On Burnt....

Berries scorched in the embers of jaw
And the licking fire lighted the shrine
That lay unattended by the musical preacher
Like the privacy magazines in my dad’s drawer!

You taught me the art of flute
To limit the music to the pores and lips
Lest neighbours would envy
The luxury of my jewelries
Like as a growing girl I won’t be allowed to play
Lest all the myth of puberty flew away

You wade across to seize the lotus stems
And you never see the water bleed
It is when images turn white apples
And frosted pines struggling to penetrate the sky
wriggles…
you being your self
and the silhouette of your kisses
like uncles and aunts known for ages.

From Lodzki

I am not a poet
I sally into it for the books carry it
And brings under my specs to strip the structure…

I have eyes coated thick
With the ink that I rub over my thesis
No dinner at colleague’s parlor,
No pen, books or filler
Subtract me from the locus
My eyes tuned to the hallowed yell of
A repulsive woman
With whom I rationalized a living over
T H I R T E E N y e a r s

But she has been a window
On my prim body
That once by chance I went through
And determined to miss her …So

I lost my phones in quick succession
As I spread it through…

She came with roses
Early morning when I made with my wife
A quick sip of lemon tea and the remaining…
For so T E A people we are…

Come up
And she walked all the pores
Of the stairs
An appointment appointed to my surprise
To kiss me all over below the sunsets
To which I never answered.

That day though demurred

Is a pre-doctoral asset
Of a connection just felt
Over lectures and boring iron rails
That benched my seat to the rest.

I can never be a poet
With my wife lost in the Polish Maples
And I in the conflict of politics
Politicizing a hand on research

Researching nothing
But the date to get back
To pay her bus fare
Who would ardently follow me
In the absence of my eyes

Or else write poetry
Waiting for me to pen within
Or
Under…

twigs and spams

...All are eternally infatuated ....
Even fingers do it tenderly on a key-board
And violently within
This is in my twenties
I pee on plurality
It is all about you and me.

Under the roof of sunset
I loose the tap to break down
On my tired feet twitching over spam
i dab against the virgin twilight
and strike past the liquid mirror…

Wrap, unwrap
My words are well with
Or without braces
Sharp and strong on tender meat

you. You have never been yourself
like my words.
You are a well dressed being
With hooves and in hoses
You have been Brutus to your impulses

…And brutal to my poem.

Unprinted II

That apple you had from Eden

Is half-gotten down the pelvis

Of your throat

I just left a paint mark

To trace back in the event of fall

When nests are younger than supposed

Not loosing myself in the dearth of crayons

Its when the brown Vitruvius

Jumped out the tangle of cotton

And drilled in me fireflies

And a stark song hacked of his trunk.

Its when silence drummed aloud

The seven symphonies of sin

And the bed whistled

at Pleasure walking down..

Unprinted I

The first few days
the river is bright red
and then grief coiled in dead cells
pull out like a white print
the skull then winds the spool
ofundisturbed note for the remaining.

Semicolon

I never saw a monster
Nibbling at fables
I never saw a monster
Caressing my tender…

I have never felt cobwebs
Could knit a better winter coat
And the fume of mosquito coil
Would rage my indolent evening….

So much you can connect
Between the flute-stand the Octopus
resting down the pelvis.

; a window that transcends my height.
A shoal of life from the smoking nib…

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…

Ferry Night

Those nails meandered
On the plain of fabled bulbs
And burnt grasses where sloth is frost
Culling down the transparency
Of the red heron fluttering within
The skin stretches beneath your sweating hands
(and ask me what happened within)
If the meter disclosed the count of pulse
That collided with the sound of ferry
Bruising over the hairless chest of water…

But like any dream
Left untouched and fathomed in the chest
You would row away
For better curves and dices
And the snow you touched
—shall forget the loyalty of memory
Over gendered overtures that
Propelled the ship for glass-hours...

