sea’s clandestine love-
this calling, so desperate
yes, step now slowly

for the somber hues-
and an unforgiving storm :
seek abyss within.

a deep abyss awaits,
with hues of blue and red above,
as the horizon devours the sun,
amidst the salt and sand,

a fisherman
melts into the stupor,
of this serenity toxified,
by smell of the exuberant waves

while the red sun,
slits the blue skies throat,
the fisherman dreams of drowning,
of kissing the waiting abyss,

of floating lifelessly,
in the ocean full of life,
he dreams to return to his friend,
to his father, to his deities,

just to be reborn again,
as a wave,
as a kraken,
as a breeze,
that never dies.

black coffee on the table,
clean cold steel-chiselled Glock

loaded and placed in the bed-drawer.
The sharp wire that smells of the skins

and flesh it has strangulated. A black pair
of gumboots, a black overcoat, a black void

of past. A distant daughter who loves strawberries,
cats with abhorrence for your existence.

Cadillac, a pair to tan gloves, a love for silence,
love for the sight of eyes turning red, pleading

A packet of cigarettes, a bottle of Miller’s
An emptiness that spreads, a death that patiently lives.

Like leaves on sun burnt trees
our ambitions slowly recede,
as the winds of change blow,
are you really ready to let them go?

or would you catch them
as they fall and scatter,
dead may always remain dead
but would it ever matter?

would you not wait for a whole season
for them to grow again?
or just sit infront of the idiot box
silently biting away your pain

He lives through his sketches,
surviving on frugal meals,
mostly bread and wine.

Night and day,
are melancholic mirrors,
for him.

He trespasses them,
ignoring the sense of time,
to create a vortex of visions.

Countless albino butterflies,
now bathe in his color palette,

Color-Soaked wings,
now seek the blank canvas,

A Kamikaze of hues is imminent,
for this art to strive
and for the artist to escape,
the meddling reality.

even the benevolent breeze,
spares the scattered ashes,
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls,

they told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see and smell are dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree,

the birds have nowhere to go now,
the dogs are dying of heat,
and I can't write poems now,
for I was a patient of that asylum

it caressed my sanity every evening
my poems have nowhere to go,
they don't hide in the branches now,
they hide within me,
and I hide inside them.

I was cuddled up in a sheet that day,
watching the raindrops trace on my reflection,
on the dusty window.
A sound of a drop reverberated more
than the ghastly silence.
In a few minutes, the dust melted away.
The sky wasn’t bright, neither was it dark.
It was an essential gray, promising of a tempting void
that smelled of a fresh petrichor
and a floor made of broken glasses
that has forgotten to bleed the flesh.

I fed my everlasting reflections
to these broken mirrors
till the floor smelled of my debauchery
of selling facades of appeasement

I made a tryst with myself,
to be brutally honest
to my purpose on this planet.

And so, here am I,
abiding the tryst,
It’s the mellow beginning.
A warm end awaits, I believe.

It was never about the stars,
the breeze,the tides
or the ocean

it was about us,
the way we made everything relevant,
the way everything existed,
in the aura of what we had,

we lived in it,
loved our naked realities in it,
everything else just crept in,
just to be alive and exist for us,
so next time you feel a breeze,
or hear the tides,

remember you are with me,
and we shall hold it till eternity.

His symphony,
blossomed the wrecked hearts
and compelled the angels
to descend from heavens

He then smiled
to the godly creations in awe,
bowed and left

for he had his own demons
to exercise and control
every single night

an angel was the last thing
he wanted

The Mirrors and the Reflections,
this fresh breeze and the sunlight,
these inanimate realities
and their oxymoronic existence
amazes inner child within me.

I am not a painter,
I am just a man
with a taste for colors.

I delve into them,
till the hues whisper words
that fly like butterflies.

I am not a lepidopterist(butterfly scientist)
I am just a man
with a thirst for writing.

I collect and nurture them,
till they look like a beautiful painting
made out of unseen words.

I am not a poet,
I am just a man,
with a love for beauty.

I just let the beauty flow,
like the never-ending seas
for purposes unknown.

