Fear of ars poetica
overtakes the unwritten
poem. An anguish will
gather the wild thoughts.

From autumn to
the spring, I took to you
like a scream at the sunset.

I didn't omit you
elliptically ever. The moon
was your watchman,
I tended to slip.

Take a walk with me-
like the shadow. Sometimes
I feel very lonely. Needed
an alter ego to share my angst.

The Zen has invaded my roots.

When will your lips
move? Nothing comes to my heart.
Avoidance hurts the mind.

There is some lie
in the truths, and truth in some lies.
So it is difficult to balance the god.

I am eager to read
clarity in the ***** water. The arguments
were always wrong.

You suffer, nothing
comes to your mind. Like you are fondling
your wounds lying in a tomb.

I will not steal your
face after the disaster of losing faith
in the religion of power.

I will not stop kissing
the red flames of bargain. The tears
will decide, no mausoleum will be made.

The trauma will not go,
I will go to sea.
My lips reciting veda.

You hire the new currency
to buy a kiss of bodiless lover.
Sky offers the moon.

Infallible palm
spreads the leaves foe your
footfalls not to single
under the sun.

I speak wordlessly
you listen by eyes.

Mercy kissing comes
in vogue. You have increased
the surrender value
before the Agni.

Forget the eternity.
Are you a man killer? Because
you take it casually, my bleeding heart.

Life is still whole. Existence
has a truth of creativity. Not today.
I was not born as I am.

When a crow commits
suicide-like man, are you surprized
in the war of lips? Do not complete the poem.

Valentine?
What do you want
to read?

Between *** and
surrogacy?

No monikers.
Pure frankenstein!

O, naïve culpabilibity,
do not sleep on my arm.

Unmoving, the suffix
disappears.
I am still holding
the question mark.

Again I have come back
in the crowd of fakes,
to understand the nature
of dark.

The questions have become
my beacons, I am prodding deep
to stumble on the temper,
ethos of white lies.

You will not take your own
life now. We will stop grieving for
the sunken ferry. Who allowed
the novice, third mate to steer the ship?

Do you know, where the country
was going? The swords had
become a junk shop. Tongues stale,
the language foul.

So we will go for a collective hara-kiri?

How much to live
for you in different ways
becoming just me.

My grief mixes with
the clouds to rain on the
wings of songs.

Chenille. Like lifting
your memories
with beautiful metaphors.

Nonverbally the words
fall on the roses,
without any cause.

I bring back the moons.

I don’t belong to me,
to you, to her, to him.
Who are you, I ask myself
again falling in love for a tender shoot,
uncoiling under the debris of unfaithful corners?

I was watching a small birdie
hopping against a mirror, cracking the beak
to **** a rival.

She was pulling at my arm
white death in red scarf.

This is for you my fellow-traveller,
a beautiful sector of my hidden garden,
where I have permitted you to come for a walk.
Hand in hand we will watch the peerless evening –
sitting on the wings of gulls.
Will you like to break a promise
before I implode on the moon?

You light the earthen lamp daily under a tree,
to possess me, trap me, digest me. Voicelessly
I melt into smoke, fly away in small huffs.

The clouds hang on the strings.
I cannot dry my eyes.

Picking up the pine cones, on grass―
one by one, as the years went by.

How did I lose my home again?
Were there not footprints in snow?

The caladiums, you planted in
summer, had the crimsoned spots.

Like the kirmizi sun
dipping in lake one night.

Dressed to assassinate,
not having much hope.
Were you really―
serious for me?

Like en face
a star giggles, between
quivering small moons.

The night is drunk. You
hear a long hoot, from
enfant terrible, to scare away
the kiss of inevitable.

What a bliss to live
in the black heart of the moment,
when the sun unwraps
the flame.

Complete annihilation
of million desires. You
become the walking death
of unknown.

What was your secret of―
cheating on me?

If you were an abstraction
like a moon in blue night,
how will you write
a poem, without paper and ink.

I was a word catcher,
of your language.
Cannot decipher my pain in―
my nativity.

Always had to live in the
family of longhorns, who
destroyed my sanctity.

You raised a tomb
of sun, after death squad
failed to **** me
and the dark fell.

Just before the dawn
I will meet you in deep lake of eyes.

For the sake of fidelity―
a kiss, which was not.
On the lips of a flame
you burn for whole life.

You know, what you did
not supposed to.
You will forget the
unforgettable, the first
cobra grace.

The blue stigma, was
still alive in green scars.

The shadows walked
on ice, when you stood under
the full moon for an other encounter.

A spotless white moon
was hiding the―
ink spilled on the apron.