When would the moon stand perplexed
When would you dip in the house of sunburns
And gather all my limbs under your clutch

When would the finishing strokes
Set me final in the hall of memoirs
And incite the pulps for a frenzied stand?
When would you drip
like shots of sugar and please being with me?

Hyacinth on the edge

I stand on the edge
of wild blades and sunbeam
where the nerves cease to breathe
the fire of oblivion
I stand like an empty tin-can
with profuse emptiness within
The milk drained out
down the howling gauge;
the white litters settle down

So you believe
I am a disease
branching over your body
measuring your pores and
salvaging your bones
You call me a psycho
For I find no diction in dimes

How was it when you scaled me
upstream and hauled
your grit plumbing in the kitchen sink
Sucking noodle strings
from a bowlful of gravy?
Stinging me like bees do to pulps
Now you are blaming me.

You have a scorecard
Of paradox and infirmity
Could you number those sharp kisses
that stitched my skin…
but now you see the wound again blooms open
You are sick flogging the drum
All you know is too engineer the cry
And name it your impulse, your music.

Now the end is receiving Hyacinth
a telegram from life.

From Hotel Grand

Dog bones will do good
For yeast-rotten ribs

Poems are painful
When poetry doesn’t flower
Of some ill-gotten fancy

What is wrong with the curve
Convoluted, feminine, fertile
With rich periodic flow

And matchboxes with eyeholes
To fathom beauty in those cabdrivers
Charging passed the blisters where travelers
Risk in.

Gopal Daju… should I propose
You a living in the pollution
Where a vehicle dash against the other
Like meek monsters?
You better live
And ensure Lachung
Always remain, in its youthful seminal flow…

What could be better than
If you are encountered in your nest

By the frost and freezing snow?

An apostle of the rain-forest

I remember a mid monsoon trek
In the smoky black and green hue
Sharing one multicolored umbrella
Down the rain-pines falling abjectly on
Plastic covers…The only memory I share
With myself
Of teen-hood self identifying among
The mountain monks and cobra flower andBrown orchids…
The strong flavour of raisin pickle
Punching momos in a Darjeeling cottage
Living on the edge
Of death that mirrors
Among multitudinous torch-insects on the back
Of dark still horses and yaks
Above us our
Monasteries that buoy in the
Nothingness, like a suspended pendulum
Striking religiously

I wanted to write this poem to the black masters
Bringing rain to appease the weary road
Carrying men and women like labour indeed
You never know, when on the observatory road
Observation reduces to self-introspection
And aspirations inhaled from coffee-beans in kettle
boiling
With anger…
Darjeeling is a poetry by the woods
Erratic, unpredictable, like a locust lost its way
Under the tall standing punctuations…
A heaven beneath heaven
A paradise in all
Where the fountain make ceaseless love in the river-bed.

Pathways winding unto vespers
Digging into monumental fancies
At the toe of the green ranges
With wild red blisters
That taste like dwarfed strawberries.
Walking on the map of wet dreams and trousers
Stinking humidity…
More thirty-two miles to Gairibaans-
A land on the lap of the hills…
I made a sponge ball of myself
Sopping every nectar in the honey cluster
I sipped the wine poured by his tongue
He who was our guide
A bewildered adolescent sherpa…

I scaled the cleavage of the sunrise point
Larger than normal… the peaks of Kanchenzunga
Were youthful and provoking…
I built a clip of hissing rivers
The land of coffee-cult and
The myth of rejuvenation in every cup of green tea…
Darjeeling is pregnant
Of our teen-hood memories

Translating Fantasy

1.

