Showing posts from 2010

Moving on...

She sat there on the floor
Cross legged and sterile
Among jars of vacuum
That he left behind
As he moved away.

She’ll now breed on
one of them,
mud made and painted white,
Half naked slumbers of horny nights
And bring up another one
Who will grow up to call her a slut.

She’ll show him
Her skin depths
and match it
With his inherited mirth
for blood stained thighs.

She won’t moan a second time
Ecstasies are time bound and slippery

She would rather wash and sleep.

Swear words

I was a school girl then
Barely eight or so
When, one day my lips mimicked
A swear word, popular
Upon a friend of mine

The first of its kind
To begin with.

She read my lips
From across the
school gate sweet shop
I missed my candy
and drained my nerves
As she came along
and whispered softly
“I shall tell everyone
That you called me this”

I fell dead
For years together
Over occasional reminders
Of lip shapes vulgar.

It was when
I fell in love,
decades away
That I realized
Swear words are a necessity.


Every other morning,
For decades together,
She bathed at five
When she had lain
Legs spread and plain
The previous night
As her husband made love

She gathered his scent along
Bosoms shabby and hairlines disheveled
and scrubbed her off
his sweat and sperm
that ran along her sticky legs
Before she hurried
Down the stairs
Clad in cotton,
Eyes closed in ecstasy
of pending climaxes,
to her new found love
in her puja room.

whom she could love,
at leisure.

This or that, love and lust

Me, my upper lip sweat
and rolling eyes,
the pulse of urge I feel deep within
the gateways cross lipped.
Virgin land.

Our love is skin,
painted harsh
with beds forsaken.
in the name of love,

Love breathes heavy
among whispers choked
and slipping hands.
A game of lust
of bosoms bare
and leg base damp

Bathroom slippers or
way side flowers..
I, an over turned coat
on a prince charming.
I kiss him over dinner
and hug him in sleep
to roll on to the basement rotting

My arms are yours
Widespread and inviting
But legs are locked.
The gal who ran away
from the butchers knife
slaying the pleasures
of her shrunken penis.

Chain her breasts and
Wax her hole
For her head rolls upon
pleasures withheld
over monsoon drippings
of wine and loves.

Love is something u discover in unison
nearby overturned coffee mugs
or half opened book shelves
when u devour the other,
between readings from you and me.

My lust map was misplaced
at a way side second hand book shop
where dark skinned men, broad chested
had love making ses…

his Love's sanity

It’s when her summers fade to oblivion
That her ashtray smokes serpent curves over her desk.

She goes handpicking
edged sandstones
from the side walks
of a blurred out shore line
Where in between
pavements tarred
You find cat fur
Sprouting bush garden
of discolored golden threads.

The spider that fell on to her water jug
Birthed, drowning a generation.
The crystal jug she threw away
had a womb cuddled
Wherein a snake crawled deep
In to the burning darkness
Of steaming wax sealed rapture
To mate her in a she-dream.

Gliding lust spread on to her skin, bare
Like seaweeds on ocean bed
Leaving patch marks of red earth
Dry and torn.

She is insane, a damn sadist
In her ways of love
Says her man over her jerking thoughts
Handcuffed on to a single man

Her love curled down
Like her plaited hair
Forming strands of love
Clipped in between
For an authentic base
That she lost to her dream.

The other one
With whom she shared her cell
Called her sanity chained,
a would be saint. She says,
That’s why flies circle her for a halo

Zombie Trap

He seems like a piece of paper
On which she scraps endlessly
Her ways of cunning loves.

He is scribbled over and again,
Every night.
Only to be crossed,
Scratched and binned
Until blue bleeds from torn ends
Over the silver sky.

Letters, ominous night owls
Gaze, like night fire
Piercing skins of ash.

She draws his veins
And tag it zigzag
As a spider web
To swing in oblivion
Across pulses slayed

Her love is marked
As red dots virgin
Droplets sinking
In moonlight ripples

Red oozed out
Of his neck lines deep
Inkish blue,
Her snow white bedspread.

His love is found lost
Like overgrown graveyards
Where flowers bloom from
Heavens decayed.