*

The pretty nouns
scramble for hope―
if there was any.

*

You could not undo―
what a rose―
did, in broad daylight.

*

A town lives
under a tree, in shade.
The ants come and go.

No more partisanship
with hatchet.
Better if you come like
a scorpion to give a taste.

You can hang the darkness
of space―
daring the sun.

Gone blank. This was
a self-inflicted wound to
attain liberation.

No use to remain deeply
flawed in the jaws
of a croc.

Once, high you sail, for
resurrection, faith
tumbles down very fast.

This age of depression―
Do you hear―
the unheard sounds?

I always bleed―
in the books. Some words
won't stay for the sake of propriety.

Nothing is held back,
not even modesty. The biggest
savagery, of being a human.

And a flock of ravens will
go on hungry,
not feeding on debased carrion.

The baby moon will
not smile. History has
cheated us out of the truth.

The heat, noises and
dust. Every face was covered
in soot. I cannot recognize myself.

Somebody had put the feet
against the flame,
the street had become a wall.

Commitment had failed,
the doors were locked.
Collective guilt was seeking favour.

Repeating the same story
blurs the sky.
Sun will not come out.

You are speaking.
He was speaking.
Truth was speaking.

Solitude and silence
come before the summary.
I was responsible for myself.

Earth refuses to conceive –
fire in veins.
Doves had stopped flying.

Give a nudge.
Tears are falling from
the leaves. Who was crying
under the bo tree?

The lonely eyes
searching the moon in
vast blue sky.

The moles impinge
the shell, not to become
a pearl donor.

The beautiful nails
scratch the paper, to rewrite
the soul-searching song.

You throw the stones
miles long, to avert the
thoughts of bleak garden.

Nightingale will not
come back.

You were afraid of,
unknown, walls pulled down―
you stand in bones.

The surrounding hills―
give a call. Come for the sacrifice
for your transparent limbs.

Unsung, unpraised,
moon will rise tn the woods―
to bring out the victims of rage.

No identification was
needed to wash the bodies.
After death, there was no religion.

Now prayers must begin
to save the weeping earth.
Sky will drop the sun.

I will talk of human
conflicts. No one was targeted.
Like you pick up a slug―
and make a thermonuclear device.

That green-tinted sand,
olivine. I will spread―
on your path, so that you
can breath easily.

This was a tranquil treatment―
before I become dazed in
polluted air of the earth and get
a thrombus. One man lives,
other man dies.

This ***** city was growing. I
will bear the blame. I
have not stopped writing
poems daily.

O goddess of priests,
in punishing myself
I found you today.

Tonight you will sleep
in my eyes,
and I will search my
lost poems.


Did you touch the
faded leaves to bring back
a withered spring?

A song still waits in the throat of a cuckoo.
The wasted years!
Do you hear me, walking
in sleep on burning coals as
a penance for the world
going wrong.?

What did I do? I ask my
past, my present, my unhappened future?

Why are you packing up for final journey?
I am not getting the signals from the stars
through the amnesia. The moon will rise
on the desolate landscape of broken dreams
A shudder gives away. You always pursued incompleteness.

So the striving continues, for wholeness,
without sitting in meditation, remaining restless,
churning, agitating, creating comets on the lips,
touching the tulips, red roses, scented air,
traveling all alone through the black memories.

Talking to yourself in emptiness, wading in the
green eternity to find pure, unblemished truth,
the secret of eternal youth. Which fear had
perverted my vision? Why should I be afraid
of meeting you in me? Cannot I maintain my.

Integrity? The wheels are moving and your
gifts are lying unclaimed. Where do we meet?
No temple is safe. A foreign land where the
clouds bleed and sun unloosens the threat,
I will seek to close the circle.

The bull's-eye on
your chest, the black marker
on death apparel, was
turning red after the shots rang out.
Somewhere in a golden cage a parakeet starts―
shrieking.

And which means, each grain
of the last portrait you―
made would inherit the color
of the dying sun. We were
martyrs bulled by milk of the
religion of the state.


After sometime there will be
no news of you. We will
forget, forget the footsteps
of past, our golds would bloom
in the garden of hate. The mystique
of palace will bask in glory.

In war you plowed
the love, synchronising the fall
and rise of rare victory.

Between us, a river
flows of marigolds. But blood spreads.
Can we find the solution of darkness?

Waiting for the next wave.
The drums are coming near. I am
asking about god, not you.

Escaping the unknown
becomes easier
when you listen
to the echos of dark.


My god says, the peeled
oranges will feed the
starved moon, when you
invite the rains.

Invisible hills will send
the bronze poems to you,
once the black night starts
drinking the green water.

