spanish Inquisition.
Ruthlessly digging out,
the anatomy of arrogance.

No flavor. I speak
to myself of atypical
intolerance of a man in revolt.

The slavery of tongue will not go.

On the verge, the other
thought collapses. No longer
the heritage remains faithful.

Love suddenly becomes
stranger. You won't touch
yourself. The narcissism becomes suicidal.

The black song
empties the mind. You want to weave,
but air does not become green.

I stand alone. The cosmos
moves away.

Life, *** and pain were
of mundane existence.
From where to where, we
have arrived.

*

From a bridge to bridge
you cross the river
without touching the water.

*

When a nameless projectile
downs your flight
you fall like rags
from the sky.

*

A spider runs
on tiptoes
you wilt like mimosa.

*

The ink spills
an the sheet
hiding the code.

Open the news paper
and find out that war has a set sequence
of going daily,
and has a negativity.

The physical shock, when
the earth trembles. Your body
becomes stone, hairs stand.
Light breaks through the twisted limbs.

I don't love the ritualism.
Time will not stay for you. My life
becomes your life. Sod
will receive the ashes of rage.

And you will delete the
presence, the touch, the dust
of departed fragrance. Once upon
a time, death used to be a song.

Inexplicable.
I run my own life, when
epicenter moves to periphery.

A drink of hemlock
from your purple― spotted eyes.
You want to squeeze the blue sky
in your chest.

Was I violating your
sanctum sanctorum, hidden
deep in crevices of ancient love?

Your voice was cracking up
hoarse, as I listened
in silence, concealing my
poem not to explode.

Wings become the tongue
flying off, like possessed
celebration of loosing
the glaze and becoming a naked mammal.

A cold-blooded laugh!

It was the frontal assault
of brutal summer.
I waited for the rain
to come and fall on my neck.

There was no grief
between the aches.

In starlight, flitting
around in bushes,
fireflies,
you take me in twilight.

The vernacular nirvana
begins, till my moons squeeze.

It was not a stabbing
wound, to be picked up
by a poem in distress. Light
on light will speak

of femineity in dark.

Standing on black stones―
in water death,
I let it go, my pride
at the end of bay.

No obituary
no elegy,
will erase the thoughts of coming and going
of moon, when night
starts crying.

The smoke-filled eyes
will speak of the burnt house,
when the sun was
telling the truth.

Setting frozen tulips
at your feet, I bring the
river of tears
to start the day.

Would not move the things.
They had moved me.
I will never be the same.

Probably a time to learn,
listening to yourself. The
sensors didn't go wrong.

More often I will unroll
my candles and burn
them with my life.

Ripening old, in dry
fountains― waiting for
rains in songs of sorrow.

History does not repeat.
I am preparing myself
to start again writing my book.

Will not commit anything.
Standing in morgue
searching for my unclaimed face.

Will not donate
my bloodstained shirt.
It divides the cuffs.

The alphabet turns
around to watch the fall
of syntax.

Everynight I wait
for the moon to rise
from the crescent of golden eyes―

for another encounter
with a god, who
would not listen to soliloquy

of a rich begger―
sitting in the ruins of a temple,
he built of dreams.

Memories on edge
one after the other―
salted, dried and smoked.

On green sea―
in a sail boat.
You do not know, where to go.

Hot and humid night.
Half moon, sitting
on a royal palm.

2.

A violent sun
was rising. Knocking down
the unending music of night.

The purple flight
of fish, clams and *****,
overrides. Tomorrow they would be
on table and white sand in your eyes.

The waves, come one by one.
To die on the receding shore.
Your hands tremble, holding the sea.

3.

China rose. Evergreen.
You will find its glory
petal by petal
at every step.

On a tropical beach―
at sensual dawn.
You come out
to pick up the poems.

Love is the arrival of carnations.
Do you mind the nameless pain,
When you walk Matilda?

4.

Earth breaks here
into palms, like spread hands
and hibiscus blooms.

