Saturday, March 30, 2013

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.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

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.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

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


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

Sunday, March 10, 2013

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.




















































































Wednesday, March 6, 2013

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'ĂȘtre
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

* * *

Monday, March 4, 2013

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

Sunday, March 3, 2013

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