the colour harmony!!

In our country ruled by gods, varied,  news is like fire that only needs ignition.  Every other anti-social tales, whether it be  corruption chains,  food insecurities selling the female body,  child abuse waste management,  or what ever, similar images and news filter in over the democracy  like a river overflowing  banks of human wisdom. And now, the current rape. Media: print, visual and social are oozing out red. Stained butterfly marks carry outlines of age old sin on print and posters. Gathering images of a mapless country conjured upon a dissection table, squashing young or old  from Gandhi to Irom or from Kashmir to Kanyakumari My doubts are not about the news but about myself reading the stories one after the other sitting in my drawing room  and drinking hot coffee. Why do I read them? and expect more to come by ? What d...

1) Posters on an island Islands   are half baked flour beds where you sew in townships of late wisdom. You sketch seasons, on them Spring, summer and autumn, and paste them on those designer walls. Evenings have become so clichéd that I no more see sunsets in my coffee mug. You smoke out, Or is it me? over written scripts of type set nothings. The streets that I walked through, last night had by lanes of culinary shops, spice hunts. Colors of you and me, across grey stone pathways. 2) I I won’t burn in love, Or be cellars of Persian wine. Wilderness has lost its exotic greens To pale yellow sandbanks sane. You displace cannibal weeds And I miss my mermaid yearn. II Lost my way, I would rather say, In those sunflower islands I saw on his lips As he smiled that day Quite far away In that candlelit darkness Of a screen less theatre. 3) I won’t speak of your bindi That sweats and form upright reddish waterfall sketches, To the left or right On your foreh...

My stretch marks are returning like emerging waves  upon the beach tan of my skin abdomen is a civilization that grows to complete the globe

Along the process of evolution A genre stopped midway and, grew buds of laughter  and love, as they flew past horizons of water colors. Lilacs, Lemons and Strawberries and called each other Diana. Women of the hills, daughters of Vayu and of the valley, gypsies of flower gardens and tastes of spice routes, are borne of a race, unknown to the domestic walls of  routine and loss As they move, in and out of boredom and bedspread to the kitchen sink, they breed zygotes of storm on their bath, breads and dinner plates. The feast for the Gods, that they serve upon their bodies, in between the legs of the dinning table, are nothing, but routine rice puddings on skin salt less and stale, for  the lust of the other race. To taste the female you need to fly along and cross paths of Odysseus, wonderlands of Alice,  and northern sunflower fields, taste wine, laugh aloud kiss the air...

Dog is a political animal each organ, each act, functions with a purpose. Slogans of teeth or tail. Her note pad scribbles leave out all those smiling dogism. tales of love and debt. and marks out one in violet, and later red, named sniffing. she has had dogs, from Sniffy to Snoopy but, none were more, a dog than a man, she met in a moving train. This animal, sniffs you out from ur morning bed, office desk and evening calm drinks your coffee for your black that may lead you down, stairs of dope. It licks, cuddles hugs , and even pierce you neck as it sniffs, for semen of men. The holy river, dosent make you a male God in white dust. It part ways, along your valleys of mounts and dungeons as you too, slip out of your skin with an ancient curse. Even though she was sleeping, a baby sleep, as he sniffed. She would get up and scream, "Infidelty is my birthright." and then, once ...

Words are pitiless enemies They haunt from places, far away where one has left them in half dazed moods. They linger on your evenings and over the dinner plates, Even when one has oared to other shores of spring and summer As I ride back to my Original wrath, I am clueless of my sin, taken in. Leaves fall and lands freeze As another day dawns.

Men, I ought to have loved from birth and beyond have made me sense laser beams Sharp and sudden threads of silk pulled at random, over the senses The weaver and his machine and the arrow marks of pain and then, when the suddenness leaves, choking my throat, boredom inevitable indifference, casual cruelty, and more, a vomit of scorn defines the later me. As I unlove

It was a short and steady poem from an age  when people wrote letters.  Papers of dust from the underworld opened like woven cobwebs  drown you in smell  and later,  hallucinations. and I see a pink doll frock washed carefully  and left to dry. While I wait with my little dolly at the kitchen door I tell her stories of princesses  in pink gowns. and of our evenings, flights of fancies.  She had chubby cheeks for me to kiss and yellow curls. so that,  I could dream.

Wish i could draw a you, and then me,  fill us like picture cards. colors overflowing  like, in a pre-school sketch book the yellows slip out of sunflowers and greens, from hill tops, reach the skies you see crows, colorless, flowing in a distant past clouds , sun and rain peep down to us, on a sail. deep blue sea dusk, wind and waves shoulders, fingers, us. 

I saw female curves in my early hour dreams. And often, drew them. Silhouettes in white, on my class six blackboard    Later, we played King and Queen. Lone, after school hours, the creaking cot, and the dusk, mounting wrote poems on our skin. The jealously, the bangles, and the dance we shared, Conspired, in my shower Where, we saw each other, budding The colors on my canvas, Blues in rain and reds in snow. Bodies on a map, Latitudes, lust, slaughter, Seasons on my butterfly frock I am the queen who waged wars of loss, Ran steps, climbed trees and bought a skipping rope. To abort, the lives Feared crept in.

Each time I end a relation,   I dust my room. Not in search of bloody remains, but for something worthwhile suddenly you get hell of a time, and you sleep endlessly. and that's how , one day,  I traveled to my pre-history. In a backyard where I made mud buns, on white earth, that turned black as I drew on it, once, I saw, yellow blue flames  twist and shake, over wooden blocks, like cabre dancers. The red embers, those peep out of wooden bars, wink, and I forget the smell of loss and my worries for a grandma, burning may be, that's how, I learnt to dance over human flesh and rise to the skies  for a moment or two, before stretching in your sleep. and calling it a day! Thus spoke Love