I find the red lips
on burning globes.
of honeysuckle shades―

the sand, sky and moon.
They will meet tonight
at beach for parting kisses.


5.

Something climbs your bones
like an invisible wave
of primeval lust.

A blood feel―
from the ****** of Duranta,
the secret of land's native instinct.

6.

It falls like a quivering leaf:
the sultry night.
A salty wind slaps and tickles.

Walking under the royal
palms, escorted by
lined cycads.

Full moon hangs
overhead, watching the sensual
dance of light and shadows.

7.

The absolute stillness,
hisses. A vicious assault.
Your hands fly to ward off the evil.

A savage storm
of whirling thoughts―
uprooting the dream of wholeness.

8.

I spread rose petals
on your frame.
You smell―
like a garden.

Around the moons
I will draw the Caribbean sea
with a roving eye.

The lush green, your body
of domes and hairless seeds.
Skin starts burning like a peach.

9.

The flames
now leap. Sabotaging the surging blood.
A subtle and delicate presence begins.

The ism has a silent
fall. You can hear the turbulence
before the poem is born.

10.

The age
unwraps you.
Listening to the sounds of sea.
You are ready to face the ageless.

Time takes its
pound of flesh.
You bleed in grass.

Wind smears the pages with dust.
You were writing―
in praise of absence.

And when the full moon
gives a call, you
become speechless.

I have lost my home
again.

Anointed truth
had no path. Path
was the truth.

Not a play of
emotions. I am talking
about the transparent
leaves pressed in the books
of fake religions.

When there were
fireflies, you deleted the rains
and sapwood saved
the lip's blues.

You rolled around
the burning pyre. Flames were
embracing the dark lies,
about the brailled poems.

Perfectly in harmony,
Bach was being played by
a blind artist. Did you know it?

ShareShare The Thick Skins

Sun breaks
on green lake―
into myriad of white birds,
fluttering their wings.

In wet grass
you sink, inviting the black clouds,
to hear the echoes.

You follow the sunset
in a glass of wine,
to become complete again.

A lake walk,
in the forest of limbs.

Like the blind man said,
I can hear the truth.

It was more of a ritual
to sit in intense moonlight
when seagulls were stealing the sky…

And you will belong―
to the darkness, of unknowing―
self.

Knowing the inevitable end,
that will come, uninvited.

We are going back.
Let it be.
I will never know―
when will you arrive.

In the aloneness,
going blind to the playing
light, you prepare to drink
the darkness of noon.

Becoming dishonest will
not be possible for me.
The times are revengeful,
come back in black to fix the smiles.

Like water hyacinth, the
disquieting worries will grab
you and hound you to the white bones
and turn away.

Where the blood and
nerves went down? It was
no sin to rise and
stand against the sun.

ShareShare Grafting The Lichens

The founder will not find
the copper to cast the history.

It has not begun to hear
the farewell to summer.

Arms were coming out
to end the war, to seal the fractures.

Not my pen, not my tongue
will know the secret deals.

Frontiers are being redrawn,
between the guns and the books.

He wants to revert
back to mutism.
No thyme―
no secrecy.

The half-baked pursuit
of non-violence,
accepting the violence,
on other way round.

The otherness.
You want to identify yourself
with a new religion.
Terror of anonymity?

A night blooming cereus
wanted to avoid the sun.
And love, must you
play desert?

The waves
had brought me to you.
Do not be gentle to time.

Lower the songs
into a mass grave,
as the violence spreads.

This time-travel
will take you to panic attacks.
Blackness moves very fast.

Hypoxia.
Photons will take you
to fading sun.

Glitterati,
now hurts. You cannot
haul the gift of reeds.

A poem
borrowed from the roses
sits today on my lips.

Crowded with ******
at night, words move
around the flickering flames.

Thoughts.
They fly like sparrows
encircling the mind.

The sky falls. Import
of faceless assaults thickens. Red
poppies bloom in wheat fields.

White mushrooms,
come up in summer to complain
against the muted surrender of clouds.

The waves
had brought me to you.
Do not be gentle to time.