Lo Behold for the time has come,
to raise the glasses
for the worthy unsung

it is the day they embraced death
as a good old friend, with respect

the rains will dance
and lightning will cry

they did not went alone
in the darkest night

someday sometime one has to take a leap
with eyes open and heart asleep

let us celebrate the honorable dead
with the brightest faces, tears unshed

Lo behold the time has come
to raise glasses
for the worthy unsung

What scares a writer?
I have always wondered

some say it’s the rejection,
some say it’s the creative exhaustiveness,
and some blame the isolation

but for me it is the blank screen
that mocks me for emptiness,
laughs on my in competencies,

In it I see my rejections,
my creative exhaustiveness
and the isolation.

for it contains nothing
and holds everything.

the fiery sun,
that sets the dichotomy
of the light and the darkness
has been veiled by the clouds
floating murderously grey
in the sky

In a final hope,
to embrace this winter
once again,
I wish for an end
for this bleakness,
for this monotonous silence,

the credulous hearts of people
are dying slowly in absence
of the lacking divinity in the sky
even the cracks in my windows
are thirsty to devour the lights,

as I lie within the blankets
staring the grey abode of the gods
in silence,
my dog comes and sleeps next to me,
and I wait more seeing outside one last time,

it is beautiful though I realize
like all ends are,in the very beginning.

Bridges

I burned the bridges
to the past
and bathed in it's ashes
to never be afraid
of it

but the smell never goes,
the road is still there
and i still believe it's ghost
will haunt me,
for times to come
and there is nothing we can do,
nothing at all.

lying on this table
staring at me
is a monk with a *** belly

maybe he wonders
how is my ride to nirvana going

maybe he wonders
as to why instead of humming a  prayer,
i am on a war with the keyboard

maybe he reads the books I kept there
to trace where me heading

or maybe he was tired of everything around
had a hearty laugh and boom..
there was his nirvana.

green feeble breathing leaves,
under a blanket of light and thunder
with every passing tremor
from the abode of divinities,
they bathe unapologetically,

a melody cracks the humongous earth
into the notes of a lost symphony,
the rain is just a clairvoyant dancer,
foreseeing the smiles of all equals,

the petrichor transverses
the past,present and the future
in the spaces between space,

even my cold rusted heart,
breathes like a cancer dying patient,
for the last smoke in this petrichor,

and I am a child again, brisking through mud,
searching something that I do not even remember,
maybe I will find it in sometime,
in a place,where childhood went

the darkened horizon
will attracts no birds today

the storm
won't adore the weak

a walk on the shores
would be a blind suicide

for the moon's love
would conjure the sea

Do you know even
what darkness looks like?

it is when your home turns to dust
from sudden shellings
and you walk over bodies
of children,women and brave men
you once knew,blown up in syria,
the middle eastern sun even couldn't
outshine this obscured darkness

when your first flight out of country
ends up with you body tattered in pieces
dropping from 35,000 feet just because
pro rebel russians felt showing
how big their ***** are,

and here you sit
pleased in your well perfumed house
petting your cat
while writing on your mac-book,
"the way he left me, I was confined
to darkness"
I pity your darkness
but I hope you recover soon
from a weak heart
and delusions of insignificance

long ago,
I used to devour the darkness,
the prisoned tiny lights,
behind those glass walls,
were never tempting for me,
I was a cold wall of fickle illusions
and darkened ambitions,

a caricature of bright blurred dreams,
intervened and poisoned my memories,
everything once dissolved,
just to resurface and mold again,
in an array of unknown light,

but I knew it was you,
for you came,
and you were,
brighter than a thousand suns

a multiverse existence,
where realities slip through
the hourglasses of time,

memory is a sweet drizzle,
originating from the clouds of conscience,

an atmosphere made of nostalgia,
and we are the floating planet.

the galaxies are unknown and untouched,
we bloom and wither in this cataclysm of life

but I recollect all this,
from a beautiful dream with eyes open,

so was it a deja vu?
or my hands just slipped of this typewriter.

in the dark dusted corners,
and the fading faraway skylines,

in the books never opened,
and some never finished,

in the winds that annihilates the sense of time,
and the dogs that sometimes barks out for fun,

in the celestial beauties cursed to hide,
and the boredom in counting wings of the useless fans,

I have lied,searched and crawled
for words to define this crisis of emptiness,

I sense words and meanings lurking around
in places and hotels I left in dismay

in the ash-trays and coaster less tables,
some of the burned memories with words of comfort still lie,

though they are cold and full of despair,
I shall cast the spring through them

for your all eves to see
and your heart to drink,tonight.

the tides comes in mighty,
wrecking ships and plundering beaches,
it's a blue chaos on white moonlight
and in a few hours
when the sun yawns out of sleep,
the sky shall bleed yellow,
with tides patted to sleep
like a dog that had too much love,

the disarray of the universe
dissolves and resurfaces everyday
like our hearts,
like our lives,
like everything.

