She

You must read more before you choose to strike me down. Otherwise, I will exist, in corners of your mind, and in rooms of mine. It is the only weapon you have against me, to absorb whole length sentences like walls of the ocean bed, indescribably muted. The floor of the ocean is where I learnt to walk, a place where many seas met, merging amniotic fluids with memory, gene upon gene. That is the violence that bought me to you. The violence of birth and the greater violence of living it. I never wanted to live, to breathe, as insignificance does but I was born and hence, I must endure it.

Endurance is a complex word, it does not betray emotion, the only thing the word tells us that it exists to bring strength and despair together, I can endure life, perhaps even death, though I know not much of it; but you must remember me. Always, unfailingly, you must remember me and believe with all that you are, mind, body and soul, that I am there.

He looked up in the sky and saw her face in the white clouds above. She smiled and disappeared behind nothingness.And then it rained.

I look at the red lilacs strewn across the garden. They look oddly familiar. I pick one up and open its petals, revealing dark blue pollen stalks that taste like long lost honey bees. I toss it back and pick up a stalk of grass, crushing it with my forefinger. It allows me crush itself, giving up its sovereignty in the face of brute strength. We are all stalks of grass, our destinies limped by hands of  time. I crush some more of them.

I am awake for no particular reason. Our lives are fragile, we must end them in the arms of the one we love, before cracks invade everything we touch, including each other. Time takes away what never was overs, but was promised to us by genes and fables.

I think of her with my eyes closed. She comes to me instantly. I think of her smile and take in the silence that surrounds me. A brief painful terror holds me close. I open  my eyes and the world is new again.

Last Days

It would take me several days to write
A tangible account of my deadened life.

But it would be too late by then
Some days would bring a change of heart.

Is it provocative to write about death
More than to write about life?

What do you gain by reading this
In the anonymity of your room?

Are you closer to me now or
Do you now know nothing?

I will tell you a secret, regrettably so
Our lives are a mess.

End them in the arms of the one you love.

Hill

Do not ask me for the past
I am Theseus' ship
Rebuild and replaced everyday
Cells with their own private battles
Lilacs bursting with red drops.

Old Stories

I'm unnecessary now
Old greying temples
Wrinkles here sores there
Lips you loved
Nails you dug
Gone now with time
Pages yellowed
Nicotine swallowed.

Un-aware

Let me love haltingly painfully
Like surgical instruments caught
Unaware by flowing blood.

Armpits

Let our love not be mediocre
Like our lives lived boringly
In caged rooms stifling sunlight
Sniffing licking armpits damped
Discolored by too much fairness
In life and love.

Moonlie

It is not the charcoal of your eyes,
The spin of electrons is enough.
It is not Earth and your love I crave
The place between Moon and lies
Is enough.

Quick

Let my tongue be intimate
With the idea of your body
Before time runs out
For us to know each other.

Pinned

As I come closer to you
In sporadic short bursts
I think of penetrating you
With a pin in your ear.
Just below the helix
Where I first kissed you
An abandoned ear lobe
Found its lover parched
For more.
The curve of that night
Resembled your ear
And my tongue gnawing
For flesh and bone.

Musings of a Psuedo Intellectual who Professes to be Romantic

A halter comes off easily
A tube takes a while
If you wear pink brassiere
I will walk for miles.

Acid Pops

You smell of acid found in mangoes
Left too long in a slightly warm basin
Sides which are still streaked with
Blood that slipped prancingly from
Swollen lips that gave in too soon
To my testosterone charred habits.

Your acid is elsewhere too, hidden
Beneath that flowing long skirt you
Fashion only to protect your chastity
Long gone, if I remember correctly
Behind closed doors and closed hearts.

Froth lime and brine, enshrine and rhyme
Sit in a corner and dream about crimes
Spin of atoms, spin of lies
In recesses of our blackened hearts
We see what we are, you and I.

Smell of acid, smell of pain, of half baked
Cakes. Close those legs of yours, close
Them to preserve the smell of rain.

The Everyday Club

You bleed what is palpable
Between those ruinous legs
That once enshrined mine.
You spin of atoms
Undiscovered elsewhere
Seduced fused, finally used
In a dying snake's lair.
Then you wonder, cry even
About changes, infinitesimal 
As your universe collapses
Whimper and whisper
Whisper and whimper
But let me enjoy
A fine cup of soot filled tea.

