The Nameless Monster

Monster, monster, monster- Tonight there is a monster
All my life there has been a monster,
It came not from my Father
And nor from my Mother
It came from elsewhere
It came, it came, it came
Only to come again and again.
Monster, monster, monster- Tonight there is a monster.
I am a nameless, faceless monster.
Monster, monster, monster.

A Simple Confession

In another world, in another time, you will be mine.
Apart no more, angry no more, scared no more.
I shall come for you and you shall meet me midway.
Customs, families, promises, rights and wrongs will disappear.
I shall love you and you will love me back.
I do not know if we will be able to love each other in this age.
Silently, as always, without the need for unnecessary words.
Our love is still there, silences do not shake my faith.
In simplest of words, I wanted to say that I still care.
My words are simple today, I love you and you love me back.
In another world, in another time, you will be mine.

There is a strong urge to give up writing, but it seems I have nothing else in my life. I wish I wasn't this weak where I had to depend on something so hungrily to find reasons in my life.

Prologue: Destruction

They have written tales about madness, about men
Lost in love giving up numbered breaths for the one
That brings them peace. They composed music, and
Wrote poetry, stench of an old malt and recently
Consumed cigarettes. Some have even lost their souls
In seedy brothels with an overdose of chillum, while some
Thrive on memories and creatively crested histories. I have
Seen it all. read it through and felt it turn me black. But for
You, I shall write blood stained libretti, blood darker than
Yours, for it will be mine.

Thicker than blood, colored with violence, rage and fury
Enveloped like lovers; a diaspora of your destruction.

You have blood stained thighs, I imagine them, rubbing
Mine.

Sadness Sadism

Perhaps memory has betrayed our love, for you
No longer remember my words
And I have carefully begun to forget yours.
There is a quiet method to the pains I inflict upon you,
A steady progression of scars.
The first scars were of love between our bodies,
Nails drawing blood from my back, as
I loved you until dawn. The cries of morning
Birds mingled with yours. I still savor
Memories in the dark.
Yours legs still ache, for we
Were taught by the Sutras.
I buried myself in the thick of your hair
You whispered secrets and nibbled my ear.
More scars followed,
As I broke your heart; for you also broke mine.
While you sought comfort in tears and memories,
I decided, solemnly,
To burn me only to give you another scar, until
All that remains is a tale;
Of a woman who lived by
And a man who had decided to die.

They Called Him Devdas.

Only if you were clearer in your mind, my lord, my sire;
Perhaps I would not burn myself every now and then.
Ambiguity and ambivalence may have fetched you
Literary accolades, gold coins and maybe even a besotted
Young maid, ready to be your Parvati or Chandramukhi, a whim
To your fantasies. But you ruined lives of many, Sire, lives of many.
They call you names, all beautiful, I shall call you Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay.

Chattopadhay, Chatopadhay, Chattopadhay; folklore says that chanting
Your name thrice will bring your spirit at my doorstep, only to listen to
My plight of sorrow and sorrow. Familiar territory for a man skilled
At creating pathos in lives of men enslaved to his words. My doorstep,
Reminds me of Parvati and the poor old man who died at her doorstep,
Unable to fight the golden nectar that ate his innards. You do the same to me,
Sarat, shall I call you Sarat? Of course I shall, I am your baby hamster and
Your courtesan.

You must oil my hair gently, caress it like a lover, for I make love to
Your words as they make rage to me. Who did the feeble old man love?
The whore that went by the name Parvati or was it the true romantic called
Chandramukhi, the world scoffs yet we both know better, don't we? You taught
Us that whores may dwell in the most peaceful of homes, gentle and homely,
Conning with false smiles and meaningless words. You did poetic justice when
Parvati got married. Widower was he, and he slowly taught her to ride him.
Splendid Sarat!

Parvati the whore, slowly learned the art of being on top, and making love
To a man who thought of his dead wife when he pushed. How he pushed!
I have a confession to make, I read your words in the language of the Queen,
The language of poetic flirtations, Bengali, and the language of sweat and economy,
Hindi, are both beyond my reach. Translators be blessed or you would not have found
Me Sarat. If I have made you angry then I shall make you smile too. I made love to
Your words unimaginably so. I devoured your words, I devoured them with hunger,
I devoured them with thirst.

