Showing posts from December, 2012

I cant title it

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 details do I search in it? The act of rape or the feel of flesh as its stripped off its skin? Is it my agitation marked as silence that takes me back to another page? or is it a brutal carnal voye…

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Posters on an island
Islandsare 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.

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.

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 forehead

That male god,
Arrogant, adamant and what not!
Already has one on his crown
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

Feast of the Female

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, and copulate downstream where the river meets the green. 

Diana- Goddess of hunt, moon and birthing and associated with wild animals and woodlands.