Poetry and I

He was stuck with a bone in his tongue
Is it my fault if he would be careless?
With my poetry

The dogs won’t chew stationeries
Designed with graphical thoughts and feel
As I would every inch of his tongue
When smoke sets to flee

And he would twist and swish
Like floss scrapping candies from faults
Before any bitch would sniff his tongue
And scrape all corners of his beauty

Thick and warm when he brushes ink
Over papyrus that covers me
I become more me than the observer’s eyes
And you could see
He kneeling before me

For more words and shelter
He dipping in bones
Of my poetry.

Nesting Period

How I think of the tissues
Shall never cease the summer to be stronger
How I pour over me mugs of observation
That’ll remain thick on my skin
Till the voluptuous sun settles over the tea-hills..
The train shall take me away
Like time coached on a three-tier sleeping berth
And the earth lying abreast clad in green puberty.

The invitation tangles in my hair
My wooden bangles longing to grow leaves
Under your flowers
Till now your brown eyes take me on a
Ferris-wheel ride
Over a locomotive swirl and cushioned seats
Wait for few more hours till you become lamp
Over the neat dark stretches and streets

How I think there is a flower
In every dispensary of life
Every Calfornia, every Venice
Cannot be the nest in you
Cannot be what the only exception where
A feminine would love to surrender
For petal monuments and ink spots…

Few more hours and the four eyes would meet
Should the lips seek to greet
The Indian way?
Till the contour is demolished
Or shall it be nationalized
On a cold dark bed
When the gospel-worms would freeze?

Tempera

Dipped in the smell of your fringes
Logging fire-woods that runs blood through them
Daintily inching to the curves within
I have felt how pleasure caps in

I have now an extra lung to breathe
And a brush to dab in me
I have songs beaded for a dress that I wear
With no stitches but fair flowing skin

Life now resolved to undo laces
That long tied the gift intact
A gift that fuses in red and white
A gift that melts under the heat of his pulses

But soon shall this geometry distemper
The sun might seek another land to burn
But the bones of moon shall suffice
my teeth
and writhing tongue for a smoke of –marrow!

Three Fold…

I felt over the scribbling on your eyes
Like any impulsive angel briskly
tarrying through dark alleys
would sink in a pothole.

I live in a stock room of fancies;
Wine red and wild-
The stalks and stems
The leaves and petals
Spring out of a three-fold vase,
down the valley
Where Christable meets an enigmatic horse…

The horse be you
The stalks and petals be you
And all that I scream out, be you
a l p h a b e t i c a l l y
dream by dream
white by white
all that makes me grow wider for you…

tucking those eyelids
where you suppose me around
will that help to ward me off?

I couch in your fancy and
meal does not suffice
The tender intestine can’t resist
The feel of your eyes

I await your glimpse
across the men’s loo, in the backseat
of the bus that tussles us through
to a tower packed in glass
windows and glossy masks…
I wait wherever
I cannot meet you…

I wonder if you are a poet
And fishing me through
a sieve
That drips maple-syrup …
And the hotdog in your plate
is not for you but me…

Diabolical

Now the paint drips, like nectar over tongue
He squats to sexualize the mad soil
Lying abreast….
They surround like ears go fishing for music
Throwing up the smoke as he does always
He pees his pain like sore memories
And they laugh and shy
At fluids that keep life going
Uphill, beating impotency and religion of politics
So the farmer squats
To sow
To impregnate the earth, with seeds and moisture
His paint drips like climate in some cheery trees
Like dreams when our skirts freeze…

chance

patriots out of blue
fuse in my wine like smoke out of pipe...
a day down on my chest
when my fancy is adolescent

i would'nt stand cradling the crib
picking at the moon
to sweat and cry
away with my fancy, i 'll walk down
the white white white path...

i'll wear stars in my ears
and have lashes row my tears
i'll swim to the mermaids blue
glued to the breast of water

one chance to live
my fancy across the grass
that line your eyes
one chance to live the pyramids
that has bandaged memories...

To The Critic

The world has washed
Its body in the gurgle down the stiff bodies
Interspersed in climate and cloud of the green bones
The world has chosen me

An organ within bleeding
with plush impulse
and metonymy
of a cult-fused moon
thriving on electric shoot
charged from its throat

all fingers in music
all fingers strumming the basics
to watch him cry
to watch him seasoning in the sun…