They found him dead
At the staircase corner
Passion bitten
With neck marks deep.
Blooming white
In her vampire lust.



My mother said,
She bought me
From a fisherwoman.

She let me go
For a bag of ice
For those lifeless gaze
Staring out of silver scales.


Her skin smelled salt
At late midnights
When gulls made love
And serpents crawled
Over mermaid lust.

His shadow paused
For an after smoke
To let in deep sea fogs
Of oceanic lunacy

The sea seemed heavy
Over her naked body
Draining her veins
Of its fluidic essence.

Crossing decades
For a chosen grave
She shed her skin
For silver scales

To be born again
Through his piercing nails.

My grandmother has an almirah

My grandmother has an almirah
in the corner of her red tiled dining room
Where she stores her years
in bits and pieces
Like shopping receipts
Tagged to rusty hairpins
and broken mirrors.

She sits on the floor
and pulls out the lower drawers
every other day, eagerly
as if she yearns to find,
among treasures withheld
in small rubber-banded newspaper packs,
A baby, she misplaced years aback.

Her sarees
dry washed and folded
are on the upper decks
Where, in-between bosoms ironed
she hid her market savings
for her new found culinary taste
From across the street end bake house.

Her deserted desires
of fleshly warmth
and cravings carnal
tarnished and disguised
as jasmine knots
for the backyard demigod.

When she dies
They will clad her
in one of those wedding silks
and suffocate her
In that unused dusty smell

That day she will get her garlands back
Fresh and heavy
on her worn out heart.
They will choke her way
with stinking sweat and incense dope

I shall see her sitting
Legs stretched and absorbed
on that almirah floor


She heard the front door open
At midnight twelve.
He is back,
from his prolonged business trip
That cost him a divorce
and a bitter mouth.

Her grandma had said,
Its exact midnight when,
The He-god passed their courtyard
On Friday nights
Dragging a chain
Pulled to his ankle

They sat there on the portico
She counting the rose buds
And he untying the shoe lace
Years dragged between them, jerking
Like the squeaky kitchen drawer.

He indexed the strangeness
Clinging to his shoulder bag
While she sketched
The alien features of the little one
Sleeping inside.

Her dry washed skirts
Lay on the backyard poles
Drenched in the night rain.
She dreaded,
The man-god passing would curse
If water drips over his face
As he crosses over.

Words lay scattered
Beneath his cigarette smog
Like onion peels
In that bright wet night.

She felt relieved
For the silence that came over
As a new born babe.
At least, now she needn’t explain
How she balanced
Coffee mugs and carpet rates
Over her ways of love.

She was content
She had learned,
To sleep wi…

They are a nation

That’s where the road turned left, behind the thatched tea stall. Lemons, yellow grape bunch, hung from net bags, swinging like breasts, hanging.
Smoke stained tooth and coal taint pots shared the same old sequel, of men missing and women birthing in the dark damn holes of their inhabited forest land.
A race is born, another one, of bundled invalids. Human documents of swinish beings.
They war for a home and decay for a nation In between trade secrets of political wellbeing.
They breed day and night, an army of fantasies. Procreating benchmarks of a human kind, Unregistered, and crawl beneath the annals of history devoid a stamped belongingness of fathers born and land-marks puberal.
Outside the glitzy highways of pork and rap, flesh and wine they form a nation, Castrated.

* Remembering the land rights struggles of the displaced in Chengara (in Kerala) and elsewhere.

Love is in the air but am here !

the only thing unusual about the day was that i met him. and as people all over say, every thing toppled overnight. this time i guess, from toe to head.

the day struck me permanently blind of my in laws culinary tastes and hubbys favourite shoes. i forgot to water the barren pot at the first floor balcony that made good luck peep in through the velvet curtains.

at beakfast table and later at the kitchen sink i stared at the after meal dishes to find a route map of licked up desires of exhausted taste.

i couldd cook up so many as now i claimed to be in love, that came late yet so very different from the domestic one thrusted upon me like a second AC upper berth reservation ticket in a night train.

i had loved and lost (and even forgotten the names and peoples too ) so many a time, so much so that i often had hallucinations of love ghosts from bygone births.

may be thats why i was not so keen or rather tensed whn i knew i was about to fall in love , once again.(and that too when my hubby dea…

It’s a sea blue graveyard

I went to see
A man dying.
He lived in a sea side graveyard
Among random pines and
Disciplined tombs
Legs stretched and head scratched
He spat on the wind blowing.

