Wood, glass and paper

Pictures on the wall

Have a way of falling

Crashing, shattering falling apart

The picture now just sticking out like a sore thumb

Always craving to fall—something

Inherent in them, it’s sharp wooden corners

Keeping the glass together—waiting to fall,

Wanting to break

It’s as if the corners of the room

Were calling each of them,

Lay awake

In their return.

Wood, glass and paper

Come together to protect

And shield,

From the harsh sunlight

That wilts the flower pot

Or the moss that grows in moisture.

But at the end,

It’s something more inherent that kills

What once lay abandoned in an old picture book

Now is gazed with your mortal eye, a reminder

Of days when we had a fireplace

And books to read with

Red sweaters for the season

Socks to keep us warm

And plentiful food for everyone.

Father told him to take the picture

Right before he was leaving

And we stood together, one last time

Waiting for the flash to dull our senses,

And blind our sight,

We waited

until

we saw the picture in the case.

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Living in the belly

Thinking about Ginsberg’s ‘Moloch’ in the Howl.

Moloch no longer smiles in the dark

covered in grimy smoke of the Industrial revolution

does not breathe fiery fumes or

stare in glowing dark.

 

From far far away, Moloch is a beast. Moloch is ravager.

But now that I live within the beast;

now that beast has consumed me

crushed me under the cushioned seats and

air-conditioned rooms, filled with survivors.

 

Many have been consumed by it’s savage mouth

And many live withing the belly of the beast

not looking for a weapon to tear it open

and run free, rather sit inside quitely

and meditate in the silence.

LISTEN! to the war horns blaring outside

fires blazing, poverty, political agenda, riots, religious violence

corruption, corruption of the fourth pillar, commercialization, sensationalisation

water shortage, environment pollution, failure of educational systems, dictatorships,

SMOKE. SMOKE. SMOKE.

Everything will turn to ashes outisde

engulfed by flames emerging from Moloch’s eyes.

 

But inside, it is quite unlike–

quiet.

Except for the sound of clickety-clackety

of keys being hit

bursts into an symphony

that enjoins the silent murmur of people.

 

Inside the belly,

we live as brothers,

survivors of the flame.

living our cubicled lives

Sheltering from his wrath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slow moves

Into the Swift caresses of

The western ghats, I was

Washed ashore. Among the sweltering rocks, where waves comes washing in,

A million stars have taken a dip

And they fall

Into the viscosity of nature. Beauty is among the light escaping the intersections of these palm trees

Emerald green like the color of traffic lights, yet

Far away from the chaos and lights

Drowning in the darkness of the canopy of paradise

A seagull builds in the nest, sqawking at tourists. They flew into the safety of their dilapidated buildings.

These rocks have crabs, hiding in the little crevices, pale white hard shelled creatures with pricking tentacles, I lay beside them. Hiding from the blinding confusion of crossroads and intersections.

The city bears a mark

Of my dissected body

Yet the invigorating aurora

Of shades and glistening

Wash me

Again into the black roads of the city.

My skin drying against the salty water

Lies vacant and empty

The waves crashing against the rocks

Slowly, walk in through the gaps

Between my loin and fabric.

As the sun’s dance away to Glee

And a apparition of faces

Cross by,

New bodies turn up. Tired souls,

Covered in the shroud of smoke.

A flag that I can call my own

A little to the left

push it to the end

Stop, before you hit the wall.

turn it by around by three sixty

face it that side

face it to the wall

face it in a way nobody sees your face.

 

Lie still like a human sushi platter,

don’t flutter around like a butterfly

cause the Gods died ages ago,

Don’ think. Don’t feel, Just lie,

like a story book in the shelf.

 

Be colorless, Be odorless.

be anything but shed blood.

For all I care, be a rainbow unicorn

in a fantasy world where clouds

are made of marshmallows, but

don’t rain the city with your knives.

 

Don’t put a ring on my cock. If it’s not yours.

Don’t color my hair or ask me to cut it.

Don’t ask me to recite words or die for it.

Just follow a lot of dont’s  and mind your business.

 

I like my flags in solidarty

with the silence

of them fluttering

in the evening breeze.

 

 

 

 

 

Wedding processions

I speak

I speak what you don’t want to say

You speak a language, I don’t want to hear

My ears, my tongue, my lips and my ass

They aren’t purified in the verbosity of poetry

but scandalised and tormented

in the burning heat

that makes me

taste a language

saline and bitter;

the chillie-rimmed glass

of this hand job

ejaculates in blood and tears.

We no longer speak

because we were dead

long back

or we never existed,

Let’s not conjoin fingers

in an expression of orgy across world

or either shriek in pain

to the loud drums beatings outside the house.

Pursuit

I lack words,

when my eyes are shut

and my ears are sealed

and a hum of a metro

or a toy train rattling off

in distance; in and through the

ragged entrances of black boulders

cut into neat arches

dispersed among the pines and the spruces

Disappearing and appearing

synchronous with my warm chest

kept warm by the many layers of clothings

that adorns my fragile body.

 

My body trembles

shivers at the sight of it’s sound

Now, running through the green grass

leaving footprints,making darker shades of green portraits

brushed away by the evening wind.

 

The sound of a ceiling fan

losened

the sound of an alarm clock

faster

the thumpings on the door and the walls

louder

mellowing into a scream of unisex cry.

 

I stood at the balcony

staring at the blue sky

the rumblings now far less evident

freezing in the cold wind; my ears getting warmer,

It had passed.

 

 

 

 

 

Melancholic skies

This weather is the worst.

It makes people sick!

Sometimes, like a cold blanket

And sometimes, like an over-fed fire place.

 

This city isn’t Hawaii

Covered by warm, clear skies

With the sound of waves rushing

Into the lands,

 

We hear,

Large noise of motorbikes,

The swarm of office-going bees,

And the occasional azaan in the air.

 

But the large buildings

Rusting into time

Have cast long shadows

Into eternity.

 

Enough, have you taunted me,

Walk out of the cloudy skies!

And shine forth your glamourous shine

I am a poor boy in lack of Vitamin D.