Wednesday, October 31, 2012


i need to write
i need to write a poem
but it would only be anything 
completely meaningful
if i write it all over you

all over your bare skin

the meters and rhymes and rhythms and verses
when they end and where they begin
would take care of themselves 
as they bend around the curves and arches 
of your body
hugging your fluent breasts
turning towards your eloquent hips
falling at your feet
rising to your lips
around your back
wrapped tight

the mole on your neck
a punctuation mark
asking me to pause
take my time...

rapacious games

the dizziness 
that comes from being 
half asleep 
and fully awake

the rasp
that comes with early early mornings
by the soft creaking of the bed

the indents 
on the mattress 
and the pillow
growing deeper
like they have a secret love affair 
of their own 
going on

so completely unaware 
of the two people on them

to make and find and explore 
their secrets 
in each other

but never enough
thank god it is never enough

Tuesday, October 30, 2012


calloused skin
calloused now
tender once
responsive too

not any more
not any more

calloused care
calloused love
calloused conversations

calloused like
cold weak coffee 
in a tea cup
with a broken saucer
an absent pout 
and an uncomfortable handle

chapped flesh
chapped now
ready to rise, once
even at the slightest hint 
of anticipation

not any more
not any more

chapped optic fibres
chapped digitized images
chapped bytes, never taken

chapped like
the autumn leaf
with toothless blades
collapsed veins
and a defeated midrib

numb arms
and numb legs
lifted once
spread-eagled  too

not any more
not any more

numb medication
numb marrow in the bones
numb dull throb

numb like 
the wishing well
at the centre of the skeletal town
with wishes lying at the bottom
stagnant lost forever paying
the cost of a dead dime

this is it
this is it

is it?

wish it's not
thinking it is




being sadistic
with themselves

sad with pleasure
happily sick with pain
for an outer body experience

compilation of dead living cells
their temerity
such self-love
all in vain

this skin
this flesh
these limbs
are broken

but never can they 
break free

try if you have to
drill the callous
shred the chap
cudgel the numb

and all you'l still get
is a broken 
piece of you
broken into two

this skin
this flesh
these limbs
are broken

but never can they 
break free

Thursday, October 25, 2012


a field called theatre

a field
of memories
missed opportunities
chances taken
times forgotten

the length
of our shadows
with help of the sun
on this field

this here
belongs to me

lies your claim

what was ours
what is ours
to only ponder upon
now dangles
on razor edges
of thin barbed fences
in between

but this too
is fleeting
shape shifting

like flashes of past
generally tend to be
we remember
our truths
attired in wishfulness
the way we wished once
to be
and longed to see

morning to afternoon
evening to night
act as just lines
dividing this field
into chapters

begging to be arranged
as we best recall
an i before a u
a u before a v
till it all gets

the sun
the field
the fenced plots 
of this field
the drawn lines 

for things
from the past
in awareness
that they can't

this is a field

assumedly lost
presumably buried

Sunday, October 21, 2012


as i think of her
every part of me 
wants to break away 
from me
and be a part of her

i watch me 
this me

floating away
from afar
like grains of sand 

like drops of rain
like white light 
broken into seven colours

i look at this me

from a distance
as every cell 
in my body
tears away 
from me
to be 
a part of her

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

dream eyes

a game
of truth and dare
her eyes

her eyes
looking at me
looking at her

i ask
do you see me
the way i see you

what do you see
who do you see
when you see me
she asks me
with her eyes

i see the corners
where you hide
when i look into 
your big bright eyes

daring me to keep looking
daring me to stare 
at the truth
and not blink

will you blink
will you flinch
will you take a step back
when you look into my eyes
and see an irrefutable me
looking back at you

would you?

i would not
i say

then say some more 
she says

what should i say
i ask

say anything
just talk to me
she replies

talk to me about
my eyes
but not with your
your lips 
or tongue

talk to me
with your eyes

tell me
what do you think of my eyes
do you,
like my eyes?

i get
as i see her
speak so clearly
ask so piercingly 
with just her eyes

i say

i like your eyes
i love your eyes
have i said enough
or do i say it
a million more times
i struggle to decide

her eyes
oh god, her eyes

describe them to me
my eyes
she nudges me

she asks me
to describe
as she puts her finger on my lips
but not with her finger
but with her eyes

don't move those lips
not tonight

draw it for me
with your eyes

i open
the window
and look at the velvety dark 
stark sky

she speaks
with just her eyes

a cliché?
are you going to
like many before
the similes 
and metaphors 
of the stars 
night sky
and my eyes?