The nightmare looms large―
climbs up my chest to
lick the isles, throwing me in
parenthesis, failing the commas.

They manipulated the words
to cross the corridors of essence.
Crib was empty, child was stolen.
At blood stained altar
there was no clue to mystical death.

The contents now matter. Time
displays tools of ******,
snaps the sheet from the bed,
kills the neophyte at water hole,
unsucked breast swells, weeps endlessly.

Apes are coming.
Duplicates look brilliant like novae.
It was becoming crowded. Becoming
was destroying the matter. Fear
moves in water, on the earth.

Faraway a cuckoo sings
a saddest song.
Come, belong to my tears, drops
of my soul’s vessel, kiss the eyes
of planet earth.

A textual study
of pain and bliss.
I was coming for a reprisal
from a temporal crisis
of intimacy.

Always gnawing at me,
the roll down from
love to hate. Which was
impersonating what, like
a talking parrot?

Soft ******. You will
half-die, poker-faced in
grey night under the full moon,
holding a poem
written for a black sun.

I shall never get
over my dilemma.

Cut the masks
and you will find a river of sorrow
in the unblinking eyes.

The mud tears had smeared
the face.

Chimera? The fire breathing
will start a new traction to break
the silent protest of lying lambs.

Impertinence?
For whom you have come to
offer the chador at the shrine?
For whom the houses were burnt down?
For whom the lives of unborn children
were cancelled?
Whose god?

This is not anonymous insurgency.
My name had been written in.
First Informatiom Report.

Had wanted it to happen,
without me.

Remorse was turning against
the self. It was growing very large.
You could feel the enormity of a
suicidal microcosm, enveloping you in its borrowed light―
and rugged terrain.

The peace― it was absolutely absent
in the myriad stars, earthen lamps,
the ethereal beauties of unspoilt hymns.

The spirit was gone. It was all
a floating skeleton of man searching
for the real legs, natural eyes, and
a roving heart.

I wanted to pause, in the penultimate
explosions, when the tornado
dies and I would wake up.

Sexist barbs against
wooden *******, street-smart.
I am something not, I am. A wall
of tears. Liquid nicotine, I will not declare
myself, creating a poem in different ways.

Waywarding, protégé digs the gullies―
becoming unfaithful to himself. The
hope, will it be extinguished? The
tall mud slide, a devastating statement
burying you, me, everyone.

A black beetle, collecting carcasses,
to feed the young. It is on the rise,
green sea. I cannot see myself bleed,
by the grasshoppers. It is like
committing suicide solo.

Undistorting
the truth, I have come
to you spatial love.

Bracingly I reinvent
myself, soft and humane
to retrieve the blessings.

I will walk alone
in my amnesic state.
Wanted to bleed unnoticed.

And the limbs throw
the ancient steps to atavistic
fears. Let the animal instinct prevail.

Words are mine. But
I cannot get to you. The
destination slips out of sight.

Touching the tender
stings. I give the final call.
The lips must not leave the shadow.

The musky night
descends slowly.
Mercury was rising
dressing the twilight.

You start eating your
nails, crossing the darkness.
I will not stop you.

The yellow dust had
settled, after you burned
down the family tree.

The icy bridge was
closed. No guest
would arrive.

The outreaching hands
were empty.
Time to shut the windows.
Moon was not going to knock at the door.

Looks like an unreal love.
Why someone hangs from an Indian lilac
tree. Leaves were very bitter to chew.

You want to pull me down.
I will not eat mangoes. TS Eliot was
ignited to write 'The Waste Land'.

Like a vampire wants to
know, who were half-kissed faces,
ready to be punished by charisma.

Wanting to die young
hairy and unbaked,
not telling the truth.
It was a savage vendetta.
The crowd was not on your side.
In manic intensity,
they shouted― death to the veils
in holiest dip.
I repudiate the presumptiveness.
A super religion gives birth
to a devil― another godman.
In chains, I will carry
a cloud. Very disquieting.
There was no water.
The seeds crawl―
underground in the wake of earthquake.
Collecting the tears to grow.
It is a blank summer.
The fat spiders open the eyes.

Stone gods
envision the interface
between man and beast.

*

He sits with his
head sunk in knees.
Wants to become a painting.

*

A black piano
looks around for the
blind maestro.

*

He was fighting
with the shadows of ghosts
on walls.

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.

Like dogwood flowers
I spread my palms, for
you to read the fate of sun.

Nothing else I would
need to complete my logarithm.
I had always failed in numbers.

Lines don't play the
game. Dots are winning the
horse race.

The hounds know
the art of killing. I was
not ready to undress the gods.