Lower the songs
into a mass grave,
as the violence spreads.

This time-travel
will take you to panic attacks.
Blackness moves very fast.

Hypoxia.
Photons will take you
to fading sun.

Glitterati,
now hurts. You cannot
haul the gift of reeds.

I walk towards you―
till it hurts.

In moment of nemesis
I set you free,
and deceive me.

You look beyond me
and become blind for the road.
Life starts drifting away from
each other to discover the meaning
of truth.

We may not meet again,
behind the faulted moon,
groping for light.

You always knew―
I was not you. A miniature
vice― religion apart,
had become a river between us.

I won't swim again.
Buddha smiles with alacrity.

ShareShare In Quiteude

The cat had the feral
look. The home was
burning. Drag of
day to day dying
unceremoniously.

Nowadays the god lives outside
the temple. You don't have patience.
Some zealotry?
A siren song?

I was not in any trinity
of god, man and beast.
On the remote trail you will
find my blood-soaked footprints.

Instead of emptiness
I have filled myself with grief.

The intimate god,
versus the body of slain faith,
was not ready to bring in the rains.

What quality was the substance
in shadows, while you were
reigniting the inquest?

The space was shrinking
noiselessly. The nest―
was crowded. You would not

place your frame on the wall.
This happened, which
was, not supposed to happen.

The eyes don't blink.
You are looking straight in the
glass of elegy. Why coming and going

of a name should affect the masses?

I always differed
for the sake of semblance.
Feathers did not agree.
You flew away for your sky.

Impatience had killed the defeat
my elixir, the baby sea in my eyes.
Genocide of the figs, unlearning
the sweetness of life.

Yet a white python was hungry.
A heart rendering feat to dig-out
a home after the earthquake.
Alligators were dying in midstream.

I was running after the desert.
Why bustards were disappearing?
Trees were hung upside down.
There was no suicidal note.

Not superficial,
real inside,
something was ruined.
Tonight I will walk out in dark
beyond me.

Creased,
under tyranny of love,
wanted to unwrite the script
in the stampede of sins.

Impeachment
throws up the shock syndrome.
No wish to swim back.
Drowning, clutching my truth.

A mystic paradox?
Million faces of yes or no.
Wrinkles are getting larger.

What would you give
when I ask for nothing?

A mysterious lineage
of the soul. It has no sequence,
no flesh, no body.
I was heading towards the edge.

Did you know the perfect
no home? It has no crumbling walls,
no hurting windows. The gray roof of sky?

The earth, the damaging
winds. An hour of awareness
in wait. You start
exploring jinxed mind,

hearing voices, but no words.

When the roaring tiger
was behind the bars, there was
this otherness. So much voiceless
was that, it had wounded me.

Your life had entered my
dome to meet its darkness, my
sky, my moon and the
riot of color begins.

By unbecoming, dying
in every home, to write the
script of desire, you will take
the path, where my marrow went down.

The clocks, on every wall
to remind me the moving time.
Will you wait for the explosion
to stop the trembling hands?

Not giving an answer you shut the door.

The other day.
A full moon was walking
on the pavement
like a pedestrian.

I was dumbfounded
at the sight of the imperial walk.
To give a poetical start?

Was it a pin drop visual
with no sound? Only night
was listening to footfalls?

I would not know of,
the journey of ending
or ending of journey.

Like death burning
inside the seed, or a golden
flame becomes a lapping machine?

Intimacy in dark
carries the emptiness,
pauses in the way―
under the faint moon.

A homeless bird heads towards
the lake.

Passiflora.
The flowers remind you
of crucifixion.

The human loss was intense.
The fire within, extinguished.
No stone was ready to move.
Do you want the sound to be on?

The firmness now starts
melting. A holy river caresses
the bridge. Shores tremble.

Flawless surrender,
when the leaves were falling
of bougainvillea, while
the hot wind blew past.
Future enemies were
ready not to say farewell.
Overtures were charming.
When did I want you to go?
And the dust settled in eyes.
I implored you till the brink
of sunset and moon blink.
Infinitely alarming, it was
you wanted to rename― the bigotry.
The crib deaths had started.
An awkward moment came.
When you wanted to cry
and laughed.