no, my love
i say

as i learn 
a new art 
of whispering
with just my eyes

i am looking
at the eternal
i was a believer
and that i believed
in gods
for if i did
for if i could

i would ask
for some help
an intervention, divine
that would bestow
upon me unspoken
help me
hold my hands
in describing
drawing your eyes

i sigh

and look at her

i can't
i don't have the words
i don't have the expressions
i don't have the depth
to secernate
your eyes
as they rightfully deserve

i say this
and look away from her

only momentarily though

i can't 
not look into her eyes
for too long

and then i see
it in black and white
just as vividly
spelled in her eyes
the black so black
the white so white

i have hope

i think i know
i know i see
i see what i wanted
to say
in your eyes
in black and white
separating the
uncertain greys of the world

your eyes
one place
not ambiguous

here fear is fear
and joy is joy
and a question is a question
making no attempt to hide
and pride is pride
and sadness is sadness
and hope is hope
and hate is hate
and love is love
and yesterday is gone
and today is now
and eagerness for tomorrow
a certainty 
without a shadow of doubt

have i said enough
about your eyes
i ask
i had done well

it is a good start
she hints
and smiles
with her eyes
and floats away

i open my eyes
a dream
a dream
the same dream

the dream of her eyes

i lay there
in beads of desperation

her eyes
oh god her eyes
and how they make me yearn

i say

and close mine
as they burn

Monday, October 8, 2012

a lovely word

once is such a lovely word / a pleading request from a little child / a wrenching reminder of the past the finality of a flint stone's last kiss with the surface of a pond /once / a resolve stronger than hardened bones /a hope holding on to a finger / a prayer it never comes / a fear that it never goes / once /once is such a lovely word /

Thursday, October 4, 2012

religion of mementos

As the world outside struggled and rejoiced; depending upon whether it was facing the gun barrel or was behind it; effectively and disdainfully in a self-inflicting manner, thoughts of god and religion or rather gods and religions; he corrected himself, entered his mind.

He added gods, the plural form of essentially a bloody myth, just so as to leave no one behind feeling that their stupidity, hostility, barbaric indifference or shuddering inhumanity, could not even earn their god or in some cases gods, the right to be mentioned or bring them under the criminal canopy of conflict.

His struggle, however, was inside him. Religions of the world had renounced him. The gods were clearly displeased and none of the millions of gods out there, on sale, on incredibly unbelievable rates or more aptly; price, could find enough place to accommodate him. The gods had given up on him and so had the followers. Or was it the other way round? It had been such a long time ago that no one could claim to know. No one could be sure. 

The gods, the followers and he, did not care. That was, is, and as far as evidence goes, will be the only common thing this unlikeliest of trifecta share. 

He did not want to be without a religion. He was desperately seeking one.

He sat in a corner, writing, thinking. More thinking than writing. He thought of that one thing to which he could selflessly devote himself to, he thought if there could be a religion, the cause of which he could pursue endlessly, one which would compel him to explore the length and breadth of his life.

And then it came to him; his religion. He finally did have a religion that he followed. And one which followed him everywhere, even when he shut himself up in the attic of his mind and even when he was driven out of it. 
It followed him ceaselessly. 

This religion was oblivious. It had no heart to claim any territory. Its territory was him.
His was a religion that started and ended with him alone, tempting no one else to convert into something else.

There was no Good Friday or a day when people bowed and spread palms and flowers on the dusty path or a day when someone was born. In his religion there was no good day and there were no bad days. His religion did not discriminate between days. Or nights. They were treated the same. They were all treated with the same measure of apathy. They were all just days, something one just passes by, without standing and staring to take in the sights.

This religion did not exist in the here and now. It was not concerned with the here and now. It was a detached religion, a religion suspended in a vacuum. It was a religion stuck in quicksand, one which tells you not to move at all, to stay still, but one which sucks you into a breathless bottom nonetheless. 

His religion had a shrine. Not one with fresh flowers or burning candles or a chubby kid surrounded by three strangers with stranger gifts. None of that. The flowers in this shrine were dry, shrivelled. His shrine had bookmarks. Every article in his shrine was a bookmark, perhaps of different shapes and sizes, but all serving the singular purpose of bookmarking something. Candles served no purpose, whatsoever, here. This religion, his religion had nothing to do with light. 

His sacred places were never out of reach. They were all places he once frequently visited. Visiting these places, undertaking this pilgrimage, however was never done for finding peace. This was not a religion which professed peace. How could it? It was a religion after all. 

His sacred texts were scribbles and a few lines from certain songs and certain sentences in a book, a book which was 1349 pages too short.

There was no salvation on offer here. None. His religion promised nothing of that sort. There was no gift packed, life-long membership card called afterlife handed out with a *conditions apply* clause. His religion had no clauses. His religion did not boast of showing the path to life after death. His religion has no written or oral commandments. There were no teachings or preaching or sermons. This was a religion of silence and occasional sobs. 

His altar did not have heavy velvet curtains, replete with embossed insignias. His altar had eyelids; mostly heavy and almost always lowered.

So while the religions of the world outside, gave a reason to their respective people to kill; his religion, holding his hand killed no one else, but itself and him, a little every minute. 

His religion had but one deity, one which creates a universe in the time gone by, just so it can exert and assert its right and power of abandoning it in the present.


Because it could.
Because his is a religion of mementos.