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