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