A moth love was evolving,
without a flame.
You are going to bang the wall.

It was too early
to sing aubade. Night was
still rolling on the leaves.

A tall tree failed,
to send the message of moon drop.
How will I read my palm now?

At funeral, a crowd
waits for the bride. The groom
jumped off the dam.

No music was left
between the lips. Angst
was palpable in stumps.

The cat was finally
dead.
After a professional cut.

An infant injury
of the cadaver, will not speak

of the dead river, of elegy.

No life―
after the rite of passage.
You are confined in a coffin
buried in ice―
in north and south.

The space shrinks
between the screams.
A syncope overshadows the moon.
The howling starts.

You were not facing
the facts to defeat yourself―
with palm leaves wiping
away the stains of moon.
The confessions were not
valid in light. Darkness will
decide the fate of an exhibitionist.
In the game of survival,
onlookers become strangers.
You will not stand on your feet.
Invisible hands clap.
Sometimes we don't talk and look eyeful.
I have nothing to begin today
nothing to finish.
The sea swells up without a storm.

The space had a scent.
In stunned silence, I will
speak my mind.

More was less. Nothing
stirs, the raging pyre.
As if the poverty of thoughts had ended.

The happenings, splinter
the dream again. Sun steps out
from the black clouds.

You find yourself
interpreting the propelled blaze,
sleeping amidst the mirrors in dark.

The ******* jumps the
boundaries. I am your only
dilemma. I never speak in whispers.

What you did not know
was the resilience
of tulips.

The riots start
in colors, earnestly. A violent
outburst of the theme of surrender
before dawn.

You kiss the irises,
blue, violet and crimson
for nominalism.

The vision emboldens―
the wounds, the slit throats―
to come again for guillotine.

A sliding blade
with promise to ****,
will not move.

Answering your own question,
wrapping the ****―
as manifestation of
God's will.

The old earth
still bears the fruits and
comes face to face with the
ungrateful human being.

Not touching your breast, I will
hear your heart beat
once-over.

Before the rains come,
the rage will sleep with the stones
and reconstruct a―
prehistoric fault.

Apollo wants to leave
Delphi and become a monk.

Stares down, the grey
moon, fixedly,
in naked aggression…
Fire and brimstone.
I move one step, towards you. In semidarkness
I have lost the address
of peace.

The transgender, stumps
the ghost. There was no noun,
no pronoun, only an abstract
feel. Do you see the
wooly trail beating the dust?

When did you hit the dirt road
not to come back…
What was undone? After
the death of the cuckoo, there was
no wedlock in words.

Like the banana peel
thrown on the sidewalk, you
come across the life.
And you still go on, in the―
search of moonlight―
without pills.
The drugged sleep.
Unorthodoxly you insult
the sun. And one-liners
go abegging for the listeners.

You are talking to your
peers now, long dead.
Fair amount of water, is
needed to sink.
The river merchant has brought
no fish.

The triangle―
right-angled. Pythagorean
I would never find the center.

An absence gnaws
at me. Standing in dark
I start a talkathon with walls.

Stoically, I reverse
the numbers. Fires start.
I am still reading the page,
started before I met you.

The poise, the serenity
are gone. Masks are coming off
there and now I embrace the burning well.

Bliss of looking back
at unreached peaks of pain.
It is very cold.
Now ice will not melt.
You know who bled my poems.

Like a snake
it moves.
My poem.

You are not, what you were
in the night, lightning
the grey moon.

I hear, what you
did not say or did―
not think.

Even dark
forebodings, move like red
ants, from the slit eyes.

I cover the faults
via songbird, which
was calling, desperately,
unwaitingly.

You decline to speak―
to listen―
to see
like a meditating Buddha.

Like a sunflower
with moon seeds,
ready to explode at sunset.

Strangulated―
neck, hanged from a tree
to tell the tale―
that you were violated.

