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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Confession

I may not have done this
if you had, held me close
for a moment or so
before walking away into
the chores of indifference

Leaves holding on to the wind
before the fall.

The morning dew,
droplets of diamonds
On my face, pale white.

Read more

The Hour Before You Commit Suicide

The hour before you commit suicide
Think of, red flowers.
Buddhist monks.
Magic seeds, like rain on your face.
Flags, revolutions, flying high.
Dancers in red.
Autumn.
Think of, the setting sky
and the red sea.
Fallen roses.
Lips dried up, like parched land.
The red of your veins,
like a river, dead
with no rivulets.
And, the red planet
like another time.
You see,
the sindhoor bath
of the goddess, in gold.
The red flowing out
from a million cuts.
The red earth,
holding the female red
as if a baby sacrificed at the altar.
And now, you realize,
The red leaving the borders
like the words you left unsaid.
You hang
Swaying in the breeze
like a bridal wear left to dry.
Read more

The Loss of a Pet Cat

The loss of a pet cat
hurts more, when
you are twelve.
You have grown up,
a bit more
than your little brother
who hopes to get another one.
A bit more
to realize, the hollowness
of a replacement.
And much less
than your mother, smiling
through the wetness of her eyelid
to know tears wont bridge the gap
between the grave and the years
awaiting you.

Read more