Once he lived in
the mountain blues
and rock side caves
Made love with the banyan beauty
and invoked his dark sharp lady.

They walked down vineyards green
Narrow straits of full night moon.

He was raped
At the waterfalls
Naked woods
Danced around
His sunburnt passion.

He was lame
When he moved again
To tree top heights or lake side shines
With evergreen moths or dragonflies.

The man was stripped
Of his yellow skin
As he crossed the bony bridge
To his sand white eternity.

Last day
At the deep blue graveyard
He fed his heart
To seagulls mating
And his toes to
red ants marching.

In the shore line silhouettes
Of dry bit mist
I saw pigeons flying
As he lay dying.

Her night is red

Her earliest memory hangs over her wish to stab her grandma sleeping beside So that, Her mom would come back for the funeral.
She found her lost, like an arrow in search of its prey on those belly marks of parched earth labyrinths
A spider crawled, on the opposite wall, dragging its egg white halo. Posterity huddled, Underneath.
Tomorrow, it shall burst in the kitchen sink like sprinkled salt, over mushrooms bleached.
Street light poured in through the murky ventilator, the golden elevator, from the heavens
She flew out of her grandma’s mosquito net to pick up a forlorn star, to shine above as she red paints her marbles Sparkling silver.

Towers of grey

Million rays have set
On those isles of grey
Half drowned towers
Of clustered destiny.

Once, even before prehistory
As Apollo mated Oceana
She soared up high
As he drew her close
Showering isles astray
as morning dews
In their celestial ecstasy.

Beard kings, short and stout
Walked the ramp
Of those inland water ways
Spread, a linen

They dragged along
Their potbelly gown
Leaving tales of histories
In those mighty royal highways
Of gluttonous raptures.

Chess board lords
In their cross checked moves
Wrecked one another
And blew up blocks
Black and white.

They had queens
Of glittering blaze
Moving statues or
Antique widows.

Had daughters clad
In Persian carpets
Veiled and pinched
To the balcony gaze
Of somber stone towers.

A souvenir regenerated
For the annual harvest.
Alms in decorum
For the fertility gods.

To this land of
treasured pork and improper surnames
Men came, sailing
From the land of marred Albatross

They brought with them
Skin, white and pale
and over run the throne
In a tongue unknown

Wiped off tales
Of blasp…

Art of Faking

When the theme seems moving
And the idea cunning
You write a poem.

Sell in kilos
The flesh sliced off

Speak volumes
Of love and loss
Set on a grinding machine.

Pen down
From dawn to dusk
Market scenes or
Street end desires

Write about labor pain
Or frogs, in your nearby pond.

Mom is a female
You don’t write about
When nights over run
Days of boiled lust

The lines speak of
Hours lost to years
In a mulberry bush
Of infant foot steps

Pasted letters bold
Slip of the white sheet
In tears imprinted
Of ditching memories.

The ink should ooze out
To cover the drains
Of your hollow self

Writing is not an art
It’s a foul play of moving dice

Calculate your steps
Count your tales
Color your fakes
Courier it in black and white

Catch it, a red hot iron.

Have it plain
With no frills or frocks

Wrap it over
Your lipstick glitter

Kiss your neighbor
For birth rate high

Hang it down
The Vienna market

Your poem is ready for sale.

Castrated Catharsis

The lava is thick and gluey.
it seeps in to my pores
and peels off my skin
am blazing within

I dived in to a near by sea
but a shark spat me out

Ran to the fish market
to find ice cubes
big for that shark
but I saw its tail swinging
in a prehistoric weighing machine

I rushed to a way side hamlet
it had twelve ponds and a canal.
but the pool saint there taught me
new lessons of life.

still I managed to dash deep
in to the tenth pond from west end

I saw a crocodile
preaching sermons
on how to catch a monkey
with a fullfledged heart.

