the daily life of routine.

story: 1

the frantic spasms of a dying man made her cum. he was inside her, he, lying on his back. the light in the room a pale, dirty, dim yellow. not the romantic, erotic, dim yellow. the dirty, dim yellow, which made the contours of his face seem pretty, hiding his ugly features. it also concealed her sagged, wrinkly, trodden form, like cheap make-up. she came with a mild sense of ferocity and a full blown case of venting. she did not cum because he was good. she came because he looked funny to her, comical. she liked 'funny' in a man. he came as well. no, not because she was good. but because he thought he was pleasing her, teasing her, getting her all worked up, like a well laid sunday brunch; more for the show, less because of the appetite. he was supremely proud of himself watching her climax. he liked himself. that did it for him. neither one could see the others' face. a dying man being ridden by an air filled plastic doll with a millions holes. but they could not see this. chose not to. thank god for the dirty dim yellow lights.

story: 2

she was expensive. to a dying man she was priceless. the deal was for one entire night. but he wasn't going to last that long. an hour, at the most. he knew it and she knew it. a dying man does not last an entire night. a dying man is birthed every night, covered in the sticky tar of the life gone by, the pain from before, his umbilical cord, joining him to the mass of nothingness. his tube of nourishment rich in nothingness. but he does not need much. and nothingness does not give much. thank god for making this work out so beautifully.

story: 3

he asked her to enter the room. not to touch anything. she walked towards him, towards the bed in the dark. it was a brilliant preview of life with him. living with him was a lot like that. walking in the dark. not knowing if she was walking towards or away from him. not knowing if he was even there. she walked straight to the bed without bumping into anything. she was used to it now. she has lived her life with him. she knew how to walk in the dark, that was perhaps the only thing she knew now. thank god for the practice.

rage

satin black of the night

wear 
the satin black 
of the night
as your dress
my caress

the ribbons 
and bows
of velvet
nestled

against 
your milky
flesh
awakened
heightened

as the night grows 
young
me
at your feet
sucking dribs
of honey
of the heavens
me filled

with the need
to be full
feeding
feasting
on an insatiable appetite

the satin black 
of the night
my velvet caress
dribs of honey
hunger
need
feed
desire

insatiable.

blissful death of an egghead

play

butterfly effect

what scares the clown?

Add caption

brittle

a blade of grass

a blade of grass

buried
underneath

the thick
sheet of snow

trying hard
trying
with all its might
calling upon
its will
and all that
it can
summon
from within

trying to reach
reach out
to the
sun
touch
the sky
shake
off the frost
and be the shade of green
it was destined
to be

a green
which is not

cold
withered
suffocated
deprived

a green
that
sprouts
out

parting
the brown
earthy
bosom

earning
its share
of sunlight
and its
right

to be

to exist

and there
on a park bench

i sit

looking
at this blade of grass

a man
with an autumn
inside
but
holding onto
the dream of a spring

secretly

when
neither he
nor any one else is looking

the mighty trees
the fading light
the stampede
of human feet
and the rush
of a day
calling it a day

this tiny blade
of grass

makes all these things
monolithic
fade away

and 
i
sit there
on a park bench

and look at it

a man
who is slowly
learning
to see
things
for what
they are not
and somehow
manages to draw
a parallel
with the gods

immortalized
glorified
in spite 

of all the living breathing
evidence
that is

you and i
and our lives

through the tenures
and the false
tenors
attributed to
them
made larger
with the clay of their non-existence

and
i
sit on a park bench
and
compare

a man
who is
made of
burnt out ashes
on the inside

but still
wishes

secretly

when
neither he
nor any one else is looking

for that blessed stroke
of wind
which would
reignite
all that has died

i compare
this 
blade of grass
with the powers that be

powers
who have
throughout
the fabled pages
of history

looked at the abyss
and have
with such blithe
unconcern

looked away
when the abyss
that are our
eyes
fast losing
light
stare back
but
i

pin my hope
on this blade of grass
and know

know
from a place
a place
so deep that it can't be a lie

that this blade of grass
would not look away
with all its fragility
and smallness
it would stare back

for a moment more
than it can bear

and in that moment
that blade of grass
would be
the god

a god

bigger
than any gods
we've known

i've known

and
i 

sit
on that park bench
a man
who finally
is
ready to recognize

secretly

when
neither he
nor any one else is looking

that he has found his god
while
on the outside

he sighs

at the triumph
of the faded away light
over the day

he gets up
a heavy head
a disturbed heart
hurting knees
stiff back

and 

walks away

hey! long face

desolation

shooting star

3 paintings and 4 notes

A person was found dead on the road side. 

Seems mostly likely to be a case of collateral damage.

From one of his breast pockets and the two pockets of his trousers were found three paintings (more like rough sketches) and four notes.

They seemed nonsensical. 

No, maybe not nonsensical. That seems to be too harsh a word. 

Contradictory, yes contradictory should explain it sufficiently. 

Too bad he died. If he hadn't, he could have been a living contradiction.

staring at a lizard. staring at a wall.

years from now

in an ancient museum

standing out

as one thing

that endured

our combined contemporary

art

our love

there

for all to see
and for us to know
as we have always 
known

that is how it started
but before that
there was a pause

* * *


it started from a pause

on the third dot 
of an ellipsis
a full-stop
it revolved
evolved

like a word
on the tip 
of a tongue

like a word
you know 
but cannot
recall

waiting 
wanting 
to  drip
and form
honey pots
one
wanting
to be a honey pot of faith
and the second
waiting
to be a honey pot of hope

 * * *
years have gone
past us 
since then

thousands days
each day a thousand years
long

and i visit this museum
this day

like i do
everyday

to stroll down 
its passages
and see
what we've 
found
kept
preserved 
discarded
hidden
deformed
changed
kept
let go

* * *

i look

at two old honey pots

on two easels 

of ivory

centre pieces 

with strobe lights

which don't 

work any more

they did once

as the lights caught words

and moved with words 

that moved 

us

and paused

the moment

of the word

made it 

stationary

so that

we could stand right next to it

hold it

kiss it

believe it

live it

but now

the honey pots of 

words

lie there

centre pieces

with

dust

cobwebs

devoid

of shadows

and devoid

of lights

empty pots 

filled with

empty words

of faith and hope

* * *

a few steps ahead

accentuated

by ripped up canvasses

hung

two old frames

masterpieces 

of our 

adamancy

mine 

exhibited

in an ellipsis

yours

showcased

in a full-stop

yours 

placed

right below 

mine

the raison d'être

a full stop begins

when an ellipsis ends

* * *

and then

in the sacred section

the revered archives

i come face to face

with two exquisite sculptures

exhibiting 
the most fragile
in us
in bronze
now dimmed
but still
a transient space
a transcendental space
made luminous
by the awareness
of each next to the other

that one space
where we stay together
forever
sculptures of 

our fear

* * *

yours was a lizard
mine is a wall

* * *

subtle

the gift

a providential gift

from the womb 

of this universe

created 

with the finest things

the waterfalls

stardust

lilies

rainbow

butterflies

first drops of rain

scent of wet earth

the whitest white 

of the glaciers

and the quiesce

of melting ice

velvet black 
of a night 
filled with longing

fire of the sun

and the touch 

of a soothing 
summer's evening 
breeze

you

draped

encased

embossed

contours

on the

silver moon

burn

i

know not much

of anything

little that i know

i know this

a fire 

burns

true

truer 

than 

the sum total

of anything

the only thing

that a fire knows

is to burn

and me

i know not much

of anything

so

i sit

by a flame

and decide

to do

as the fire 

does

and learn

to burn

complete

and 

true