Who did the feeble old man love anyway, or did he just love himself. I do not know
About my love for Parvati the whore or Chandramukhi the romantic, perhaps I, too,
Only love my own self. Maybe I should start drinking notoriously to forget them both.
Sarat, Sarat, Sarat, give me my answers, go on write my destiny, make me live before
I fade away, darker than black, ashes in a dirty river. Write something new, write, write,
Write. Add another chapter, let the vultures devour the feeble old man, let the whore
Ride her husband again. Let there be screams, let there be blood on wrinkled bed sheets.
Let the whore suffer.

Take care of Chandramukhi, give her a palace, give her some more words, give her a
Voice, a beautiful melodious voice. Let the feeble old man be forgotten, let him be a
Name for the dead, let him be me.

Post-Graduation

Them comes with charming post-graduate harlots,
Straight from mid-term exams concerning half-read
Theories of Saussure and Wittgenstein, mixed with
Choices of lingerie for the evening. Deftly taken off
In brief encounters within deserted corridors. Quoting
Cultural disambiguation while fellatio, causes slight discomfort,
As words are mixed with contractions. Post-graduate lovelies
Seem less worried about the results of examinations, rather
More so about bearing bastards at such youth ridden age. I
Grieve and comfort by suggesting eighteenth century abortions.
Them intention is not to ruin virgin wombs but to cause pain
Without making love. The results are out, my lovelies have made
Custard jam tarts, for no bastards are on their way. First class
Degrees have lost their meaning. I rest my case and my hands
Upon thee.

Moon

The moon changes its face everyday,
Standing on a planet known for its sins
You make calenders and anoint newborns.
Hindu wives pray for longevity of lives for
Shying cuckold husbands, their minds
Filled with images of lust from previous
Lovers.

Two romantics eroticize the moon together
Making promises never to be fulfilled, hormones
Fueling words and fantasies. The moon looks
Down quietly and sighs, its mind struggling
With decisions, cosmic ones, I assure you.
Poets come out too, tired after lengthy sessions
Of masturbation.

The moon becomes a backcloth for song filled
Rumors, also called films. It is humbled by the
orchestration of large scaled rioting. In lands far
From humanity; a sniper takes aim at unsuspecting,
buck-toothed villains. Watchdogs condemn such
Actions in the morning news while sipping hot tea
With biscuits.

The moon has has to father children, intermittently so.
Hermit crabs thrash around, sexing the night up;
Moonlight the only known stimulus for indifference.
Sailors are oft lost, ships sunk and dolphins amused
When the moon plays havoc with tides. Astronomers
Become linguists and crushes its eternal desire to be called
Planet.

The moon takes solace in the sun, lighting up the sky for
Those who are out of candles. The moon changes its face
Everyday, only for those on the planet of sins. For the
Universe at large, it is a silvery orb of absolute delight,
Gyrating maddeningly around the ample bosom of the planet
Ruined by us. Like black moths, dancing around slipppery
Flames.

Snippet v1.2

There is no silence between us,
Just a passing absence of words.
Like snow flakes melting midair,
We too shall find death together.

The Tale Of A Lotus: Four Petals, Four Loves, Four Lives

The praying mantis, insofar known, never prays when awake;
It does, however, prey beautifully when in doubt. Like God in
Little details, forgotten by all of us. I have loved a lotus and I
Regret it not. The lotus, in question, an architectural marvel of intertwining flattering leaves,
Reminds me of you. Nelumbo nucifera, an obsession since botany devouring adolescent days,
Much like hidden erotica, crawls up my leg. The mantis and the lotus, have never been closer,
As they now vie for space in a tortured man's book. The mantis gives up its life mid coitus, the seed reaching
The Intended. The lotus lives on to be celebrated among chants of scantily clothed holy men, paying obeisance
To unconcerned gods. Each petal of my lotus, struts in defiance, refusing to share my love with another. Such
Was not expected from women in my service. Singularity demands to be fed  by passion greater
Than the self. Concubine relationships are encouraged, for Kings demand harems, privileges, and
Lust filled palaces. I am no king, hence I am destined for four loves, the mantis forgives if the lotus
Embraces. The four petals of desire, can together form a half
Desired lotus. Such is my nobility when it comes to you, for
The praying mantis, insofar known, never prays when awake.

Snipet v.1.1.

I have become rather fond of Death,
As they call her. Rather fond of good
Sentences too. But both are mutually
Exclusive events. And I am rollicking
Between the two!

Clandestine Affairs

The slit-to-be on my wrist is not too far a reckoning,
Dramatic pundits might cherish the tone and wordplay,
But some of us have destinies to fulfill, darker shades
Of maroon. Have taken a toil on a decommissioned mind.