Can you surrogate
the death of a wasp, who
flew not to bite the innocent?

The point was not clear.
Nobody understands the geometry.

Head hunting
in ghost time. You
had tried to influence
the stars.

A whitefly bickers, that
there was no more a
prey, revealing the faults.

You were very near
and very far.

Untouched, a wandering soul
cries for the rebirth.

Receive me
as a thought,
as a blood,
as a seed.

In fluid state
my words will catch you
one day.

Almost mortal,
a goddess visits the dream
and wears your face.

Not trying to
reach anywhere to get a
new name in writing
you a poem.

Would you ever
mean to die for a cause
when the trigger finger
didn't pull?

When you don't mean
something, I had become
a thing.

Beyond the time
there was an endless bliss.
Will you care for me?

When you yield to be
my subject, I will go beyond
the moon to propose.

A rendezvous in
the lost Eden of ecstasy
to retrieve footprints.

On the muds of time,
who knows whom we will meet
in the jungle of rains.

I hear again your voice
after injury pause.

An apologia.
It is still kempt,
the mist scented, milk bath
by moon, in dark.

In legendary night, everything was legitimate.
The licit kiss of death too.

One by one the faces
were missing. The snake bites,
of love.

The embroidered memories are
hanged to dry up in rain.

The eyes like moths, flicker around
the dark candle of another childhood.

Body blow becomes
a brand.
Talking to trees, hitting the trunk.

You were weird
asking for the blank
book to read the unwritten
poem.

Sometimes you watch the
rains unblinkingly
in timeless stance.

Like an amputee
walking on terrace wall
for a glimpse of moon.

Someone has come
to lie down on the rock
to meet the death-
after the unseen hands painted his face black.

I would weep gently.

Sometimes the unholy fears
come obliquely―
from the scorpions.

Tongue tastes the salt of spilled
hate. You execute the hooded anxieties,
creating a cadaver pyramid.

Stich-open-stitch. Cobra
in the bush. Awesome colors of eyes
Brown-blue-green.

I am not going to kiss
the chillies. Burning hot lips.
The contours were enticing.
I shut my eyes for a weird encounter.

The floors pulverized. I still
stand in mud, on my own.

An outsider
living in binary format,
without duality
like waves and particles
are one.
I was dying every day
in your hands with delight.

As the drifting dust
in light beam, I dive to
encounter the intensity
of pride:

A pyramidal rise, was
not the tale of the buried
tryant.

In your continent
lies my land, unrepentantly.

Perfect domes―
beehived.

An alien sitting in
Mona Lisa? Do you believe in the
pshyche of a beekeeper?

A vision. The future tense
retrieves the past glory of tenseless era.
The mimicry will do its own job.

A freak incident. Earth was
moving. Corned bodies riding on lead.
You must fill up the blanks to―
prepare for lethal descent.

Idolatry. Every cult becomes
a new idol. Hate-filled sermons.
Yestersins will pay
for the mortgage.

You will not define
Hubris, walking on the
velvety rugs of ancient beliefs.

Living in my poems,
made for cherry blossoms.

In spite of half
sins, mounds of rose petals
of every color were strewn
on the way, to reach
the drunken gods.

There was no point
of vindication for making
water tainted green when glaciers
were burning red.

Delta,
the fourth letter of
Greek alphabet, has lost
its shape. The rivers
have stopped flowing to seas.

Night begins
the self-discovery
with green and cream pills.

A binary existence
you would love to
break the myth.

The wind in the sails,
you are going―
nowhere in darkness.

All colors of―
midnight moon,
were for you.

Time will meet―
you in different masks,
to find the truth.

He felt very guilty
while defending himself. Being nothing
in the times, he became so dangerous
for himself that the buttons were lost for
patriarchal connectedness.
The faces had become the permanent masks.

Now what?
Flutes lie broken in bottom of the pond,
stones had committed suicide.
A window lets in darkness.
I love the pace of history walking on the back
of alligators. It does not die.

I am emptying the urn, again and again
to write poems on the flyleaves of life.
Pure pain. I am smile with tears. My
knees carrying the amputated leg. A big
throw on the trash. I am thirsty,
not hungry. My hands reach for a strip.

Don't live on me.
Be kind O first god, when a man
breaks, the world changes. I scream.

Let the religion be
redefined. No need of violence.
I feed the ants to get peace.

Sometimes the myth
of love shatters. Immensity must
rise. I am creating mercy.

Do not sleep, as libido
Moon will visit
the shrine of love today.

It was an end of the―
lone journey. You recover
the path of lost poem.


A river lies buried in
my chest, unawakned.
Would you kiss the stone today?