Beds of frost
In forsaken
bone yard…
The lamppost
digs
the face
of one
soon

shall metamorphose
Into frost
of imperial coffin pattern

and
with white slabs of wool

and
deceased compassion

I lie within
Below the brown cap of
My elegiac
chapel

clouds walk like
lizards on ceilings
and pines
with drooping
white hands

sick
and orphan
mocking
epiphany

like a hooting
silver
star

crystallizes
like bed
in the garden
afore
my eyes…

Counteract

1.
And branches
Break out
The mass
Of your
Church

The blue violin
Spreads
Like a skirt

around me…

blurring

the trains whistling
through
extreme girlhood…


2.
A jet plane
leaves

a weal

on my eyes
A mark of white wound

Like doves
metamorphosed
In linear sand

and blood ridden
letters…

3.
Brisk temper
Of an evening

Shutting down the sun

You lure me
By that tongue of music

Of those dens you beat

I understand
nothing of poetry

Just braving
a counteract

between you

and my
insanity

Cult

1.

Black shells
and trepidations

ribs of vision
blue…dehydrated

I walk from your limbs
to limbs
…downhill eyes
to those fat lips

Row me
till water is high
and I drown

like a dead submarine…

2.

I have dug your
navel
bits of jewels and
tidy dreams

a brisk temper
enlightening my castle…

ashes of prayer
like salted petals
crisp red in

a big brown chest

termites nibbling
my soft
sad eyes…


3.

The naked pine
sharp over
some bleeding soil

tongue sweeping
bristles on your face

milk raining down
blind canvases

and across
The event of church


down the pelvic
a tomb-
a bliss of orchid and
poisoned raisins

4

An evening
you jerked the caravan

against violet petals

a friction
that crippled
music

and noise
unheard

those foul-birds
pecking at
seeds of sin

5

tongues melting
in the oven

cubes of saliva
burning a
cult
the nestles
below

an organic
smell
feasted by yeast
trained
by libido
and lullabies.

myth

Silent Artic like porcupine spikes
Hanging like baboons onto my metal mind

I see your footprints covering my eyes
Under a giant bird covering my earth

A few hours, the old moon’ll be buried
stars like green leaves with dew on their face

somewhere I can smell red moisture
like worms crawling out of nest

debunking realism that feed like parasite
the narrative of some broken hill math

we can live like your teeth, close and humble
neat, foam of morale shall disinfect our malady

I’m wounded by impulse you triggered
sewing me like a dress cultured in the machine

December is down back from his town
All those furies, penury shall rock in silence

I’ll be there…

I’ll breathe in the letters of my last poem
Encased in orange and vermillion
Some linear transitions of my mind
Those sleep in the bare white sheet of life

Pigmented hope in starched nebula
The guitar has grudge against music
Strum those veins, you spill no blood
Now spin me some food of your words.

Undo that bow of your prim look
those words that you pinned in your hose
can you feel how I’m sinking
gliding into oblivion down your throat

Till death I know you’ll burn each letters
Written in my garden of burnt roses
Cacophony in the interim of my sick body
Unplug those nerves that bring me you

Get me grass and light me a smoke
I’ll give you a body fettered with silence
Strangle me with your brown forks
Serve me little death sprinkled with nice salt

When you would row in the dark waters
Lost in the marine shrubs, a white lotus will await you there...

The Third Day of May

I hear a pain talking
behind my left earlobe

I realize my stomach is critical
of literature and realizes a few
sylvan principles that rule the woods…

They said I shouldn’t sleep
lest I’ll be lost in the purple ribs
and the incense that’ll blow off my nostrils

There is nothing that I could remember
Just the weal of your name
that beautifies my tanned skin
And shards of those kisses like splinters
and the wrestling pulp wish could
redesign what is elemental, inevitable
And furnish myself
With more poison-ivy…

I’m lost within the third of May
My stomach so critical of this feel
and the pain that nested
Whispers unto me
A vicious design that is cuddling me
Could this sun disinfect the valley of wounds?

