Over the chatter of rain,
her vegetable shouts
are hardly heard by him.
The corner where the roof leaks
and corruption draws a perfect circle,
he finds his anorexic love
neatly packed in polyethene bags.
The window is missing a shattered pane
lost sometime last year,
he gathers the curtain into a ball to repel the storm
but rips the silk to shreds.
He’s gone in the stillness between the flash and the roar
that threaten to overwhelm her once more,
she closes her eyes and the door.
It was the missing decade
of my life that came back,
late on one clammy night.
Wearing your visage
of a foraging girl
at the foot of a tranquil Vesuvius.
Spent though I was,
for those decades still with me,
I sat awake listening to the warmth of open windows.
The decade came for me,
in figments and memories
wheezing a few questions.
This room is known to me,
as is the night,
as is the flaying heat,
and the carved words
on the creaking charpoi
by some distant uncle.
I melded with the light squeezing through
into this dark, sulphurous room
like an exile away from my maker.
The decade came to me
and sang lullabies
of princes who never were.
I have kept my vigil
until the mirror ran dry
and returned to sand.
The decade wears me now
as I am, the hunting boy
by a shimmering Ganges.
Imagine, for this night, you are the queen of Fairy Tale land.
I, too, am a prince, from Make-Believe kingdom.
From beyond our cocooned proximity,
the night shimmers in, and thickens to a silken thread of moonlight
that the crone will soon spindle into her never-ending story
of billion constellations, both seen and unseen
by naked, desperate novas.
We, entwined, like the roots under a rabid rainforest,
pale as innocence, battering feverishly against the stones for ever afters,
seize Avalon, and reject Camelot.
The canopy of fireflies synchronises in raw euphoria,
a rebel Excalibur.
The wind matures around us.
Tomorrow may be an inevitable notion,
but my queen of Fairy Tale land,
my sword, shield, bow, toothbrush, unicorn,
worn-out copy of The Arabian Nights,
all lay bare before your lion throne.
This world was once a crevice between fire and ice.
Fire and ice run in our veins,
from me to you and back into the realm of drunken faeries,
where the bumblebee heart of the day
is yet to ignite the pomegranate sky.
The seed of my fall
was sowed when in small,
certain twist of fate,
both were working late.
Papers flew to frame you wings
while a hunger pulled my strings,
and in the blues of your gaze,
did my heaven and hell blaze.