Silver Deers And Ruined Memories

Sweeping across two fields one placid lake
Rage comes fearlessly
Forgetting places times
Settling in nooks lost
My memory reaches out for her

Painfully chews unnecessary vowels
Making her whole again and me.
Rages uncouthly, drooling musically
She returns again again again and
Returns us to the same glistening
Ball of swirling hot glass
Suffocated by longing.

Replaced

Merrily and steadily the scorpion twists
On your flat belly and oh-so milky breasts.
The scorpion means no harm to you
His love is gentle, his wants are few.
His time was now, his time was near
Why did you whack him out of fear?
He was the one but you wanted another too
Now you parade around with a scorpion new.

A Child's Poem

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind
An eye for your eye will make you forever blind
Remember the sermon the next time
You dare look into my eye with your eye.

Dedicated to the female protagonist of the short stories 'Fallen Roses' and 'Bed Of Sorrows', click here and here to refresh your memory.

Remember, I can write much more. Don't force my hand.

Afterburn

To love you is to burn myself
Not just in words
But with fire from a dying stove
Trace a line of aftershave
On my wrist
Hoping to scar the places where
You love me the most.

Ovule

I have often wondered how your moans would sound
Neglected after many years of my heart breaking indifference
A quick shove of despair between your swollen thighs
Or nights spent in vain confessing my adolescent lies.

I wonder, would the moans of love and despair be different?
Or would they also, like our bodies, face different sides?

Your moans at night are heard across the deep black skies,
They reach my ears, they question my lies
You lie in your bed covered in blood
Ovulating, pulsating;
And all I do is write dark stained free verse lines. 

Promises Foretold

I want to find the scars you hide
The ones on your body,
The ones inside.

Embrace me for a day or two
Whisper love in your ears
Hold my hand tightly
And I'll fight your fears.

I am mistaken for a man of words
My actions are mostly mum
Patience my loveliest
Your lover shall come.

White Floor

My house is tired of my being
My everyday rants, broken lines of ants
And I lie on the white of the marble
Scattered everywhere, everyday
Licking it bereft of dust, of color
Thinking of it as your white bare body.
My tongue drags on and on
Splintered with lies, both black and white
Leaving behind the trail of red
On a passage of pure white,
And like an artist possessed by love
I paint the floor pure red, the red of my
Heart, the red from your body, into
The white sands of my house.

A Study In The Life Of An Artist: Critical Perspectives From Marginalized Voices

There exists almost no distinction between critical postmodern art and the emergence of the neo-proletariat ideals that have begun to (re)populate the world in small measures. Both work on the singular premise of dismantling existing structures of form and power by subtle rearrangements in societal plateaus. For instance, we can observe non-linear ideological shifts in the way the West is engaging itself with the rest of the global community compared to the half a century back when capitalism as a tool of coercion had gained incredible universal momentum. Art and resistance evolve in similar ways, and share a common ground when to comes to (de) idealogizing the present. That is what art truly represents, resistance/persistence, and the Artist becomes the first and final martyr in the entire process. The Artist which indulges in postmodern art also willingly/unwillingly engages with the war of the neo-proletariat. Power is what the Artist despises and what he ironically comes to use when the dismantling of structures begins. Unlike a mythical context of literature or art, the Artist employs present day tools to create an alternate universe of possibilities, which in turn aims to depopulate the present world of stagnant ideas. This circle of reluctant but inevitable martyrdom repeats itself universally in both time and space. What is interesting to note is the demystifying effect of critical postmodern art on present day power mongers. I do not argue about the absolute possibility of artistic utopia but rather the changing nature of the Artist in today's time and age. An artist whose work I'm intimately familiar with argues that it is not possible to reconcile the difference between a falsified grandiose history and present day post critical nuances of art. A painting cannot be traditional when it comes to form and progressive when it comes to the object simultaneously, it must choose either of the two. Cubism and Dadaism were two such defined centers of artistic gravity, both existed only to inspire and recreate the circular representation of artistic utopia. But neither one of them 'began' with such specific goals, like most movements captured in homogenized nomenclature, these two were also results of pedantic and pedagogic classifications.

fig. 1. Roger Brown. Talk Show Addicts, 1993. Etching and aquatint, 22 1/4 x 29 ¾ in.