A room for Messie

I never like the sun to visit
The dirt and dust of my room
My room is cold, sad feverish
My room is a waste-bin
I rewind those channels that never talk about me
But so selfish unlike with the weather, rape and sport
And music, lectures, screaming animals, soaps and serials
My notebook is too old now
to practice any exercise
and my pens, and pencils and stained crayons
that never lick me with its colour
And those spiders
Taught me how to weave
web and stick memories and fancies
Garcia and Steinbeck
Beatles and Flyod
Plath Sinead and
All buried in silence, they never oppose
My fan never feels dizzy, calm and determined
Only those limbs vouchsafe time for me
Id, my dustbin is happy to see
She lives neat and beauty
In my cold , sad, feverish room
That I have locked within myself
Let this room be myself….

Fiction

The smog studded crow
Balancing on our tongues
glued with saliva
Looking for a pitcher in a somatic summer

Over the blueberry hills
A desperate river rushes down the nerves…
Panting breathlessly to see the moon
Plop!
My tongue salivates , the crow lays here.

“Every woman adores a fascist”
And the red reptile
Boiling restless
For women and grass

The night now flapping its wings
For claws scorched by burning lips
And the friction of teeth
More like a fascist
More like a mirror

The pebbles over the jaw safe keeps
The bird of language, taste
And saliva,
The bird that manipulates
easy eyes.

Memories

Would you believe that
those moths took their wings from me

heavy dust laden tiny skins
that flap in delight when the white arise?

those memories are sown to my skin
like the scar behind my ankle
when I fell off riding a cycle

sometimes those trinkets rattle within
in my skull, and mosses peep from the niches

silence is an extreme death metal
to my deaf years…. Painful, unbearable

I’ve filled in the cups of my palms
with prayers trickling down my fingers

who’ll hear me, the moth within
bent over a tombstone
of
crisp
winter
memories….

The Letter ever written for a beloved no more

This evening after talking to you, I have finally confronted those questions that if I answer might solve few puzzles about my self. Like you said if you have to change, why would you and for whom would you? This question of yours also met me with bewilderment. Indeed, why should I change when I know for sure my love for you is so alone? Undoubtedly it is still love for you that make me talk to you, think of you when actually unconsciously I am disturbing you.
Before this conversation, the last time we have spoken so nicely was day before yesterday when you happily admitted you too have realized your love for me. But now you defied that and questioned my compatibility of refinement of taste, choice and lifestyle. That you being an engineer found it so difficult to solve few mental-months…

I love you and knowing this for sure that this love will never be reciprocated I continued loving you, because this is based on no conditions. I am reminded of your love for your ex-girlfriend every time I tried to share my feelings for you. I told you that I’ll never interfere in your affairs with others but please limit yourself to me when you talk to me.
Every time I tried to voice out my feelings you passed them away with an air of reluctance, apathetic and cold. You said I am impossible, unbearable and least lovable.

And innocence, a short living reptile, It infests only on the virgins. Your reason of falling short in love is my confused, split self, with over-excessive demands. And my demand is a portion of you.
I haven’t yet physically committed to you, so even if you leave me, the wont be that rigorous but once everything is over, and then you ignore me, probably I’ll have no alternative than to rip my self apart.

So, I decide it would be wise for us to be at a distance than embittering this relationship anymore than being a worm eating up your happiness. You are a musician and I am a poet and our goal is peace, and to attain that we must be comfortable with this distance. Few more years for me, if I do not die of any disease before-hand, I need to secure my family and I’ll be done. Enough of confusion, feeling bad, wrecked nerves and intrigues, a designer death will be an ideal destination for me from where at least I need not yell at you for addressing my restless love.
And if you think this is grossly sad, I am. I have not allowed myself the love of the person who loves me in stead I love the person who is bogged down stricken by cheat from his girlfriend. Phil introduced me to a person whose story touched me than those fingers that ever moved over me. This game of 22 days is over. And hey, you owe me a treat, you winner

random

i have thought not to wash it
let my corset be haunted by
your sweat...

i haven't washed my lips yet
and starving since that day
i dont want the stain of your saliva
to smudge
and the lashes of your hungry tongue..

and pastels over my throat
and down the bird's nest...
i feel i am growing within
from a waste to identity...