Where did I go right anyways? Often the urge to turn
Myself up rises, but fades like a note of a Harmonica.
You should have stopped me from this rise, from this
Exquisite phenomenon of my undiluted passions, perhaps
You wanted a spectacle.

Shed not a smile when all this is over, in essence never
But linearly so. Quite the titular emotional joyride this is.
I am not embarrassed enough to proclaim that my passion
Is divided between minstrel harlots. They know the price for
Having me.

Like Wagner's operatic affairs, I too believe in the grandeur
Of a tragic affair. Fall we must, to the basest of my temptations.
Could you pass the syringe now, this is too much revelation for today.
I must continue feeding the blackened veins.

................................................................

I must, I must, I must. Like the rhythms of a spider's legs, I must.
Soon I will be consumed, my innards drained of what made me so.
Lines will follow, grammatically correct, their punctuation intact.
The exclamation being the one among many coarse enough to jest.
Standing at the end of a particularly long sentence, like a purple veined
Erection among an orgy of man and women.

In the quiet arrogance of my heart I am delighted with the outcome, the
Sentences and lines taking up dreams to a place riddled with reality. Perhaps
You mustn't compete with me, I will obliterate you with passion hitherto unknown.
Ergo I shall love you.

You will assume I am heartbroken, post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Quite the 
Deconstructionist you are now. The fall shall come, brilliantly cloaked
In a sharpened razor resting upon my wrist, or maybe my addictions shall
Do me in. Either way, I shall hold you responsible. You will be delighted with
The adulation that shall follow.

Did you notice the change in the tone as the words progressed? Such is my
Life, a broken paradigm of what could have beens and what should have beens.
The slit-to-be on my wrist is not too far a reckoning.
I must, I must, I must. Like the rhythms of a spider's legs, I must.

Remembering A Fallen Teardrop

"There are many types of monsters that scare me: Monsters who cause trouble without showing themselves, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood... and then, monsters who tell nothing but lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance: They are much more cunning than others. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart; they eat even though they've never experienced hunger; they study even though they have no interest in academics; they seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such monsters, I would likely be eaten by them... because in truth, I am that monster."-  L, Death Note Rewrite.

Thus says 'L' in Death Note, a Japanese anime manga I've been addicted to since quite some time. Though the series is about a supernatural notebook that allows the beholder to kill anyone by writing their name in it, it essentially deals with the moral decline of its main protagonist, 'Light Yagami'. Furthermore, the cat and mouse chase between the brilliant yet aloof, L and the equally brilliant yet cold, Light Yagami, is the most interesting interaction I've seen among two characters in some time. During the course of the series, we see an inevitable moral decline in both the characters, more so in Light as he holds the ideals of justice close to his heart and the pen to vanquish evil close to his hands. Deduction and an amoral commitment to the task at hand makes both the characters almost indifferent to people around them, their purpose being a purpose, nothing more. Watching this reminded me of the social experiments I indulge in and how they alienate me from reason and emotion. The last one shattered me completely, in fact, I'm still reeling from the effervescence of its birth, love and now untamed melancholy.

I, perhaps, for one, loved too soon and too much. Perhaps I did not even love a woman, it may have been an ideal for my long repressed intimacy issues. But retrospection is useless, to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all. Again, I emphasize. I did not love a woman, I loved an ideal, a fixation which arose from the perverse and the divine. It's over now. Shamefully, for me; depressingly for her. I could get her back, of course I could, I am a man after all. I possess what is needed to drag her back in my world. But I choose not to. Like Light of Death Note, I choose to suffer and burn for some great idea; but unlike him I am not aware of what it is. What is amusing for me right now is how I manage to see 'her' even in animated cartoons. It seems as if she is everywhere.

I will burn for her, immolate my soul for her and perhaps find peace in the recesses of the aftermath. Perhaps. I use the word perhaps quite often, it is because I know nothing definite. I do not even know if my raison d'etre is definite, fixed. I have aged by more than ten years in the last one year, you can see it in my face, the lines etched from grief and perhaps, some wisdom. I am no longer the master of my own choices, the only choice I have made is that of destruction. The trajectory of a great fall is always proportional to its rise. The rot and fire, the burning flames within, the putrid mix of acid and alcohol in my belly, the drugs in my bloodstream, and the mighty fall. All celebrating an idyllic winter, a dying lover's last breath.

In a land far from yours,
Far from the rights and wrongs,
Away from the mighty and the weak,
Forgetting promises, smiles and sorrows;
Let us meet, forever and for once, now and then.

