Hanju hole hoge bhara lagge hasna,
Loki saare haal puchde,
Ohne puchya ee nahi,
Jihnu asi dasna,

Jaanda siyara saada dil kamzor e,
Mausam taan ohiyo par akh teri hor e,
Sheesha ghurda si..
Sheesha ghurda si chhad ditta takna,
Loki saare haal puchde,
Ohne pucheya ee nahi,
Jihnu asi dasna,

Bina gallon mud gaye on,
Mudke ni takyea,
Maan Maan aakhda sain,
Maan vi ni rakheya,
Koi sikhe saathon..
Koi sikhe saathon bina gallon jachna,
Loki saare haal puchde,
Ohne pucheya ee nahi,
Jihnu asi dasna,
Loki saare haal puchde,

Wasting words on half thought speeches,
and steps on roads we walked together.

I waste my time in empty parables,
in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next.

Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands.

Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic.

Wasting furniture on empty apartments,
and music on crowded subway trains.

I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies,
in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map.

Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown.

Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables.

Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark.

I waste my time on lofty balconies,
on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next.

Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.

Yeh pyaas kaisee hai. Jau bhujti hi nahi.  
Mushkil tau aur bhi hu jaati hai.
Jab paani sai bharaa wala sheesha haaat mai hai.
Magaar ussai hautai tak bhi nahi laga saktai hai.

There is a gutsy finality to
the way you add curls of cream to the cup;
a knowing glint in the chintzy sheesha,
second-hand, jewelled, meditating on the
window-seat behind you. Beds of children
form foamy chains against the azure blankets

out there, above your head. Your glasses are
windowpanes, screens to a lighter view. Curled
in your belly is a shaman with the
bold dimensions of a project. You stir.

Once you drove up in your
1977 Mercedes,
I could feel the hurried pulsation of a weary heart
over the clattered groan of your engine.
Clambering into my seat, I folded in on myself,
too timid to fold into you instead.

Creamed leather seats on a rusted turquoise shell 
I look to the back, expecting some residue
of the last lipstick crush that you set fire to.
Instead, I found $1 books from the library
and your worn regalia that I would’ve stolen
and kept as filthy souvenirs.
A deep inhale of your burnout sheesha
that bobby pinned to tired marrow in my bones -

I would’ve taken you right then and there.

Instead, we played coy with the thin fabric of a relit friendship
and talked poetry and music over a ceramic bowl
of coconut chicken curry.

But all I romanced was a clustered cocktail
of my favorite things:

The drag of my curious fingertips
underneath your prickled jaw.
This fever building as I curl into your arms
and the corrupted graze of your hungry lips
in the groove of my neck.

Temptation at its finest.
Such promise between two starved pilgrims
But the descent down to the deep V between hips
is a sweet flame that
can easily burn you and leave pin pricked stains.
So its a good thing that I let you go.


October 17, 2013 4:38 PM