the colour harmony!!

Revolutions are nostalgic like those early hours when u smoke,  fuck  and smoke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . You cross the river and come to me I shall show you how the forest menstruates at midnight.

breech baby. she was a  For they said down. upside  to write a poem seven for a girl of This much was enough from beyond her infant memory. Tingles realized in sleep his penised hands. thrust upon by time and again to savor the pleasure-like in-between her legs and rolled bed sheets dreamt love Tore her grades, naked silhouettes. and saw from other rooms to midnight lust Listened over rangoli blocks. Played skipping games smelled guava.  and at the blue god She growled

I I feel the quake in my abdomen. The city crumbles over its abandoned lanes. II The million men army, The intruders on an island Cheat in the dark Slay the other and drip out. The dead men's sea Drops of holy white. Oozing cleft from the inner courtyards of the temple shrines. I My city, with its map less contours, spread like a dissected frog breathe heavily over passions fed. Kisses uprooted in the desert storm, By-lanes of her body fade in the sandbanks of he-sweat. Bosoms dissolve for the sprouting volcanoes that hiss venom For the life to be. III Passion is sin for this Adam and Eve A sin, rewarded With fruits of heaven. They are the perfect outcasts,  on earth spinning splendid in pageantry show of flesh and skin and copulation, invoking gods of sterility. I Yet, Its carnival bout and she is beautiful today drenched in her night rains of red sea. Droplets of rubies thrashing past her cities of crims

I My mother asked me, not to smile. For, it betrayed him. His full length smile and childlike face. Primordial father he. Finger prints behind the curtains. Marbles hid in school uniform skirt blues. Memories dear and dusted. My father. Upon whom father, supposed domestic dishonored, called me a bastard. II Thus wrote she, years before. As/for me. Now glued. on to her darkness, within. A tiny peck yet to be confirmed.

The tunes you play for me are brown. With souls walking in head scarf. Short and hump. Climbing hillocks of round stones. Faceless, like extended life There is a tunnel of rails Murmuring the distant pace Heartbeats in summer. Folks of the altitude. Strolling children from heaven. Baby curls Like swings of amazons. A single bloom, yellow in a pale grey canvas Thick skies Heavy like void, of your pangs. Burial ground. Silver moon. Withdrawing lives. Slumbers of yesterdays. Glow worms. Wind. Strokes I fail to play.

This is perfect time To write a poem. I ditched my love For a lie. And said on his face, Rhythmically, with a falling intonation “I don’t love my other”. And added extra syllables As I murmured “But I don’t want him to leave me”

A miniature he-god smiles at me every time I open the screen. His bare upper body is symmetry curved in female calculation. His nipples are red tagged along rubies that adorn pearl whites and skin blue. He was there all the time but I seldom noticed, until yestrday. He giggled, as I left the screen in a rage chatting nonsense to my man love. I had poked his belly button as I clicked my shut down option.

Today Everybody Speaks of holocaust Tell stories Scribble memories Draw sketches Make movies Hold lectures Submit research thesis And paste it On their drawers Bill boards Evening benches and wayside lamppost To know war You need to become war And to fake a revolution You need to be one. Thus you know how it felt When flesh slipped off their skin Gassed, white, pale and parched Like shadows on dead snow. And how their eyes bulged As they lost their smell And calves tore Over anticipated miles. We watch the mounts, Of garbage Of clothes Of bodies Of swine Of disease Of death Stripped heads crawling Over bodies of bones Swept together. We close our page Shut down our cable Stretch our legs Over coffee and snacks And call it holocaust.

They were dark buttons in a public booth Numbered and starred And bulged out On a yellow box Coaxed and whined Smooched and smashed. Women in veils Pressed them hard And gasped behind the lanes they crossed. Running away, hasty. The glass door closed Peeping in, the secrets left bare land to land Of over heard symphonies of unkept hair. They stood there Dark and inviting On street end corners or on narrow highways courting, men from work to let them taste contours of their home made dinner delicacies. The glass panes had loves etched In marigold white. Epitaphs of burdens buried. Men kissed And women drained Over the plastic warmth and curves of buttoned libido The cramped interior With a caller id And hanging receiver Choked In the rabid chase and burning powders Of a faked revolution. They are the black holes screwed When nights passed by. A call of the wild From a bolted cubicle.

I once went underground sleeping. through      tunneled mud lanes       of   broken castles there were armies marching to the kitchen store and beauties waiting for the enrolled whore. yellow shade       came thru velvet strings of day light GLOW                                          sun-tan baths                                 over                        flew kites and birds of narrowed beauties soaked up spicy in              open air breaths of wanton ecstasy. clouds were blue and rains               silver              ;;;;;;;;;;              pouring              down               the   THATCH STRAW                                   b                                  e                                  a                                  d                                  s                                    of tightlipped gasps. rubbing skins and woolen cots rained sparkles of f   a      l                          

Nymph nodes I   Childhood has an attributed nostalgia like ventilators that sustain life. It’s like your wish to return to the cellar towers Where you watch, the green of weeded walls. The damp air The dusk and the rusty care taker fill your breast, While you watch your shadow curve in the lantern shade. II   I was a girl of eleven with a cot of my own, When fingers, thick and dark spread on to my skin. I lay bare, by the window cot watching afternoon leaves flutter shades and breeze. It was a nameless tree, next to my broken fence, marked as my floristic guardian angel in the annals of my birth star logics. Climbed on it, every other day my pores bled, To paste its pulp in-between slices chiseled. It stood straight, with a thousand limbs stretching. I must have hugged and kissed its belly red. For I feel, I am cuddled within.