Ran for my life
to the mountains of ice

I saw a man crossed legged
tall and straight
muscle powered glamour guy

He is hot as a pepper end
said my prayer room scraps.

He saw me burning
and skated away,
for fear of a deluge,
to a nearby city of rivers
where I too can
plunge for a penance

I did it too
but under water
saw disbelief,
a planet, burning red

I lept out

and now
as I rise in this rain
I see a queen in red
burning bright
in this twilight.

I am not an angel

I am not an angel
nor am I a beast

I may be satanic, impious and wicked.
the one eyed hellish old lady
with an apple in hand.
who climbed the cliff
to drop in that rainless thunder

I, a magician, can tear emotions
and wink over the blood flowing.
I shall paint my home blood red
and grow a cherry to full bloom.

I stab u left to right
and collect those sweat
to cover the marks
well dead of quivering

You a carcass, i knw
floating in the sea

a feast for piranha me
in a cannibal weed.

I dust u
I drain u
stamp ur love
over coal and flith

I am a sinner
wandering below the churchyard
for graveyards green
and rusty tombs.

let not sermons rule me
and dont bring me a cross
I shall doom erupt
a million seeds will rush out
of wild and bastard sadists

Let me die a slow death
dissolve my poison from spreading

cover my head
cover my toe
smash my eyes
and shut my breath

let me persih

but I wish to dream
your fingers locked in mine
before light fades of
from my brutish swinish memory.

Demonic love

Twice up on a time
She loved.

He was
Her man in black
Made of sand.

He loved her live
Fresh as monsoon weed.
She dragged him deep

To her blistered bleed.

Labeled love set to tune, alive.

A man from nowhere
From beneath the ground
A dead shadow

He was sheepish
With floating eyes.
She was lured
To intrinsic myths
Of love tales crossing births

Unlabelled love set to tune, ignored.

A man of flesh
A man of cotton
She, a falling star
Of million desires.

For her man
She was a pebble
Beneath a shallow spring
Moulded in his dashing current.

A needle point
Pierced and stitched
To his burning urge.

The torrent, he
Smashed the structures
Of her oblivion.

She loved with a nagging pain
Of declaimed femininity
Roasted and shaped
In a way side camp fire.

She pulled her nails
And painted his taste
Fertility rites abandoned.

On those nights
dissolved in wine and lust
Her love spoke of
Pleasures longed and rainbows faded
Rains unspent and nights slept.

She grew a legend of demonic love
Spanning woods and crossing waters
She conj…

Heart beat 1 2 3 anf 4 removed

I went up,
Four steps
The wet black stone stairs.

The glass door closed
I rang the bell
The monitor blinked and said
The bell echoed similar
Deep down the chamber
To the one that rung
One hour back.
Heart beat 1 2 3 and 4 removed.

Try once more or hold on.
I climbed down
And went for a walk
Skipped fence white washed
And draped green On those rolling hills

I sang a shepherd
Over clouds of clay
I flew a wizard
Alchemy drowned.

It was dusk
When I went up again
Those mulberry stairs
Door wide open
I stepped in
With the dripping rain

Candles burning lead me
Deep down the antique walls
Of portraits pale and luxuries grey.
To a balcony of weeded wilderness.

Through the murky fog
I saw her swirling away
Near the backyard pool

In her snow white gown
She seemed a piece of cloud
Skating on the ice, thick set.

She swayed in tune
With that door bell heard
One hour back
Heart beat 1 2 3 and 4 removed.

Drifting birth

I saw a lady moving.
A haunting shadow,
Crossing the streets and treading hills
With a half damp picture
Of a little girl.

She seemed seeking
Men and streams
Lanes and graves
For her little one
Along the evening prayer.

Female in grey
Tramping in her ghostly gown
Bolt her breast and blast her womb
As she walks past,
the swaying stone bridge and
my swollen eyes,
To the valley
of broken desires.

