Showing posts from 2011
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.

You read me upside down.

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

Red Sea


I feel the quake
in my abdomen.
The city crumbles
over its abandoned lanes.


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.


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.


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.


Its carnival bout
and she is beautiful today
drenched in her night rains of red sea.
Droplets of rubies thrashing past
her cities of crimson silk goddesses.

She is
the ritual, the sword, the coitus,
the earth, the sky, the red mountains,
the lucky …


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
called me
a bastard.

Thus wrote she,
years before.
As/for me.
Now glued.
on to her darkness,
A tiny peck
yet to be confirmed.

Tunes you play for me

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.


Strokes I fail to play.

This IS a poem

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”

My man-god

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.


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
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
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.

Wet streaks DAMP

I once went underground


mud lanes
  broken castles

there were armies marching to the kitchen store
and beauties waiting for the enrolled whore.

yellow shade
thru velvet strings
of day light GLOW

                                         sun-tan baths
kites and birds

of narrowed beauties
soaked up
in              open air breaths

of wanton ecstasy.

blue and rains
                                   of tightlipped gasps.

rubbing skins and woolen cots
rained sparkles of

     l                           s
       l                      r
         i                a
           n        …

Nymph nodes

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.