Saturday, December 29, 2012


i listen
i listen
to my words
for you

do not mistake these 
and no
do not dismiss
them as words
of flesh
they aren't

they aren't merely

of the flesh
they are 
made by flesh
given body through flesh
and fed on blood
in the colours of rainbow
and every imaginable 
unseen hue

my words
knocking on your door
to become your words
and your words becoming
my veins
to my heart

and i listen
i listen
to my smiles for you
my smiles waiting at the turn of the corner
waiting for you to appear
so that they can become
your smiles

and no

do not mistake these
do not think of them
as a lullaby 
masking something sinister 
something deceitful
decorated with marquee lights
burning bright
and killing moths and butterflies

your smiles

my arteries
the meaning of life
from my heart
to the rest of my

my limbs
after listening
to the combined gospels
of your words and smiles
the gospels
according to
St. You

Friday, December 28, 2012

letter in smoke

i write letters
in smoke
standing by my window
against the black parchment 
of the night
i write in white
can you read them
do they reach you

each curve of the letter
an offspring of a fire stoked
coaxed and cajoled
i run my fingers 
through these smokey alphabets
to make sure they are perfect
and are spelled perfectly
the shape of the letters
is the state i am in
is what i wish to convey
these letters are a compilation of
all the things i wish to say
but never could
for since early on
this knowledge i did gather
some letters i will write and
them i will send
some letters i will commit on paper
but never send
some letters 
the ones that will matter
the most
when the day ends
i will never be able to write
or send
but will 
be able to recite from memory
this letter that i write
in smoke
standing by my window 
is one such letter
and there is a reason
i write it with smoke
one reason is it flows
with movements so fluid
unbound it soars
is another
taking the shape of the air around it
the shape of air within me
from which i created it
one blow
at a time
much like how you
take the space
instead of the air
that surrounds me
and just like you
take the shape
of my thoughts
starting from the bottom of my belly
to the shape of the tip of my tongue
and a pear shaped teardrop
inside me
rearranging me
inside out
and quite similar to that
is what i try to do
as i stand by my window
and write these letters 
in smoke
and i ask
can you read them
do they reach you
because when they do
i wish you'd inhale them
and through these letters
i'd enter you
and try and see
if i have what it takes
to rearrange a bit of you
just the way
so effortlessly manage to do
so i stand
and i write
this letter in smoke
a long five paged letter
of which page one
has all the things i want to say
and the remaining four are mere repetition
but about that i shall not care
not too much
for the night too
is long
and the smokey ink
and so is my need
to stand by my window
and write
against the black parchment
of the night
in white
a thick dense smokey white

Friday, December 21, 2012



stretch marks
and love handles

i handle with love
the handles
and even the remaining two 

i see me differently as i
that i am capable of seeing you
that i see these differently
that your imperfections
don't exit
not for me

and just to use that word
is a thought crime
so this i will do
scratch it out
tear it out
burn it out
out of our dictionary
and every other 
because really
and rasps
and licks
and feels
and my hands running 
through the meadows
of your body
your body
in its entireness
can never be that

it is different
i know that you can tell
i know you know how
different from how others may see you
or not see you
at all

then again
there isn't room enough 
for others
there is just room
for the two of us

on those wrinkles
and stretch marks
and love handles
and those birthmarks
and moles
and cuts and bruises
and scars
which have found a permanent
on your skin

i curl around their length
i espouse their breadth 
i move in circles
with a mild sense of ecstasy
building up
and a full-blown sense of
a conclusion
around their circumference

with shaky
want-filled fingers
oozing desire
at the fingertips
i count them
these wrinkles
and stretch marks
and make constellations
joining one mole
to that scar
at least one 
would spell my name

like a man blinded with love
only that i'm not
i read them in braille
that i see these
i see these differently
with wide open eyes
i search for our stories
and time spent together
which bloomed into
countless memories
and i only ask you to turn around
and lie on your stomach
because i wish to read
i wish to read more of it
all of it

and i shall make 
ivory boats out of 
your birthmarks
and set us aboard them
and set us to sail
far away


and love handles
and those stretch marks
and moles
and cuts and bruises
and scars
and wrinkles


of our time together
in satin sheets
of our combined flesh
i shall keep

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

playing chequer with the sky

The clear blue sky lies still, unmoving. In a constant stare down contest, unblinking, it looks down upon us, us below, as we look up to it, with silent prayers, hissed curses, adamant indifference and a fleeting hopefulness.

The sky was still that day, like most days in May; the sky was sullen that day, as it is in most days in January; the sky was unrelenting that day, as it is in most days in September, perhaps marked with a few clouds, but still just as unflinching, taking upon the countenance of an old soul with furry brows, and weak, watery eyes, but still seeing things more clearly than most, still unblinking. That is understandable. Once you have seen most part of life, you are increasingly less likely to come across something that can look back straight into your eyes and force you into submission, force you to look away. That is the nature of the sky, regardless of the colour of the velvety robe it adorns. That is the character of man too, in some way, as we impotently trade a smooth robe for an old, wrinkly one.

