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..