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…