I will love again, but not the way I have loved you. I refuse to forget or even, forgive you. I vehemently refuse the solace of your waiting arms. I can afford to do that, for some nights you come to me, in the gentlest of my dreams, in the stormiest of nights and in the burning tears reaching out for my lips. You make love to me, forgiving everything, your body rhythmic against mine. We become one, the heat of your legs my solemn refuge. Love me even if I do not love you back, make me cruel and unworthy of your fuck.Then there are days you don't come and I rage against myself.

October, and possibily November

There is chaos and anarchy in my eyes, mutually inclusive exclusions forming divisive methodologies to create personalized accounts of mythical tales, illusions within seclusion. A very painful sort of rage with an innate desire to alienate myself from one and all rises within me. Simple words cannot do justice to my state as my emotions swirl with complex intentions, only to create fissures in my mind. Curiously, a denial of life is so strong within me that I long to welcome ruin with open arms. Reach the very abyss of existence to find a lowly corner of sordid happiness. The paradox is that isolation is the right of the mighty, the weak cannot have it. Society engulfs the weak completely, it insidiously creeps inside the weak man's life, his thoughts and even his emotions. My thoughts and emotions are so overwhelming that I feel crushed under their weight. By my own logic, I am weak.

It is a sad confession.

Groomed For Silence

I have lost my memory for now, lost the names
And images of the ones that were once loved.
Curiously or rather not, I remember you; everything
But your name.

I know your name is unimportant, for we never said
Much to each other. We were lovers, my dear, and
Often words used to fail us. I remember the taste of
Your tongue and flesh. Often, maybe always, I was
Insatiable for you.

The days pass in attempts to recall, perhaps even
Create an identity; and the nights in love and
Longing. I only sleep to dream about you and to
Think of my hand as yours, as it violently caresses
My starved body.

I remember the tender of your thigh, the mole on
Your hip. But i digress, evocations to your unusually
Slender form will not serve my purpose. What is my
Purpose then? To make a mistress out of a lover;
Pshaw! It's time to regain the universe.

I remember, i remember the look in your eyes
When you held me close to love me. Infidelity
Has its scars. I, unfortunately, remember the astute
Barrel of a gun against my beating heart. Shame
You missed. My dearest, I forgive you all. I forgive
The look in your eyes.

The broken pieces of language that I strew around
Are not by chance; they allude to the fascism of my
My spineless heart. I think the word 'fuck' would
Do some justice to the tragedy at hand here.
Perhaps.

Let me die in this lie, let me bury you alive. Do Gods exist?
They do, in my heart, in the pit of my belly; they do. Would
They be generous enough to give me a chance, a lifetime
Of lucidity, in Lucy's arms. I feel bellows of silent laughter
Raging against my womb.

I don't think I am reliable anymore. Delirious, delusional,
devastated, devoid, demented, and finally, desecrated.
I am out of D's now, perhaps I will die now. You shouldn't
Have shot me in the heart. I must confess, I don't remember
Much. Apologies.




For the illusion of clarity, click here. I am at a loss to explain this deviance, ah! another adjective close to my heart, and since i am at a loss; I'll leave it.

Scholars' Altar

I am a research scholar now; your idiosyncrasies
Craving my universe of thoughts; ebbing away
Reality and its sensory distractions: yours truly
Is a crazed lover, espoused to you mere being.
I am tempted to oust romantic inklings from
Our cerebral, oft-clumsy rendezvous; but what
Shall be the state of your flowing femininity then?
I confess that you are not the only subject of my
Prying heart; for love exists only to satiate art,
Perhaps only to inspire and inflict painful rouses of
Affection and tenderness; seemingly curious in the
Beginning. Other forms have come and gone; and
Perhaps newer shall arrive; but none shall rival
The passages of our history, cocooned in silver
Yarns of memory. I must finish my thesis through
Our entangled arms; love's gaunt victorious after all.

In Defense of the Delhi Boy

Ah the perils of a social conscience! Here is a meek defense of my favorite specie in the zoo: the Delhi boy. He has been defamed and criticized here by a fellow blogger and a citizen of this nation. My heart stirred with emotion and I set out to frame a noble reply for my brethren but the keyboard fried midway as my copious tears fell on its old school circuits. As I started writing, two men of significant stature came to my mind; the English poets Sir Philip Sydney and Percy Bysshe Shelley (husband to my former love, Mary Shelley). See we Delhi boys have read our literature, no? Both these men wrote because they ardently believed in poetry. Shelley's A Defense of Poetry and Sydney's The Defense of Poesy inspired me to write for what I believe in: The Delhi Boy.