Time lapse of
sublimation of melodies,
blurred caffeinated visions,
the smell of breeze,
with a tinge of petrichor,
cold wet grass,
the bare feet,
an impulse strikes the heart,
asynchronously,
capillaries dosed
with sugary love,
eyelids popping,
drooling,
turning like red sprinkles
of kesar,
in a cold icy lake,

this never-ending dream,
defeats an unpredictable life,
or maybe we are dreaming only,
unable to see the tombstone
of reality,

waiting to wake up,
away from the monotony,
from barren heartless lands,
to ourselves,
to create,
a life destined to
eclipse these dreams.

entwined scents
and a divine grace
a sombre gaze across the room
that sent all hearts to race

days passed and so did nights,
nothing was so vehement ever
than those beautiful eyes.

I have been a dreamer
since that day then,
to conjure an eternity in a moment
maybe it was her only sin.

Dreams breathe in slumber,
terrorized by the dying light.

A peninsula of thoughts,
floats in the sea of night.

The sheets wrestled
with the aching limbs.

The flesh entangled together,
breathing a melodious hymn.

Don't you want to sleep?
You must be tired.

We had our fun now,
you must retire.

Go now into an abyss,
to be dissolved unseen.

Heal your fractured memories,
from the blood of my peeled skin.

We shall meet again in summer,
when this air smells of rain.

as strangers, as lovers
but with our faces changed.

Days worsen
as men leap onto me
bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up on in their
afterlives.

Let me douse a fire
that dissolves in water
by mixing it with my blood
in small sips of uncontrollable desire.

The insides shall burn, I know,
I have been there
as the brain blazes up slowly
in the incipient flames inducing
a stupor of warming numbness.

Is this how you erase memories?
Is this is how you conjure them?

The valiant bout
of drunken madness ends
as now the red-blooded eyes
seek the cold white embrace
of A Moon, hidden in clouds.

Chalices have grown cold.
Snow fondles the dark greenery outside
in a cold choking blanket of doom
that leaves behind a lullaby of silence.

The jeweled decanter
whispers to me
at the dead of the night,
as the fire, it holds
now craves for the decaying fire
within me.

I am not myself now,
I am a shadow used to the
****** actions of a decaying body.
I am submissive and weak tonight
to this body that dances in the fire,

Incomplete scribbles still remain desolated
praying for a bloom
in the wake of the terrible hangover.
to be remembered somehow.
Someday.

Is this how you become a poet?
Is this how you forget poetry?

I sometimes wonder,
the brave and infallible
who **** each other and die
for their countries,

on reaching the gates
of either heaven or hell
what would they say
to each other?

would they still have
the hate or rage
that pushed them to an extent
of killing each other

or would they share a common grief
over what mutual hate did to their lives
and brought their bodies feets below
the ground, rotting and dying slowly,
alone

drops are torturing my patience,
slowly traversing the spine,

In a frozen lake,
incensed with the dead past,
hymns and chants,
the mist and howls of winds,
kiss and dispose me,
a flesh impure for offering,
I believe

I lie on the ice naked with you,
seeking the last ounce of warmth,
through your curves,
I traced every inch,
in the dying moonlight,
till you slithered my neck,
and kiss me one last time,

with fear in my eyes,
an ocean of ecstacy in my heart,
and a smell of incense hemorrhaging my brain,
I sleep for eternity.

Sometimes while sleeping
I greet the twin sisters.

Subtle faceless apparitions,
that love to giggle
while skipping the ropes to reality.

coalesced dreams, some call them
Without an end or beginning.

in a state of drunken stupor,
set by feasting on the flesh of stars
they drive me back to the black lake
where we once buried the moon

effigies of time, burn on the shores,
the lake soaking its ashes.
does the time ever weep?
for what it has lost,
even in the interconnected dreams

an undecipherable hymn now,
colludes with my stupor
as the faceless twin sisters smile.

I shall remember nothing
except for their holy unison
and the figments of thread
sewing their thumbs together

I pursue the night,
while the snow quaffs the coldness
although treaded with footsteps,
they are still insanely bright,

our shadows retired early that day,
like a jotted desolated house,
my body aches and cracks into a million voices
when the past steps foot, slowly within myself,

In a quilt near the fireplace,
I retraced back to the autumn,
brewing like a golden ale,
somewhere within me,

I still remember that magnanimous deer,
who eyes poked my soul for an answer,
sometimes it haunts my dreams,
staring in nights like this,
through the window.

the strings and threads,
that binded my sanity
and this earth,
is breaking now,

a well lived life,
question's it's existence,
it's a manual override,
in a place where wires refuse to mate,
it all ends like this,
I am sure it would.
I pray it should,
while I pursue the night.