(Courtesy of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago)

In the above picture, 'Talk Show Addicts' by Roger Brown, there is a frightening yet prophetic view of urban degeneration via the medium of television. Proximity among neighbors is only possible through a medium controlled by a select few. The dystopia of the Artist is the utopia of the Capitalist. The Artist of today's age has been entrusted with the humongous task of (re) creating 'Art' in a controlled environment of 'mass media', herein lies the ultimate contradiction, for the medium is both the 'enemy' and the 'tool'. This negotiation of being mesmerized and being disillusioned comes at a mental toll for the Artist whose purpose is validated by the very presence of what it seeks to 'destroy'. The products of coercive ideologies such as capitalism are puppets in response to an artistic vision that seeks universal fulfillment. The Marxist philosophy of socialist possibilities is mere lip service to any individual who seeks institutionalized anarchy, another contradiction that the Artist must deal with in order to create parallel self flagellating universes. 

Blacker Than The Night

When I stand naked facing the mirror
I can almost make out my black heart
Looming behind pale skin, twinning an
Omen; ridiculously frightened of itself.

My heart, never really mine, cajoles me,
To love someone.

An ink-pot of soot filled liquified carbon,
My heart, is incapable, of love. Caged by
A pair of tired ribs, it rests, hoping to be
Sterilized by disease and despair. My
Beautiful black heart resembles a gutter.

The blood in my veins runs amok in my
Body, mimicking an ignorant third world
Dictator, whose wives equal his soldiers.
I am the dictator and I am the oppressed.

I have the blackest and the darkest heart,
Which, when the day comes to an end,
Cajoles me, to love someone.

Geometrical Lives

My life led beside your geometry
of soft circles and bushy triangles.
Straight line arms ricocheting off
spherical mounds of your shoulders,
reaching out for the bare and gaunt
of my torso in passionate violent swirls.
And I begin my assault on the cleft of
your chin, inches away from a moment
of bare skin and hungry lips, orbiting in
space beyond their reach. 

Cuckold

I heard about an affair
last month. Yours with his
tangled up like
noodles in an upmarket
joint. Forgive me
for asking
but
are you fond of meatballs
as well?

Pardon my manners
for i am curious
about
the anal.o(r)gies
he sought.
Or daydreamed
considering
his noodle.

Broken Bits

Parts of you flounder but I've left
You nothing but visuals
Dream like hallucinations
Neither drug induced nor amorous
Only summoned by my memories.

Parts of me flounder too but not
For you.

Corals of white stretched in bigotry
Against the great white sharks of time
Indignant that the universe values them little.

I valued you more than my time, recklessly so.
Smoked second hand smoke
Sucked on breasts, conically and laterally
All the while thinking of you.

The time has come for you, customarily
So to be penetrated soon
By a penis
Reassuringly not mine.
 

Bits of Bitterness

There is a storm brewing outside
Much like coffee in my morning cup
I can smell wet earth when I write
Small letters and little fucks.

The world has opened up to me
A girl well groomed
Shadows have found meaning
And everyone else fooled.
 

Names, Spoken Aloud.

When you turn sixty, a year away
From sixty one. Say my name aloud.

Say my name with all the years of
Love, rolled up, tightly in a ball of
Burnt ash.

Say my name with rage and want
Mixed together.

And gushing like blood in purple
Lid veins, my memory will arrive.
Twenty one was your age when
I deserted you. Or twenty two.

Clench those wrinkled two fists
Scarred by abandonment and age.
And ask yourself.

Your memory will not serve you
And you will sob in silence.
Your bleeding heart will whisper
Forty years I have loved you
Another forty I will.

When you turned twenty two
I said your name aloud.

Hollow's End

Almost a lie, that love of ours,
Deprecating mass of emotion.
Who would've thought, who
Would've decreed, love sets
Your ruin in motion.

I remember your toes, curled
Up like whiskers down there.
Furious seeing them naked.

I am vacant with your love, it
Tears me up, carves me hollow.
The disease you gave me
Farewell present, omnipresent.
Don't follow me to my end.

Bile at the corner of my mouth,
Foaming, moaning, dying to be
Free.