Dear fellow blogger,

I refrained from calling you a 'madrasan', not only because I did not want my future offspring to 'sprout coir' but because I was raised in a city where people come from all over India. Delhi has people from Maharashtra, West Bengal, Bihar, Punjab and the many states of North East India. Like a vast sea, Delhi takes them all in. Like a mother, she raises them to be men. Delhi University, the melting pot of the many states of India, revels in giving an identity to one and all. You can read that here. When you came here two years ago with ' a bucketload of expectations', perhaps you had already committed your first mistake. Your expectations were in fact preconceived notions about an identity of a city and its men. When you compare us to an 'ignorant, chauvinistic oaf with the intelligence levels of an autistic 3 year old on crack', you not only display profound ignorance but also insensitivity towards autism and drug abuse. 

Who is a Delhi Boy? Is he the one who is born and bred here or is he the 'immigrant' who has accepted Delhi as his home? Neither you or I can answer that question. We are all children of one planet and all boundaries are man made. I would have never ever bat an eyelid after reading your post if your angst was against men in general. But why stereotype us? Men are uncouth and crass all over the world. Why single out Delhi's men? Delhi is unsafe not because of its men but because of the indifference of local law agencies. Women are unsafe in Delhi because the law is lenient and not because Delhi's men have more testosterone. I support you completely when you talk about safety for women in Delhi. I have a working mother and many female friends who go out in the city every day. Of course, I want them to be safe. But bashing men just because they belong to Delhi is a bit harsh.

I finds bits and pieces in your write-up amusing. Your humor stems from racism and ignorance, the very two traits you accuse Delhi men of possessing. I honestly did not understand what you meant when you said 'your mother’s voluptuous shaved Punjabi bosom'. Women have hair all over their bodies. its variance depending upon genetics rather than geographical locations. As a woman, I'm sure you understand that having unwanted body hair is a mere cosmetic anomaly and nothing more. Of whatever insignificant knowledge I possess about the fairer sex from 'the countries south of the Vindhyas', I believe they are more voluptuous than their Punjabi counterparts. You can read that here. Show me a man who shares his girlfriends' bra (unless they are into kinky sex) and I'll gift you a SUV. Are Delhi men really ignorant if they can hold a conversation about something as women centric as Fendi? I think not. 

Also what is with the Punjabi hangover? It seems you were dumped by a true blue Punjabi man and you resent that fact to the core. It's OK if the relationship ended, why end your morality and intelligence? There are women who are denied basic rights down South and there are women who enjoy freedom in the North. Why say something based upon skewed perceptions rather than statistics? Women are not treated like trash in Delhi as you ardently believe. Any gender disparity is because of widespread ignorance and insensitivity and those are the weeds you should uproot. Spewing poison won't help you one bit. Also, for the record Delhi does not equal to Punjab. 

Ah English, would you really stoop so low and accuse us of not speaking it as well as our western counterparts? Aren't we all Macaulay's children? 'Mere mom-dad' seems so much more cuter and friendlier than my father and mother. Why take the fun out of everything? When I read 'You were brought up on Gurdas Mann and the heroic deeds of Devinder Singh Bhullar', I sat up bewildered. Are all boys in Delhi bought up on a staple diet of these two? Why was I denied the heroism of Gurdas Mann and Devinder Singh Bhullar? I wish my parents could afford these two, I would have been so much more braver. Sigh.

I should tell you a secret, I would've let it all go if you hadn't dragged the lovely girls of LSR and St Stephen's into this thoughtless quagmire of yours. Though 'hollaback' began as an international movement, I know for a fact that many girls from the aforementioned colleges actively took part in the 'Delhi' version of this viral angst rather actively. You can find their contribution here. There are many such initiatives they have been a part of and I hope you'll recognize their efforts. 

I'm so sure that you must have met a Brit who said 'sawth' instead of 'south'. Delhi men know how to pronounce 'south', they say it all the time. From cracking lewd jokes to choosing their cuisine, the word 'south' is everywhere. We love 'your' food, its awesome. Standing testimony to this fact are the many and crowded Sagar Ratna's here. I swear we all wait in a line every time we go there, it's now a tradition. In fact, I often refuse to dine there if there is no queue outside. I feel offended.

