A storm is brewing:
everything is grey.

My mind is grey.

Grey as the forgotten sun.
Grey as a peacock on a pencil sketch.
Grey as the rainbow that lost its gold.
Grey as age and regret and pain.
Grey as your kiss on another man's tongue.

It is evening now, as moist and damp
as  monsoon dusks can be,
and the lantern, it is shining away,
hanging off the ceiling. Now,
the bells ringing the vespers toll.

Elsewhere, celebrations have begun.
Sometimes, wails emerge, accompanied
by the chime of breaking bangles: yes,
glass is what makes the manja potent.

The lantern: it is what crickets
are to sound, to light in the nights.
But, it can only reach so far: built dim.
The fan slices through her smile,
and in the corners, shadows dance.
It's a wave, yes, light, and it bends at the
corners, but it doesn't handle slits well.

But it keeps attempting this every
monsoon night; through the rain, and
through the silence after the crickets
and people are done, reflecting off
ceilings, bending at corners, and
forming fringes where life is otherwise
just colourless, like the pouring rain.
(Oh not odourless though, the smell
of earth has entered into her pores)

The air might be shapeless, colourless and odourless,
But the winds, they always have something to show,
something to say, something to convey.
Today's winds told me about the coming rains.
They howled to complain about climate change.
They sang songs with the wind chimes.
Then they brought the smell of wet mud as it rained.
Just like yesterday.
The only thing that has changed is that they no longer
carry your scent.
They no longer carry the sound of your voice to my ears.
Familiar and yet so strange,
I guess that is why they are called winds of change.

My father could hear a fish diving into the depths,
or a bee lost in an odourless darkness
and every pump of blood
that kept us alive.

More spoke to him from the vacant-eyed creatures
than his own blood,
standing feet beneath him,
screaming but still silent for his loud disapproval.

My father lived with the sounds
of walls closing in on him,
blocking the barriers with the
thoughts of his children’s voices.

*After William Stafford's "Listening"

I peeked down the corridor
and there within I saw
Nothing. Utter dark and null
devoid of bright or dull.
Recoil'd not I from the drear'
in holding back childish fear.
      Of the Dark

      My ear it crept closer still
towards the sound of zilch and nil,
nothing. Vacuous silence,
drumming steady absence.
Tempted by the resting rhythm -
absent metre and system.
      .
      Deepest cold pierces the nose
out of shadow its scent arose,
Nothing. Faint eau de toilette,
an odourless silhouette.
Made curious to explore
beyond what was heard or saw.

      Impatience tipped my tongue
caution begging to be flung,
No More - ravenous nether
thirsting night tide aether.
Mouth salivates and perspires,
drowning in the lightless mire.

--

      At last - I am one and none,
for I the darkness has come,
Senses suspended: sound, sight,
scent, taste, now touch the night.
No I nor we - no more ...
Solemn stately corridor,
      Of the dark.

The eye of a newt
And the tongue of a man
A cauldron bubbles
To a witches plan
Venom of a snake
Tarantula fang
The odourless liquid
Erupts with a bang
Lavicious old hag
Cackles in the dark
In goes a nettle
And the fin of a shark
"Blood of the white worms skin"
"Shape into a poison dart"
"Release from the gates of hell"
"Fire into the putrid heart"
The incantation performed
A spell so potent in dread
Away from the witches circle
The knight now lies dead

They'll tell you to listen to your heart like you have another option...
they'll insist on saying the answer dwells there
even when it's clear your heart is an empty place
with nothing but cracks bearing monstrous crevices
which leak away whatever little sense that finds its way there.
They'll implore you to stretch and strain the
stiff neck of your faith to the chest of the unfathomable,
and listen to the silent pulse of a fate far beyond the touch
of your feeble faith,something even a flexible python of hope can't do,
a thing even the Ostrich of optimism finds searing hurt doing.
They'll implore because they can't understand the depth
of the **** you've been through or smell its odourless pungent stink...
Because they lack the bravery to face your phantom,
to courageously plough through the pitch of the life you've endured,
because they lack the foresight to envision or
the mind's eye to see the invisible distance you have left to chew,
because they can't swallow even one spoonful of the bitter
mound of history you carry along on your journey to an uncertainty
you are not sure you'll reach... an illusive destination.
They'll tell you to listen to your heart because they lack
the ears of empathy to hear the deafening silence of the bangs of your doldrums...
neither do they have the wings to soar through the violent
winds of your despair or feet it takes to walk in your shoes...
they will speak with an orator's eloquence,stuttering
foolish words of wisdom because they are blank of how deep shards
of a broken heart can cut...they will implore you to be a man,
because they know a lot of nothing about being a man
one of which is men don't cry... they haven't been in presence
of the silent sobs of masculinity whose tears are buried
with dead hearts in the tombs of hypocrisy.
You'll hear very many voices for each splinter will speak for itself
but insistently and persistently they'll push you to the edge
of the cliff of your disarray ignorant of the star filled sky billion choices
twinkling on each glistening piece of the mirror like shards of your heart...
This they'll do because that's just what humans have been
channelled off course the river of true humanity to do...
tell you they've got your back so you can confidently
expose yourself to the deepest stub...boost your morales
so that you can stupidly climb to dizzying heights,
tell you they'll catch you only to film you jump to your hardest fall...
they'll promise to help you cleanse your dead just to see
whether you'll frown at their stench,and to curse
and mock in case you spit... they'll tell you that the path out of
your labyrinth is mapped across your heart simply to enjoy
seeing you wonder rudderless in the Sea of discombobulation...
Humans, they'll offer to circumcise you freely just to laugh at you
when you wince at the cruel touch of the blunt knife of their shameless daring...
they'll give you pills so they can mock at the difficulty
their bitterness brings at ingestion...
they'll tell you to listen to your heart like you didn't hear
your own jumbled heartbeat before you opted for their ugly opinions...
they'll say it, enjoying the moment and beautifully...
"your Heart knows it all" like you have another option besides your hurt.
and you will follow not because they said
but because you have no other boulevard to take