The sky was still that day. He felt it deserved a few clouds. He lazily leaned back into his chair, took a deep drag on his cigarette, the cigarette he held in his right hand, like one holds a pen, the left arm behind his head, and his right leg crossed over his left one, which was stretched, like that distant relative every family has, or most, one who is not concerned with the going-ons of the family, but feels the uncontrollable urge to make his or her presence felt every once in a while, mostly in matters of little or no weight.

He exhaled a few heavy, cotton ball like smoke clouds, against the backdrop of the perennial sky. “There you go,  your allowance of clouds for the day.” He said and sniggered, a wheezy snigger.

Just then, he saw two pigeons glide across the sky, in perfect harmony, such synchronized movements, like ice skaters. The grace, the timing, the comfort they shared with each other and the willingness to share the sky. Sublime beauty. And then he saw the sky again. Unblinking, still.

“Does a sight like this not touch you in some way? Does it not make you warm up and turn a loving pink or some such shade?” 

And then the sky spoke. “They glide with such ease that it hardly seems that they are moving. They become a part of me, as still as me. What reason can I possibly think of, to thank them for? If anything, I am stiller than they are.”

Just then, the pair of pigeons flapped their wings together. Movement! The sky finally had some movement. And with that movement, dawned the knowledge that a course was being covered, that a journey was being undertaken, that some distance was being cut. The sky which a few moments ago, seemed gigantic and undefeatable due to its sheer unending stretch, now seemed like any other road, lane, by-lane, which has a point A and a point B. The sky was made small by that dancing pair of pigeons.

“You blinked.” He said and smiled a satisfied smile. “There, now you have your reason to show some gratitude.” He completed his sentence. Closed his eyes, his left leg, still playing the perfect distant relative and the sky, at that moment, was gifted a few more clouds by him. 

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

have you seen death singin'?

out of a whorl, into a rainbow

a little something inside
starts to whorl 
every time
that little girl 
facing the sea
stops smiling

i stand at a distance
and watch her
it could be me
or the sea
either one
or both
shrink a little

and then i look
at the back of her hand
with which she 
wipes the smile off her face
and whisks the tears away 
from her cheeks

and i am filled 
with this inquiry
so magnanimous
magnanimous enough
even for the sea

that tiny little part of her
the back of her hand
holds so much
her smile and her tears

and i stand at a distance
and watch her
and this non-believer
of everything divine
or anything great 
and lordly
or heavenly
cannot help but feel weak
and i summon my most effective words
and conjure the most 
magnificent images
to the best of my ability
these words and images
my efficacious replacements
for a believer's prayers
i whisper a wish
a wish which i wish
is roaringly loud
and heard
heard by the
the one true entity
that can claim superiority
the balance of the nature
which pampers
and spiflicates
all things
while still cuddling them
in her lap
and maintains the randomness
of this universe
sometimes a gift
sometimes a curse

this is my wish
and you cannot but manifest it
this little girl
facing the sea
do you see her
like i see her
and do you see the 
back of her hand
the domicile 
an uneasy unified and a harmonious one
of her tears and her smile

see it
i demand
with a clear eye
under a clear sky
in witness of the clear waters
make a rainbow for her
make a rainbow for her
every time her smiles and tears
and mate
at the back of her hand
this isn't asking much
she deserves
this much
and this is how rainbows 
usually work
don't they
a single white light
pierces a single drop
like a lover does
meet his lover
and becomes a part of her
and then splits her
into different colourful shades of her
a colourful band
which was hidden 
somewhere deep inside her
you have the light
her smile
you have that drop
her tears
make a rainbow for her
i demand you must

and till this wish is heard
i pledge before myself
and her
in spite of the fact
that invisible is how she sees me
that i shall stand
watch her
never leave 

i shall watch
till the sea shrinks to the size of her tear
and i shrink to
but i shall not move
before that
and i won't be able to 
after i see the rainbow
made for her

till that happens
she is
i am
the sea is
and the back of her hand

Tuesday, December 11, 2012



can i bring you to bloom
can i say the things that would make you
can i be your spring
can you be that one singular tree
in the midst of my vast landscape
and still not feel solitary
because you would want me
because you would have me
your spring
waiting to be
engulfing you
every petal 
that is you
your neck
the delicate stem
and fingers
the leaves
would you
play this
surrounding you
when the wind blows
with your gentle 
waving in the wind
play me like your piano
or a flute
play our tune
would you

wouldn't you?

what do i want
do i want 
that is so much
that it cannot 
find a place inside you
even if just a little corner
inside you
is fine 
because i intend to
take that small corner
and build a home
and be the spring
surrounding that home
and you'd live inside that home
wouldn't you
it would be like
you living inside me
as i live inside you
and layers of us surrounding us
when the sun rises and when it sets
and when it sets 
the layers
come closer to each other
wrapped warm and tight
and assuringly
looking at us
telling us
it is us
and that they need to
entwine around us
asking us to let them
and i would
would you

wouldn't you?

and a star
a morning star
a beautiful dawn
a divine morning
you are
you already are
but would you let me 
something more
something bigger 
than i am
something like
your fragrant spring
you the morning
and me your early spring dew
resting on your petals
and leaves
and stem
fill you 
with rapture
why wouldn't you
when you already are
so much
why wouldn't you 
let me
even this much
let me 
do this much
let me be your spring
that makes you bloom
would you

wouldn't you?

