a torrential

sleep wants

after its

torn fabric.

too finely tailored

to fit.

against the quick

of rain.

purple never knew

a finicky rhythm

as it broke open its

ripest grape.

wine need not be offered

to kingdoms who crouch

the juice of such a table.

there are no minions,

only reservations for two...

(if you like).

O you bleak, bleak little soul
Tell me, what do you want?
The crescent shines a quiet heaven
And winds whisper on
What do you want?
Ask, and have you shall
Ask, ask, ask on
Blue fires smiling green
Or ashen papers soaring up the dark
Two nights ago

We tore an old notebook into
Rootless pages
And crumpled them into *****
One upon the other slept
As the matchstick kissed herself a flame
And shrivelled up like a worm
The papers gleamed from inside out
dragon dens, alive at last
And they smoked all the curses
We dare not utter

They burned themselves away
And fire, the fire followed
The embers remained

They twinkled on the black concrete
Daughters of the sun
Quietened beneath our shoes
Tell me, you bleak, bleak little flower

What is it you ache for?
Dawn brings forth his circus
And hues fill up the world
Why do you weep?
There are drinks that
Make the tongue dance around
Spices as lively as bees

Women prettier than stars
feather touches, and tender seas
voices that dance steady and slow
There are glories on the mountains
Waiting to be loved
Rings and rollercoasters,
Rooftops there are
Ask, ask, ask away

Bards, and beaches
Prayer mats stitched with gold

Thunder upon chirping cities
Moors, and meadows
Museums of all the futures ahead
What do you want?
Ask, ask, ask it all
O you beak, bleak little moon
Why will you not speak?

a
bindu
is
a
singular
obsession...
continually
circumambulating
it­s origin
of
devotion.