For my Brown Boy..

Can you paint a Winter landscape with
blue temples and puss and blood clot

a sex enchantress down the barberry isle,
in a lunar template, beside the lonely lake?

the occult priest can. One who prophesies
nightingales in the veins and slurp on beauty

and gaze at red kimono pinnacles
sugar dipped lips in ambiguous packs.

Black forest hunching on the shoulders
Of the red-wine woods and slit…

The priest is my man, my surrealist
Strumming the impulse and orgasm blues

Love stricken serpent, smoky path crawling
Playing the white keys of the pout keyboard

Grilling all that these bodies worth
Unison, a gamut of passion and apteryx!

Thoughts of a local lotus

The pyrogenic
sun that debates love
is cubical at the order
of

a frog
an amphibian male
seeking the lotus shade
away from mathematical
controversy

* * *
The life of a seed
Is seeded in the fruit born of it
Cyclical
Psychology transcending from
Water
Precipitates
And trickles down in darkness
Ink of dismissed liquid eye

across that window
The sun is shunning his eyebrows…

* * *
Anarchy
My stray dog
In search of bones and numbers
That labels
Wounded genitals
Of burnt prisoners
Huddling across the purple-stone bay

Cannibalism devours
Species of poetry
Not me
But the grey intellects
To bisect the
polemical beauty
Of sex
beneath every face…

1.

the trumpet cloud
and metaphors
running string through
dead, divine hopes

the plate is so green
and breathing silhouettes
tracking gills
of liquid fishes

brown lips
and the boat pose for a sail
bewitched by colours
and wings-
mast
of Iphigenia

surreal fleet
so interstellar
floating down
a log
the shore
of music
naked wounded
sincerely
butterfly...

Stitched

roses
underneath
the skirt that nature
wear often

are
sown to distress
lips cannot put in a smoke
nor bleed a seed

they
will sing to hymen
the stories of the ships
and sea

and
men lost in the leaves
the roses often shade
They sink

to
bottomless sea
anchoring the fragile soil
and

white ink
white ink
that writes nothing...

abrasion

love don’t wrong me for the carved slit
my blood wanted to meet you
a Postmortem Testament

not a drop of blood
Away from me,
You flow within
Into the Black Sea

A heart tossed across
Like a pebble into air
And the violent sea within
Has to appease her fury

A thirst that twined into oblivion
dead leaves crumpled, red.
A dismembered hope
Of planting a nerve in the blue

The drums were me
The bass, the acoustic, the metal veins
My gypsy skirt into support stand
I rendered beats
I rendered a play

not a drop of blood
away from me,
You flow within
into me.

Leaves

Beaked leaves
scratching fate
that vehicles sealed to highway earth

Shades absent
on naked winter
and branches that poke the white

Acrostics

1. R
wounded lights
electric that lash
the grass
on your eyes
like mantle smoke
that scorches
high end fashion
ribs fall open
when music thuds
on her skin
she shouts loud

2. R
I felt it
the drops in you
the neurosis that
palpitates
the musk
that is steady through
Silence of
purple wounds

3. K
Blue night
And the moisture
on your palace
the heat
that seals my lips
mood is
a moment's season
that looses in
the maze of your hair
And when love
unbuttons the chest
It happens
liquid flowers
for a summer
with you.

A Line Poem

A liquid blue bench and the street neon kissing its neck

An invertebrate elegance snow-printed crawling along

An audio memory unspooled, fingers unwinding the reel

All that is spun have heard the howling of the moon

Easy like a divine train into the hungry lair

A neurosis, is wanted, like brazen warmth in ferocious cold

And poets fall like drops of salvation from the anxious air

Like brown beans under the white, limbs throb for mollusk

ashes of Truth

And yet we think that those rocks pave unto us: savage annihilation
the fire copulates and roses resurrect in ash
wreath of tissues dipped in morphine...
dust of blue, i stamp, more blue into air

like God singing through his white ribbons
that ties the pulsating gift
mad spring now wounds her own land
to bury more songs, more boneless leaves

What else but to wink like a clown
and freeze the molested into snow
black lizards and red bats
in the countered kitchen of thin piano

The way one allows memories to seep
one allows not the nectar to trickle but lick
the art of wiping all that is white within
strikes as if prayers stung by bee

like every day is fashioned fresh: stretches the unstretchable
black berry is someday a jackfruit
and kitten another day an wolf
gallops like whims of unfathered child

catastrophe is an original built.

