Who is here to stay with me?
To swallow my thoughts for real and free.
Who is here to reach for my dreams?
To weave the dull night sky with stars to see.
Who is here to unfold my magic in words?
To read between lines of stories
from my thousand nether worlds.
Who is here to rest under my shade?
Whose smell should I expect to fade?
But I warn you now that my fire would carelessly drown
under the weight of joy another soul has stole and shown.
My dreams would wither, my words would die.
Yet in my thousand nether worlds, I never would have lied.
there are lots of things You can give him, dear God.
Give him blood sucking wars, give him the beauty of stars,
give him the melancholy bristle of wild chrysanthemums in the valley.,
give him a space to smoke up, maybe a quaint quiet alley.
Give him twisted books and the worlds that the authors shook,
give him today, tomorrow and money to borrow.
Give him blotters, give him plotters,
give him friends, give him the sadness that
creeps in when all the love in between beautifully ends.
Give him camphor lights, give him momentary lethal frights,
give him the taste of his mother’s sacred tears,
give him the habit that dazes and amps up his involuntary fears.
Give him anything that you can think of,
give him a life that is split into half and half.
Give him a mask, give him a face
give him gruesome tasks to bring him disgrace.
Give him the right to fly away
and tie his wings for him to stay.
Give him lust to shed his soul apart,
But no! Do not give him a delicate heart.
dusty space on the window sill
on the fluid view to the way long fields,
the sun rises and falls to death
to deny me the night I long to have.
Dreams do reveal in glorious form
lucid as they might be, harmless and true.
The day I had today shed me a trace of light
and what a day to shadow the wise old glow.
A flutter of reverberating tone woke me up,
a tune from the eastward window blowing low.
T’was the crude spout of the albino pigeon
jealous on her kin who never let her swing
on the forbidden wire under the bearing sunshade.
Rewinding few hours on my dazed morning head
I knew the universe is playing himself, corny and dead.
The remains of my dream stroke my being hard
and there was I with cold sweaty palm on my thigh.
Reeled back to the momentary lapse of consciousness
just to mid range that hovers between slumber and wake.
I had dreamed of a pigeon grey and white.
not the usual shit spewing grey and black.
He had asked me to wake up forever then
to make me contemplate the vastness
of such an empty and morbid life.
He asked me to fly, he asked me to jump
but he didn’t stay to teach me how.
I sighed for myself on my miserable state
and there I heard the ugly groan of the pigeon again.
There he was in a cage he never knew existed
on the window sill, by the damp steel pane.
a dying wish to be a ghat-man.
To breathe in the air of thousand meters high,
to know the denseness of my tessellated self.
As hairpin curves lead way to foresee shadows of heaven
that God had guiltily retained for men of passion to see.
We could measure the heights
where mists and misfits dance
but we could never understand
the soulful purpose of the same.
We could hear the weary whistle
of the ever-passing wind-
telling secrets of yesterday
that died in unadulterated vain.
A longing to go out of breath on each step,
a dream to be the warmth between
the sweater and the fabric of the shirt.
A desire to be in the air of
three different damp smoke,
one of the cigarette’s,
one of the tea’s and
one from my own breath-
owing to the cold dark soul.
See when I fit there, I’d exist as a whole.
A part of mine that makes me none
would never be there anymore.
I’d shed my curious dead-drop glance
on the hanging drops of dew that cling on
to the green of the leaves with hopes so few-
as though wishing for a vile storm to pass.
Reflecting the muck on the surface,
the clinging dew drop survives and sways.
And right then I’d tether the drop to my finger tip-
just with a graceful touch like a painter
finishing his lady’s face with a freckle.
The dew would embrace the reach of my tip
and I’d walk it through the storm
with the other hand on my hip.
His little dirty foot,
on the weed and shrub infested land.
Away from home and
into the woods, his heart willfully ran.
He lost something against
the awful winds of change.
He lost something that he kept
close by his chest on his walk today.
A bond he had, unlawful yet just.
Bonded still, he blew his time thus.
Fate played an awful game today
and that tether of spool-spit split
and flew very far away.
Bleeding tiny fingers
and unconscious guilt
threw his heartbeat out
and over through his ribcage
until senses fell apart.
Evaporated tears, arid lips
and the broken heart
thus conspired him to tread
into the maze of suburban woods.
He wandered through to
the other side where no
friends, enemies or traitors reside.
Looking for traces of the one he lost
through canopies of fallen trees
he drowned into, away from the city.
Away from all the noises that
null the chirp of a songbird
and disturb the secret murmer of the clouds.
Now, a buzz he heard
one of those shuffling kind.
It might be the one he lost
and longing wholly to find.
There he found it, stuck on an
insignificant branch of a tree-
clueless as the boy standing
just 5 feet away, gazing upward.
The kite he lost was still flying around
shuffling the air, going round and round.
Content and joyous with the dance it made,
the little boy waved goodbye to his lost old friend.
those intentional fragments
of unevenness- hollow in form,
they don’t house excuses
and petty probable reasons.
They are quite meant to be
at those odd fabricated spaces.
Some clearly damp enough
to remind me of my woeful perspiration.
Symbols of rampant disorder.
A disdain to the substance of norm.
Rebellious by nature- the self
seeming to be lethargic- thus the cause.
I pity the long and tidy
plainness of the glorious herd,
whose assumptions of standards
are seldom put through consciously and heard.
For they never know how comfortable they would feel
to wear a wrinkled shirt- un-ironed, messy and real.