If the gods do will,
I shall create my own universe
my own earth for everyone

all your anguish and pains,
the cries and the vain,
shall be the red hot core,
that would burn from within,
untouched and unseen
forever for everyone

all the smiles and dreams of everyone
shall be the skies and stars
bright as ever be,
for we all shall fly once
to hold them close,
to embrace them in nights alone
no matter how far,

the memories and voices
of all our beautiful times
shall be the trees and the oceans
whose smells shall come to us,
when the breeze blows,
taking us to a time, we always wanted

and we shall live and die
within ourselves,with memories
with everyone and their lives
like we used to do,
and become memories or oceans,
stars or smiles
and be alive even after death
on this planet.

Standing next to rocks we once carved
trying to remember the etched memories
of the years gone by,

when I had unison of dreams
and nightmares with you.

the wrath of time spared none,
not even the rocks , I see

but I wait
to conjure everything
from these rocks.

there is something about the air
when it is about to rain,

Did you ever feel it?

but when the night sets in,
and you wash the disgust off your face,
the eyes in mirror are just not looking to admire
that pretty face,they ask for dreams once promised
this job is going to save you from everyone
but who is going to save you from yourself?

In an envelope of void,
I have come to my temple of verses,
across the lands misted of thoughts
to the mountains that rains pleasant dreams

the rivers drown your past
in a melodious blur of coldness,
the skies smell like a unforgetten
future in hues of parallel mirrors

and this is my chanting
my shangri la,in the temple of verses,
a dream within a dream,sleeping unapologetically,
would you stop staring and join?

We have laid to rest
our past
like an afterlife

wrapped with everything
we could get our hands on,

the childhood,
the curiosity,
and the indifference towards
failure

all lying in a single place
left to suffocate alone.

I wonder will they die before us
or after?

This monotony,
of getting up

even the weather is too cold
and murderous grey

sunshine doesn't greets me
birds don't chirp

just white sheets everywhere,
a lifeless bliss

why couldn't we sleep through the winter?
does it lament over our lives?

In muddy splashes and
closed shops with smells of lament,

the coconut trees with ghastly shadows
and the shores eager with lust,

in children devouring air and absence
of laughter,
separated lovers ******* someone else
without a guilt,

I slept through timelines
of remorse,guilt,happiness and
nothingness watching them,
remembering them,
understanding them,

to conjure an image
worth hallucination,
worth a wonder,
worth a moment,

today is the day,
I lessen my burden,
to you.

My myopic eyes
in the whitewashed veins
dissolved a Solar Eclipse once,
sprinkled slowly in the transparent ponds
of vision,
through a negative film of ours.

Call it now, The fate’s cruel jape.
A sky long-awaited
and devoid of sunlight
is forgotten forever.

I do remember though, the universe we created
in silence, while we lent our voices
to an air that couldn’t speak.

The negative is now a mere vicissitude of colors,
for a time that went lost in translation.

They tell me
I write okayish.

I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.

Why don't you write something on love,
they say,
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells,they love it.
they relate to it.

I tell him,
I don't get the vibes out of it,
love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.

I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain.

atleast they never pretend.

Lullaby

Sweet melody,
and the rain soaked air
lying on my mother's lap
with absolutely nothing to care

I feel ashamed of myself
and wonder as to why,
where was I even this busy?
how did I forget such a paradise?

I ask her after all this,
why does she love me still?
and she just patted my head with a smile
rest was just eternal bliss.

the lost city of the Incas,
survives and breathes
with this cataclysmic vegetation
still malignant and undying
to conjure divinity
for those lack,
in the purest form,

it awed Neruda and Che
with the shimmer of the first light,
the smell is a poisonous offering,
the view is like an unforgotten love,

most of the nights in my sleep
I come back from there
and some of the nights
I wish I could never.

In the Madhouses,
everyone's insanity
is up to the brim
and pitch perfect

they are howling's
and scares of restlessness
but nothing is hidden inside.
it's like the soul
possessed by the heart

all are in the neverland
hallucinating on free will,
waiting for eminent death
with open arms,

but then again,
they cannot earn, be social and
breed for deemed to dangerous
for a society as their minds
are too weak and heart too strong.

I sometimes wonder,
where does the madhouses really lie?
within their boundary or outside?

a breeze of guilt,
smells like remorse
in the morning

the descending fog camouflages
the slaying of the whispers

in a city this big,
everybody is a slave

skies watch patiently
to choose their meals:
the unfortunate and weaklings.

they are all up from sleep:
nature’s most intelligent creature.

the madness shall now float.