You also seem to earnestly believe that only South Indians crack IIT, become writers and journalists , and follow their dreams. I beg to differ. We are passionate about our dreams too. Hence we sleep a lot. Also, what's wrong with wishing you ‘Happy Guru Purab’? I find all of your rants rather inconsistent with any logical personality trait. Please don't write when you are confused. You might not become a good writer then. 

I am angriest at the fact that you misspelled 'Kaka Da Dhaba'. It's where I roll.

Yours,

Delhi Boy

P.S.- Never judge a book by its cover. Similarly, never judge Delhi by 'Delhi Belly'.

Draupadi's Daughter

For Draupadi, a thousand men fell.
For you, my love, a thousand more.

Verbal Stains

Should I conquer you in slow steps

Or a swift stroke of metal suffice?

You are my muse and my sculpture,

The reason of dried blood on my back.

The lines of passions drawn

By your pale hungry nails,

And mistress to an artist above you.

It is my intention to have you

By sleight of hand or otherwise,

Any means possible or even contrary.

I am waging a war on my own self

Unnecessarily to have you at once.

I know it can be easily avoided

For you are not worth a pittance.

However word uttered from my lips

Carries both clout and concealment.

So tell me my dearest

Would you like to come in pieces

Or should I order a king sized bed?

Priestess

I will come to love you
Without reasons or annotations;
The corners of our pages
Folded as if in prayer.

I will suck the pleasure
From your toes;
My tongue, your hostess
For the evening.

I will write notes of love
On your bare back;
My palms steady
In the rhythm of our pace.

I will lose language
To communicate:
My body broken
By your love.

I will plant kisses
With aching gentleness:
Your moist secrets
Quivering like a bow.

I will quench us both
An oasis in sand;
My hands cupping
The folds of your flesh.

I will break your will
To restraint and to shy;
Awaken the desire
To be violently consumed.

I will come to love you
Without reasons or annotations;
A long dark shadow of the night
Inconsolable with your want.

Snip

Little red drops pricked

By a needle; intertwined

With opium from lands

Far away.

Reduced to ash and

Charcoal dust; a fever 

Slowly consuming his

Broken memory.

A once-upon-a-time

Prince; now reduced

And refused words

Themselves.

An Artist in Doubt

Always you wrestle within me,
Pouched bile within my heart;
Each splintering away mercilessly.
Fluttering reels in an antique theater
Playing on lives imagined and forgotten,
Of dialogues painfully extemporized
Encouraging celluloid fantasies.

Always you wrestle within me,
An angry mob of artistic perspectives;
Exquisitely sculptured to fathom us apart.
A watercolor in making,
Washed away by salty excesses of sea.
Panoramic emotions sweep past visual ghettos,
A future envisioned by crippled destinies.

Always you wrestle within me,
Choleric symphonies of maddening silence;
By conductors of lost, unwritten music.
Tainted by cryptic musical notations
To be drowned by daiquiris,
In company of withered, loving harlots;
Singing me to sleep in a burning jazz bar.

Always you wrestle within me,
Simmering dust on a butterfly's wing;
Half broken and perhaps half mended.
Capable of tempestuous tornadoes
In the bittersweet passions of our love,
Now burlesqued by our indifference;
Serving as a cautionary tale to memory.

Always you wrestle within me,
Fragrances from perpetual nights;
Smeared with my sex on limp bodies.
The blood ridden cycles every month
Of your womanly sex: only indicator,
Of passion that was never meant to be.
Existential after every contraction.

Always you wrestle within me,
Cascades of soft murmurs;
Your voice laced with my name.
Denying denial itself a chance
To redeem through a prickly heartbreak.
Pluck me apart, from the roots,
Of your heart: my cancerous cells.

Always you wrestle within me... 

Beginnings

There is decadence in my soul tonight

A wretched desire to break free

Of ghastly human limitations,

To call upon all that has slept for long

Move my fingers on its limbs 

Arousing the numbed, mumbling away beauty

Of hokey hearts and forgotten times.

Hazy images from a prince's memory

Not worthy of present punctuation 

Or capital crowns; shall and indeed

Grow to be long loved by his own heart.

Words, words; he could go on forever

Seducing his own pliable memory.

It is indeed a Grecian love knot,

Worthy of at least a lost poem.

Exorcism Of A Tired Man

The soles of my feet are tired
Carrying you around the world
Time to say goodbyes
Because I want to smile again.

An Enquiry Into Madness

I carved her face with an artist's knife
But artist's don't carry knives!, exclaimed the writer
Well I do but I'm not an artist; yet.
O permit me digressions
Or not.