Stretched out like starfish in oceans of meadows
with fractal goggles for eyes
we followed the footsteps of the breeze in the grass
below bismuth bugs in nacre skies

our minds began bobbing between
the confetti of chattering crowds
sheltered by the shade of the breathing pea green trees
and cyan sky spilling marshmallow clouds

slips of thought escape our lips
but trapped are we in a body
as mouth, nose, ears, eyes and fingertips
make their best guess at reality

perhaps there are more truths than sides in a circle
an infinite edge
for what is true if i can only sense?
is the tangerine sun really red
or simply a translation of a wavelength?
does hot and cold exist?
is a dish really sweet or sour?
soft because our fingers can’t feel the bumps?
or odourless because we’re ill and dour?

We fall into ourselves but stop and smile
because life is a surreal serendipitous surprise
so we bathe in the floating music
behind closed kaleidoscopic eyes

I turn the page.

You turn it back,
your hands ***** with old ink.
You let go of your future, so you can hold onto the past.
I want to dance, but my legs won’t let me.

Odourless.

The smell of yesterday’s worries.
I worried too, not for me, but for you.
Worried with songs and laughter, not for you, but for me.
I want to sing, but my voice won’t let me.

Tasteless.

I feed you a taste of your tomorrow.
This is your chartered trip to your undiscovered lands.
I watch you cry.
I want to speak, but my mouth won't let me.

I am your pod.

Consume, replicate and then duplicate me.
You cling to my future, so you can hold onto your past.
I want to breathe, but my lungs won't let me.

Empty words.

You feed me your empty words.
I take your words and fill them with meaning.
My meaning.
I want to hate you,
but my legs,
my voice,
my mouth,
my lungs,

and my heart

won't let me

But deceptive blood-robed pomegranates
With their piteous decay, and sullen seeds
Packed as kids’ taut skins in sand-tinted of crates;
With bloom, with ruin, and richened reeds.
Them reeds naught know of plain parched mourn
As wails it and yields to their illiterate lips;
As stumbles then snakelike out— thin and worn.
Begotten unwanted, poorly fathomed, forgotten wisps
Of old, odourless leisured hours,
That scrubbed, so gruntled, and scratched the fruit.
Then white silks soft within parched blue days;
And no heirs birthed, sublimed the flowers.
Touch it; the crumple and crêpe is not yet soot
If it could bleed, it could bloom alive, ablaze.

I know bottomless pits
falling in very much
screams still can be heard
shakes hearts

I have seen gardens without flowers
in unnamed countries
odourless bodies
with faint shadows

I woke from terrible nightmares
on my body sweat
life made more sweat
with brutal face

stayed in many shelters
after each attack
who agreed
the responsibility squarely

Many moons of us walking opposing paths
And alas, Pandora who woke me quite early
To cleanse long to be odourless for fortnights
Pressured me to test my lactose-sensitive belly
While smiling statuesque, to hiking long paths
Sorry is Pandora whom I never kissed
Who had a chance to ******* tender lips
While we were merry on the 50 coins train
I made a move, sad yet brave, to be denied.
Many moons of us walking opposing paths
Pandora pondered, put perspective and placed
herself in the awkward position to tell me sorry.
I accept your sorry but I have questions, longing for answers

There is more to coffee
than taste and aroma-

Have you ever heard,
the steam stampede?

Perhaps not, Nespresso,
ne pas deranger,

The silent, odourless,  
senseless experience.

Moka! the active volcano
of hot spring geysers,

An eruption of black lava
from a slow canter to a

Gurgling gallop ending
in the steam stampede.

When the wind blows
the air might be shapeless, colourless and odourless
but the winds, they always have something to say
something to. convey.
Today's wind told me about the coming rains.
they howled to stop the incoming threats.
they sang song with the wind chimes.
then they brought the smell of wet mud as it rained.
just like yesterday
the only thing that has changed is that
they no longer carry the scent.
they no longer carry the sound of the voice to your ears
Familiar and yet so strange,
I guess that why they are called
Winds of Change

The perfect drug.

Something odourless,

Something tasteless.

Untraceable,

Near-impossible to manufacture,

With extremely high levels of addiction.

Withdrawal symptoms from mild to severe, ranging between loss of appetite to psychosis.

A most delicate

Almost deliberate

Basic instinct