The shadows she left
Over the thick dank fog
Gather to carve
A man of clay
Crouching over
A dead decaying log.

He was weeping
Over a reclaimed son
Drifting away
In his unshared memory.

The pale skinned man
Before the infant memory.
And set on a tune different
In an abduction camp.

It was raining outside
When I stepped in to
The chilling darkness
Of the theatre balcony

The corner seat I took
Gulped me in
to a distant land of
Barren breaths

The screen shivered
And minced
In its tale of
For childless rich.

One tale followed the other
With a mom, a dad or sister.

Moi is six and
Back wit…

i fell in love.. last year

I fell in love
Last year.
It was all so sudden
I realize it now, that
I fell in love
Last year

I flew over the hinder land of
Castrated histories
And burped out
My sickle cell loves
from my mushroom hut.

My days turned pink
And nights water lilies

We fight in the dark
And kiss by day light
Carve our love
With tantrum and tear
And paint each other
Earth and sky.

I fell in love
Last year.

When old wombs fade

Eighteen steps descended
To a half lit supper hall
Cracked up wooden benches
Stretched out in zigzag rows.

Old age in white,
Walking shadows
Moved around.

The creed that slipped love
Through their crumpled skin
And frozen fingers
Gather every night
For a silent curse.

They invoke the goddess of abandon ness
With their empty breast
Snatch it out and
Make it their penance.

Their skin is blue
And howl every night
To the lands across valleys
Crossing mountain cracks
To drench and drown
In thick rain forest.

They live clustered
Like millipedes in monsoon
Their backyard room
Smell of tears dry and
Gods sluggish.

The incense burning dope.
They crawl out
Half opened doors
Of pinching memories

Deep beyond their drowsy eyes
The lust for life
Reign their nerves

On a frigid wintry night
They dragged me in
And grabbed my skin.

Lead me to a dungeon
Of ash soaked bones.
Pulled my hair and
Squeezed my flesh
For a drop of blood and
The color red.

Crumbed my cheeks
Hugged me inmost
When they danced around
The full night moon
In their br…


She was a concubine
Seventh in the series.
Lean and pale
With a chubby nose
Yet, young and fresh
For the plump old caliph.

Like a newly brought shoes
He wore her day and night
Around the garden and
Within the royal glass chamber.

She was b(r)ought
From her hill side hut
Which smell of smoke
Over dry hard ice.

She never saw
the other number series
Only pale mute screams
Of exhausted taste.

Maids in service
Frowned at her
For her silence
And dry wet eyes.

She loved her chief maid, Saya
Who brought her lilies
And kissed her bruises.
Together they swam across
The channel of brute night loves

They danced,
Close together
All through the night.
Loved in the wild dark backyard
When they heard
The potbelly lust
In another chamber corner.

The thick green backyard
At the far of end
Had a mossy well
Shaded with chrysanthemum and
Covered with strawberries.

The well was insane.
Had a legend etched
To its thick damp stone walls.

It hung all over
the bare chamber walls
As a royal reminder.
A ritual followed for sure.

One frenzied …

my window pane

She was a concubine
Seventh in the series.
Lean and pale
With a chubby nose
Yet, young and fresh
For the plump old caliph.

Like a newly brought shoes
He wore her day and night
Around the garden and
Within the royal glass chamber.

She was b(r)ought
From her hill side hut
Which smell of smoke
Over dry hard ice.

She never saw
the other number series
Only pale mute screams
Of exhausted taste.

Maids in service
Frowned at her
For her silence
And dry wet eyes.

She loved her chief maid, Saya
Who brought her lilies
And kissed her bruises.
Together they swam across
The channel of brute night loves

They danced,
Close together
All through the night.
Loved in the wild dark backyard
When they heard
The potbelly lust
In another chamber corner.

The thick green backyard
At the far of end
Had a mossy well
Shaded with chrysanthemum and
Covered with strawberries.

The well was insane.
Had a legend etched
To its thick damp stone walls.

It hung all over
the bare chamber walls
As a royal reminder.
A ritual followed for sure.

One frenzied …