I loved her face
Even more than her sex!
Astonished and flummoxed
I checked my tools
Things were fine
I pictured her breasts,
But I remembered her face
This delighted me.

With her
I only wanted her face
What a lovely one it was
It was?
It is.
I still have the face carved
And pasted on my damp ceiling
Damp with sweat and chemicals
Why, of course, to preserve it!

So I carved her face
And buried her body
So I carved her face
As it was
And mine it was!
I now wear her face
And move among crowds.

Lucky bastard they call me.
And how I'm glad!
To forever have that face.

Loss

Some beginnings have no endings
While some seem forever to end.
My love for you oscillates between the two
My love, if I can call it mine
Seems as alien to me as it does to you.
I have loved you with all that I am
And with all that I perhaps may never be,
But with the tremblings of time, my love
I have ceased to exist,
And so have you, for me.

Love In The City

Stained sheets of red
Garnished with pieces of flesh
A tangle of entangled hairs
A spot of your dried spit
Two cracked brown nails
And the inescapable insatiable
Stench of your broken body.

Crumpled by my side
Moaning at the moonlight
From cracked windows
A shiver down your spine
Moving at a snail's pace
The blue red of your lips
Arousing my tepid form.

Would they shout murder
Or call it my love affair.

Angel And Angel

Don't cry, my daughter, your Daddy's near
By your side, whispering in your ear.
I know you loved your Mama too much,
But now she's gone. our life is such.
She called you pretty and combed your hair
Watched over you and helped you with the stairs.
I want you to know Daddy loved her too,
Sometimes less but sometimes even more than you.
Now your Mama is gone and Daddy is alone
His eyes are red and hollow is his tone.
Your Mama will always watch over us
Tuck us into bed without any fuss.
Now my daughter, don't you cry
I'll make you smile, till eternity I'll try.
My dearest daughter, you should know
You are like her, cheeks as white as snow.
Your Daddy too remembers her all the time
But he must be strong and sing songs that rhyme.
For he has his little angel to take care of now
Whose smile lights up skies and everyone says 'Wow'.
Hush, little one, don't you cry
Daddy is there by your side.......

Time To Go

A smile
And a gasp
Stabbed through the heart
The pool of red grows redder
Your lips never seemed fuller.

A King's Speech

I was born as a King among kings,
And the dust of my bones will also be kingly.
However it is the days between death and birth,
That are full of battles for my own glorious kingdom.

Mis-taken-anthrope

My disappointment with my own life stems from thwarted expectations and excess optimism, both, by the virtue of their existence should render me a misanthrope. However, I must admit, although painfully, that I am not a misanthrope at all. It would both be selfish and pleasurable to be one; to easily escape reality and the wounds it serves now and then, but I cannot be human in my endeavors. I detest mediocrity and therefore I must resist it all costs. Social interaction is a powerful tool, both of failure and of success, the path you choose or rather the path which chooses you depends on the sort of people you meet in life. People make all the difference in the world, they mold your identity as you mold theirs, they influence you as you influence them. It is this symbiotic relationship among two individuals that creates social extensions. However with the advent of technology, these extensions have become extremely complex. The individual is no longer isolated, the gaze of technology is constantly upon him. From facebook to cellphones, people are constantly connected with each other, therefore human emotions and relations have now taken a turn for the worse.

My personal problem with the whole rise of social and technology matrices is that they have almost destroyed the scope for personal interaction. Even genuine personal interaction between two people has remnants of previous aforementioned matrices. The cell phone is the one to blame. An emoticon has substituted real life smiles, a message has replaced words and 'likes' have done away with hugs of appreciation. Wherever the latter exist, they exist with semblances of the past. I, for one, have lost the ability to love or hate completely. I am possibly stuck in a limbo of mixed emotions, of anger and passion, and of love and indifference. These dichotomies are further fueled by the sort of people I meet. Hollow souls and empty minds make one poisonous cocktail and I seem to be surrounded by them. Perhaps I am at fault here, maybe I am asking for too much from this indifferent world of ours but even as I write this, I know I am lying. The world is a beautiful place, full of gentle and intelligent beings; perhaps I've been looking in the wrong places.