Will replace my heart in x days
The last one belonged to you, why
Shed a lonely tear, your sentiments
Callous few.

Snippet v1.3

I wanted to call you tonight
My head's woozy and my body cold
I wanted to love your toes tonight
But that's not what the doctor told.

The Suffering Of The Sea

The night has set upon dawn
And the dawn has lost its very meaning.
Darkness has and will envelop
All the doors that lead to me.
It is here, only within myself,
That I want to confess my love for life.
A life waiting to slip away, in forgotten
Corridors of time.

I was born in a happy house
With happy people around me.
They are still here
But I have started to fade away.

I thank you, my parents, I thank
My friends. I thank the very God
That gave me life, and now
Tired by my shenanigans, conspires
To take it away.

I will miss the walls of my home,
Childhood, my brother the most.
I have lived as long as I could, I have
Lived more than my time.

Bury me in the Sea.

A Dedication

An (in) verse transgression

Some lost labor of love.

There were few before you

And some above.

My love's a cliche,

You were such a bore;

I am glad it's over

Before we became a family of four.

Our hearts are broken

My hand's sore

I was always fond of sex

But turning you on was such a chore.

Perhaps I shouldn't be funny

For heartbreak's such a bitch.

 But now that I really think about it

You were just an itch.

I have already found someone

And I easily turn her on

She's witty and charming

We even watch porn.

This is a sub standard poem

Meaningful phrases are few

But it doesn't seem odd

For it's dedicated to you!

Hospital Days

My body loves hospital beds,
Loves the white of sheets
A painful row of injured heads
Some ugly swollen feet.

The nurses have seen me naked
The Doctors smile a lot
Bless the water, for its sacred
And I lie on a sterilized cot.

My heart refuses to cooperate
And I throw my medicines away
A senior doctor wants to operate
Waking up means vomit and sway.

People visit and bring me gifts
My parents tell them all lies
The world inside me slowly shifts
As parts of me begin to die.

My last wish is to see a mime
I was always denied sanctuary
Tried my best to make it rhyme
This is my funniest obituary.

Secrets Under Wooden Floors

I

Scissored

Bleeds in a corner

My soul, my soul, my soul

And you sip warm tea

On an empty morning.

'Can't find Sahib anywhere, Memsahib'

'Can't find him anywhere....'

I am giving up

You can come out now

I will always lose at Hide and Seek

Always lose.

'Must we call the Police, Ram Singh?'

'Must we?'

I looked at you the first time

Last time I looked at you.

Were you born this pretty?

I have to ask your mother.

'Sahib was a good man'

'Make some tea, will you?'

II

I wanted to cradle you

Before I went away.

I wanted, I wanted and I wanted.

My memory with you.

The man with nobody

Lived with his family

Occasional friends

Spoke occasionally.

'He would never commit suicide, Memsahib.'

'He used to hunt after all.'

Struggle with me a bit

Lie next to me

Live my life for a moment or two

Hold my hand and make me weep.

'Bade Sahib is coming back from London'

'Make arrangements, and make some tea.'

Meet me tomorrow at seven

I have to kiss you

I have to tell you that I, poet extraordinaire, loves you

Loves you, loves you, loves you.

III

'My son, my son, what have ye done?'

Ladies and Gentlemen, a small hiatus for the dead

I bring you, 'Much Madness is divinest Sense' by Emily Dickinson

Much Madness is divinest Sense —

To a discerning Eye —

Much Sense — the starkest Madness —

’Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail —

Assent — and you are sane —

Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —

And handled with a Chain — 

'My son, my son, what have ye done?'

'Have some tea, Daddy ji, have it before it turns cold.'

I liked to twirl you hair

When you slept

We even had names

For two Daughters.

IV

I want you to call a Doctor

My memory, my memory, my memory

Betrays me.

And often, just like you.

'The world is not the same without him, Memsahib'

'Your loyalty shall be rewarded, I'm sure he's watching over you.'

I suspect that I love you more

Than you love me.

I don't mind, I honestly don't.

I just like to love you.

Ain't love a bitch?

How often you used to say that,

Especially when we made love quietly.

Not to wake my parents.

'Ram Singh, Ram Singh, where have you disappeared?'

'Where is everybody?'

'Why are all the lights off?'

'Why?'

Whimper, whimper, whimper.