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

the shadow whisperer

i detest the light
and the dark
and their silent
teasing illicit 
the shadow

which gets so close to you
that it can lay its bare hands on you
choose to show some of you
and hide the rest of you

like a white devil
it stands behind you
looking over your shoulder
looking at me

i am on her
it says
i do with her
as i please

the inside of her thighs
and the underside of her breasts 
i kiss

she lies in with me
irrespective of which side
her face or hips
i am there

as i please 
i do

look at me
it says
look into my hollow eyes
and tell me you don't
really wish it was

i detest 
i detest 
from the bottom of my 
emotion infested gut

turned inside out
upside down
i know i should look away
but look on
i must

Friday, November 23, 2012


i want to cut the moon
into fine thin lines
of the winter's first snow
and take a hit

the dark black sky
my blotting paper 
dipped in yellow sunshine
a perfect balance of the 
yin and the yang

i need to keep it 
on the tip of my tongue 
and roll my tongue
into my mouth
like how the wave 
rolls up 
and vanishes
into the sea

one rush
after the other

summon the blue devils
and the wonder star
the white dove
sailing across
the sky
look how she flies

i want to dance with the devil
dance till the blue is black
and the white is red
and eat the star
and pet the dove
as she sits on my arm

crush the star
grind it fine
and cover myself in your angel dust
leaving a trail of smoke
emitting from 
flesh made divine

and all that

i need to do 

all that

just so that it resembles 
the hot shiver 
that runs down my spine 
as my mouth and lips and tongue 
meet my beloved's

Thursday, November 22, 2012


why does stepping out 
on a sunny day
feel like walking under drops of plastic rain 
and the air like sheets of glass
and water running through me
like with its jagged shards

why do i think of you
why do i think
that coming to you
would take that all away
make it all okay

why does
your blanket
feel like home
and the one on my bed
in my room
holds no warmth

why does the soft dim yellow light
in which your room basks
make the light that i hear
as i sit in what was my corner
seem like a thousand
angry agitated
shouting at me

why do i think of you
when they do

why do i think
that if you'd put your arm
around my chest
or let me put mine
around your waist
just by doing that
you could make this cacophony
petter down

Monday, November 19, 2012


a shirt
a dark white shirt
with a breast pocket
and a pen

not just any pen
a fountain pen
given as a gift
on my 1st death anniversary

it was black
shiny like ceramic

and the tip
the tip was silver
the tip of the cap
and the tip
at the bottom

it caught light beautifully
and threw out words

its fuel
was ink
regardless of the colour

on ink it fed
and satisfied my hunger
by the words it threw out

my breast pocket
and the pen
its best friend
always together
did fantasy trips together
chased dreams
lost causes
sulked and moaned
and roared

one day
one dull
saturday afternoon

both of them
high on life
decided to give it up
decided to give it all up

are you done
the pocket
asked the pen
i think so
replied the pen

asked the pen
me too
said the pocket

but can we please
do it together
hand in hand

wouldn't imagine
it any other way
one of them asked
both replied

so then
the pen
nestled in the pocket
and bled
silently bled dry

the pocket
which was the colour
of a dark white
was the colour 
of the pen's insides

absorbing all the pen 
had to give
giving itself up
as it did

and then it was all quiet

and i saw them
from a distance
on a bright dull
saturday afternoon

a sad smile
the within me

and me

played out 
by a pen and a pocket

when would it be my turn
i thought

within replied
with a hand on my heart
in a while
my friend
in a short while

Sunday, November 11, 2012

isle of timelessness

you take me 
and place me
in  a world
rendered timeless
with your words

this world
is one
which does not come
with the feeling of a start
or one coming to an end
this world, is

it is
hanging in soft suspension
moving swaying

to the music of jazz
the milky way

the rhythms and blues
the moon

and 70's rock
the sun

this world is
it exists


as a figment
of our collective
and animalism


as tangible as
the physicality of thought

and the unreal
a very  

this world
the one you place me in

in its own mind
and body
and yours and mine

and in ours

this place
is not one
with a start
or one coming to an end

this world
this place
its inhabitants

floating spirits
sometimes, soothing
needfully close
comfortably afar

this world
you are

we are

what else is there
what else is there

a shared timelessness
encapsulated into

in a world
which has no
or an end

it just is
its swaying is
its soft suspension is
its invisibility
and its presence is

it is
the time
the ticking of watch hands
and the grains of sand
in a sand clock

it is the space 
in an empty glass
and a soaked within

it is a world
by itself

a world
existence, of which
was willed 
by itself

we breathe
and we will
and we want
and we want forever

this forever is 
the measure of time
in this world

the one that you place me in
with your words