This was the principle of
cosmic order. Poor god
waits for the world
to show the rage.

I wake up the tree.
Leaves fall like unspoken words
from the decaying oak.

In suddenness, I will
write a poem for you.

You had stopped at the
outset, like a black moon
opening up perfervidly.

Remote from the oneness
of life, a flame leapt up
to ignite the process of birth―
without perceiving.

Come let's meet at the
navel of the destiny.
I had the penchant of
burning myself.

You, who would never be
visible, I will dust all the mirrors
to find out.

Waiting for the festival to begin.

Refusing to be
healed.
A wound will stay awake.

Mired in bitter controversy,
the captain said―
the war was not a deliberate act of
atoning for the soul.

That prevents the sun
to come out after a long night.

You walk in the light years,
gaunt and dazed,
in pain of hunger. The words
hang in shame.

A city fails, for
another voice of verse,
in favour of renunciation.

Stoma
opens, ejects the scream.

Oh, my god.
The ink spilled
on the sheet, hiding the code.

The scared veins
of pure honey, wets the lips―
of gills. There is no salt.

The water explodes
bursting the dam. No spine was
worth of robbery.

Golden nuggets
are displayed now. Would you
bargain the uphill?

The nightmares begin again.

Overreaching for chemical signs
and word for word,
you want to move on-
without parents.

This was only a poetic
idea, that no weapon will
be used for execution.

Not offering an apology,
we were dissecting the ethics
of violence and war.

A chilling reminder, you are
going to starve the definitions.
But no clarity was visible.

I am becoming bones
and taut nerves.Only eyes
were looking ahead of the tempest.

Roofs were melting.
You want to hit the sky.

Understanding―
the sexuality
of clock.

Time moves
the hands, of past,
the present.

The future
belongs to no one.
This poem, cosmos.

A near cult glows/ on faces―
for harvesting peace,
saluting each other, without flame.

I have come so far
though you did not want the winds to move.

A new theme was
developing. The first wicket has fallen.
The collective suicide
will follow.

Invoking the sun, you stay in shadows,
without qualms to hear
the swish of swords.

The phenomenalist,
strides confidingly to read your mind.
Heart cries―
Uncontrollably.

No it will not work.
The amalgam of arrival
and departure.
Debunking the theme
of reincarnation, you enter into the body of a poem.

Crowned and faded out,
all the icons were diminishing
in stature.A winter bath
tries to hold the halo-
for sometime, and then disappears
in obscurity.

Where the things go wrong
and connectivity snaps?
The tall people, yes very tall,
crumble under the weight of anonymity.
When you climbed down from
the pedestal, light was dim.

Did you ever receive a blast in face?

The tall, dense, tree of life
divides the culture, ages.
Will witness―
the gorgeous, ruinous and
hideous days.

How would I claim
the legacy of a deaf and dumb
sky?

The fragile bones of the
earth, break.
Blackberries burn under
the eyes.

The hidden herons
fall involuntarily, when you
trim the tree for a
new moon.

To skim the sky
like swifts,
when you move away
from yourself.

Holding a four-leaf clover,
night drapes the moon,
taking a lion's share of light
on its wings.

Your full lips defeat
the kisses of incense. I
will come again to
learn Ars poetica.

The fake blooms. I will
never see the death
of a rose petal, skipping
the barbs.

Becoming,
antinormal was not a―
big task, like discovering a new mineral.

It was upside down
a binary star.
Mother and son of morning.

From your absence,
I pick up a poem
and milk the words.

Unlike the purple poesy,
you write,
when the pith becomes the spirit.

The houses set apart
have no boundary layers.
We were immersed in our
strange thoughts.

Xanax in the blood
screams.
Empty chairs.
Small birds, hopping from here
to there. Waiting for the guests.

Evening sits on the
dirt road.
We look together at the
cracked moon.

The grace of becoming
gray, sweeping the floor
of life. You will wear a different
smile everyday.

The house follows you
wherever you go.Saturn or Mars
will not cast a spell of malfeasance.