The most painful aspect of my life is to see mediocrity effectively mimic greatness. If I could address the face of all the whining,pathetically mediocre people of this world who are dependent upon the producers to sustain themselves; I would say what Carl Panzram said years back, "I wish all mankind had one neck so I could choke it!". Of course the only difference between me and him is that I am after the vultures. Does it not bother them to feed upon others, to wriggle like worms, to suck blood like leeches, to ask and beg, to play with the emotions of the sympathizer and finally move on to other sources of prey. I vehemently refuse to be abused, misused and finally deemed foolish by my own eyes. There will be no "Sanction Of The Victim" when it comes to me, no sacrificial lambs to offer you all. Evil is impotent, it seeks its erection from the rape of the 'good'. I refuse to be your whore, This particular piece of my furious writing stems from anger, I am angry at the fact that 'evil' made me doubt my own self, made me crave for misanthropy in moments of despair and seek shelter from those who are themselves leeches.

As I ask today what was once asked from me; "You have been scorned for all those qualities of character which are your highest pride. You have been called selfish for the courage of acting on your own judgment and bearing sole responsibility for your own life. You have been called arrogant for your independent mind. You have been called cruel for your unyielding integrity. You have been called anti-social for the vision that made you venture upon undiscovered roads. You have been called ruthless for the strength and self-discipline of your drive to your purpose. You have been called greedy for the magnificence of your power to create wealth... Have you stopped to ask them: by what right? - by what code? - by what standard?", I still have no answer, however, I am yet to give up on this world or my own world.

When the Moon Beckons....

I am lost inside the labyrinth of your heart,
Inside the perilous twinge of your smoky eyes,
Those kohl lid pools of your heart's reflection
Draw me towards your web of hushed passions.
It is in these dark woods of your silky tresses
That I sink in tender drowsiness of desire
Where I utter your name in a frenzied chant,
My fingers crushed by your desperate lips
Till moments of sweet ecstasy take us over,
A pleasure hitherto unknown in aching limbs,
In crushed petals and delightful tinges.
As we lay after our midnight excursions,
You look at me with a quiet ease
For within our hearts we both know
That the river is finally with its ocean.

Past Lives

The words on dust riddled pages,
Emanate a curious shadow,
Beneath flickering lamps.
Written by hands
Now wrinkled with time.

Great Expectations

It is in moments of rare realizations,
Floating sensations of a half awaken dream,
That our torrid love affair takes semblance of form
Evading and teasing reality with its dark lashes,
And making me fall in love with you yet again.
These hallucinations come and go,
Where we sit by sunset filled barns,
Reading poetry and making love
With as natural an ease as nature herself.
It is in this state of cosmic indifference
That all that is beautiful blossoms within me,
And you and I become hopelessly entangled.
But we must tread softly upon such fragile paths,
Learning and exploring the gentle brooks of desire,
So you and I are together for ever.

Ceilings For Company

Mosaic ceilings give me company

Reminding me of your love,

An urge to move my fingers

And clasp your slender wrist.

My frozen contours melting

By the warmth of your bedside.

Like an incandescent god

You arrived and took me away

Away from life and death.

 

It was not my intention

And perhaps not yours

To uproot all that was mine.

Evil and decadent

But nevertheless mine.

Now I am a shadow to your affections

Nothing less nor even more.

My identity in flux of your emotions,

In limbo of your desires

And pittance to your wishes.

 

The shrub that grows by your window

Has not faith more than mine,

Nor will another ever match me

When the wants of your words

Will steer towards affection and love.

All you will find in the end

Will be me standing by your side,

One tear at a time.

Dots On A Lover

All i want to do

Is count the moles on your body,

The ones you hide and

The ones you show.

Trace them all with my finger,

A path of my love.

I want you as my lover

As a slave to my desires,

As I am to yours.

I want you with violence,

My nails deep in you.

The drop of your blood

Licked by my finger.

I want to hear the scream

Of your aching limbs,

Tired from the night gone by.

I want to find your tongue,

With mine.

And I want to do things

That I've only read in books.

I want to explore every

Nook and corner,

Of your body as

I want you to explore mine.

I want you as you want me.

No less but perhaps more.

For all I want is to count those moles on your body....

Sea Of Love

When you leave me, I'll join the sea.
Not as a martyr of your affections
But a tribute to your memory.
A grain of salt in the already salty sea,
The taste of which lingered in your kiss,
And now lingers in mine.
I want the sea to envelop me forever,
Remind me of your love.
In the weightlessness of my senses,
To float and sink by steps
My lips entangled in your hair
Your hand on my heart and
Whispering,"Deeper and deeper"
Till neither your flesh remains
Nor mine. A silent prayer
will always be heard in the ruins
Of our sea.
The Sea of love and longing,
A certainty of your belonging,
Till words finally fall
And all that remains are
My lips entangled in your hair.