My Collections!

how quickly
a seahorse interpretsmarine blues!

February 20

a ballet
of white swans
distant blues

February 22

how curious is the moon
eavesdropping the silence
of a taciturn pool!

February 23

I wonder if
he knows
I smuggle shadows!

February 25

....

the words
dry leaves
winter evening...

pulse
like speed train
my uneven track!

poetry
no academic truth
volumes of flesh.

For the transparent you.

If I try to view that you mouth is half full

i'll have to count

the hours of ecstasy that came through you

being transperent

to what you can be

authentically by yourself

in the lizards night

not often have i seen you

writing essays on yourself

with every wrinkle of your body

your curling lips, and diminishing eyes

you....

trying to make fire

by rubbing shoals

...of what u been fishing!

and all that was limpid-

started to thicken ...

getting blurred over my eyes

my shoulders and thighs....

Maybe be some seismographic fault

by which the bones in these dreams are aligned

a slightest knock of breath

awaited since ages

provokes

the frame

to break, out of its temple

let me pull over the curtains

this dream that has been

sought by the honey bees

and envied by the electric rails

may catch ypu by your orphaned core

where ecstasy is brewing

for a hot coffee

with me!

u May!

if you wish to fly anything besides a kite
fly not yourself –for it may inflame the skies
Kites are quite, so do electric birds- they have exhaust vents
But if you do, you may burn the blues of evening
And the light of morning- would be
A gust of smog- and no peaches and the plum be seen

it’ll dawn on me for I compared

a living conflict to the innocent machines

and kites dipped in the colours of butterfly milk
Oh come on now, lie down
But forget not to tie those beings
to the lids of your eyes
for in your sleep
you may experience the levity
the buoyance over the mundane spree
And you touch all without being touched
Your intestines safely packed in the knit of your bones
But you- your reach shall beguile
The truth of flying
Just leave one string attached to my nerves
So that if you wish to fall in
You may smoothly drift down
Without bruises of reality- without
Disturbing your absence
In your leftover body

1.49 pm

This summer afternoon,
A rally marched up my curve
I stretched out my self to
wind you up my waist

besides corals, gems and seas-hells…

There was a song
licking underneath my
tongue

and your voice like ink filling my nerves…

at this circle where
planets do not function
and stars raise their
roots upto the sands


I want you rowing down
In a canoe, past wolves
and weeds

into a lake that’ll take
you to my ribs, my
flesh, my organs and
split beans…


each end of my veins
shall sprinkle colours
earth has never seen,
each pore shall bloom
redder than they did in other autumns


my flesh like an anxious doe..

I shall hold my breath
Like a flickering lamp
Away from the gust of your
body
like you would c r a w l up a satin floor
bent on hips over my
lips

the first matchstick
might burn out
but I’ll hold till you
bloom
out of water into my
sky
that surrounds my intestines

I cant see the mirror
drifting you in its wave to another
woman
for all that in you
-are my fruits

Inch by inch, the whole orchard
I have buried all seeds in you.

Once,
in a dizzy afternoon bus
I caught the brown boy
By his wings

And now ii drink him often- his pollens
Stirred in my white tea….

Wont you come and see
how I am shrinking
like an elastic too stretched
…and the fragrance of loveless tree

my stem is drawing from them

Nails to fit me in a coffin!

Tulips I

Today I know
There is an error
In the sum
at the east of my pelvic

something making me a fish for air
to barter poetry
long time since I wrote something
so the body broke into a rebellion
waiting to be gauged
under electric moons
and tape and camera

and scissors that espied
the healthy, now dark intestine within
with an antelope

schhhh- schh—skree- screeching

no. cannot remember the hyacinths
cannot remember the story-teller
of the giant inside my body

cannot think of gulping
the remaining vodka
cannot allow noodles to caress
down my throat
or his love to moisten the tip
of the broken mound

suns are over, and all naturals
so are all flowers and leaves of my book

so I fear the page
where Sylvia got her Tulip printed…

the doctor has to determine the rage
of a meaningless punctuation within

,
.

Six words!
the moon explodes. night-dark destitute

Four Words!
impression real unreal halucinatory

Disconnected

1.

I am at the balloon-man’s cart

Under the old porch of Grisham’s box

With men and women throwing out of the door

their evening-selves- the street suffocates

And young children pull the string

of my helium headed body

That is sold for a rupee!

2.

And a strong wind forced the destitute

-the old anemic leaves, and crisp twigs,

The unsatisfied paper out off the window

It tried the dresses on the clothesline, none fitted, strewn

My face with eyes and lips still at its place

Under the weight of his nose

3.

How should we not be hypocrites?

We dodge truth

beneath the embroidered fancies

and filigree of social strictures.

A soft baked morning

The gurgle of melted piano reed

maples and framed glasses

the moon you admire

I posted it off the eternal print

It has no nerves, no ribs

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!