A handsome return

Animals
Like melting impressions
thick in the air I breathe
as I held against the roof balustrades

My atelier has saved lead-powder
Bottle of polluted tears
a pair of rulers to scale the iceberg
and incense for a dead martyr

There is a painter
who has thrust nobility in reflections
that reflections can stare patiently
till men wear realization.

The spread underneath my fancy
where baboons copulate
evening is cheating notes
beneath the winter desk.

For oil and colour
He has clipped his staple,
Played the mandolin at silver coast
No one heard is music, not even food.

Venus
Summoned him in oriental dreams
Where butterflies wear makeup
And bees are built of honey.

None, but a blank within
Which he had to fill
With fruits and sweets
Peek-a-boo in a lead jungle

And then the dark sockets
Stars smashed by disorder
Landscape burnt like a piece of paper
And bullet-gems here and there

He admit his life like a joke
No one did laugh at his grandeur
He has made all animals of his ash
An ecclesiastical geometry…

In Love

My thoughts for you are timid, stray;
in the moods of lily,
in the beam of setting sun sunk in water.
A fleet of finches shouting in my nerves
love is the birth of struggle
your hands in pocket renders comfort
to my hands without touch
your eyes invites me to the vision you see
your fort against the stream of wisdom besiege me
I want you, I want you, I want you
The nerves are kicking me
You blow me off like autumn-leaf
Your blow is a kiss to me.
You knead me, you bake me, you burn me
You make a woman of me.

In the twilight bed of evening
You enter in me like a poet
With language of the mollusks and savage;
You act like a chapel chorus, loud and tender.
Swift, mild, treacherous
You haunt me like a red-wood musk-deer
Maples and acer
Red wine and you
I want you, I want you, I want you
I want you with the alpine moon
broken hut and blackness,
Your poetry shall call
the woman of me…
shall deflower my silence…

People

have no face
to wear for subservience
No fire ever singed
their emotions
for crocs
What is tear is particle water.


Breathing leaves

know no trade
fickle emotions gather
no intellect
how much for a limb
of mine and moon
Bubbles need
to buy passion


Toed wheels

have forgotten
their tongue of vowels.
Breathing is just a mechanism
that provokes lust
for machines
and mayflies.

A Letter to Sylvia

To, Sylvia
Sylvia Plath:

Sylvia, the grass that has grown on your
white flesh can see the stars and moon
battling for peace that bereft you.
Sylvia, the cells of music comply with the anxiety
that killed you every fraction of belief and disbelief.
Sylvia, the hues of your heart pursued you to

heaven and there are no colours left for us…
Sylvia it was your painting that breathed
Gas and along with you dispersed like pollens
in the air.

Sylvia, poetry is alone; words cannot walk

through the narrow caverns of mind. Solitude is

cold and constricts senses to bloom.
With you Sylvia, metaphors were meaningful.
You pronounce myth
And legend is born.
With you Sylvia, with you
A woman is reborn!

Yours faithfully
Linda

http://www.thestatesman.net/page.news.php?clid=30&theme=&usrsess=1&id=250768

tic-tac-toe

Finally...
the bones played
tic-tac-toe...
the winter never lost before
but he made us win
we, played tic-tac-toe

The candle stopped breathing
and breeze stole the beads
played it all over
beneath the bed-stand
the bones played
tic-tac-toe...
Finally.