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Posters on an island

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.


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.

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
From where,
He pumps out his mistress.

The last motel I checked in had a garage bar
That gave you black coffee in checkered ceramic mugs.
Foams of black and white spread on to the floor,
from mug walls, where you checkmate your other.

But dear, I didn’t know they served themselves
Two supper bowls

Once, once upon a time,
The other day,
I was in love.
For, I was bored otherwise.

FB is limiting.
It kills ur 
You have just walls to go through...
No open skies

I count your number of friends
every now and then
To feel your presence
on the screen space we share,
Mutually distanced,
With a million others.

8) Distance is not a matter of distance..., but of invisibility... virtual or non virtual.

9) when your lover becomes your 'father' you need a lover!! ;)

Love is something u discover in unison
nearby overturned coffee mugs
or half opened book shelves
when u devour the other,
between readings from you and me.

I am a cotton candy
like lollipops in a crowd.

where breeze is a hurricane
and later silence

I tread on you,
a mapless country.
Foot marks yellow
walk out of your body
like love stories from fairy tales.

World has grown so small
I swirl it in my palm
and pick up old friends
from here and there.
Eclipsed and displaced,
Removed and remembered,
Like the loves you have lost!

Tiny hands trace crayon shapes
peeling off walled cosmetics
colours wage war
from sofa backs
to fading crows
lipsticked red over gypsy green
and a blue blue sea.

Our love is skin,


painted harsh

with beds forsaken.

in the name of love,

You kiss me on my nails

For it have cells dead

and polished.

Unlike skin pores

Hot and wet.
You and me

like pitcher and crow

shall throw stones

at love moorings

Sly and holy

over and beyond

my days and our nights

 My noon went uphill like a leaflet in wind swirling up to form sunlit mirage of droplets-love and swaying down as if in a cradle to mock me to a blackout, peaceful.

Love poems are like fake ids
and love,
a tin drum.

September is a woman in saree

With long braided hair.

Rustic beauty,

She is the colour yellow

In her morning charm

And numeral 2

in her high heeled gala nights

The womb was out of swear words
As it puked the tiny creature
She said, she too was fed up
Of the egg shelled frozen darkness
As she kicked her way out.

The image kept recurring in my dreams
From day one of my sandal bath.
I saw a cart dragging along,
a heaped-up mud path of reddish maroon
Yesterday I saw the same old landscape
Spread over my dress room floor
As I dropped my sindoor box.

Between all those big talks and hugs of love he loved me so much, so very much, fully and completely, so jam packed that i didnt get the space to love him back.

Lying is an art..., but all artistes can’t do that well....

Irritation is a very special feeling... breed it for schizophrenic nights....

 I quit my lines for it costs my love.

30) Once upon a time in the kingdom of water lillies in a remote hamlet down the river across the bamboo bridge there lived a little cutie called love..... she was born on a winsome night when stars had lured dandy moon to their jasmine bedspread..... she grew a butterfly and flew a honey bee..... years afar I can see her fluttering her colours as a love menopause.

Writing is not an art.
It’s a foul play of moving dice

Mothering for love.
Bewitching urge
of her fertility.

Deep inside the poignant woods
She cups her seed
Sun screened,
In a love oyster
And wait
For a moonlit rivulet
Sparkling tender
To deluge down stream.

 Its late midnight... when jasmine drizzle.... in my moonlit courtyard. My fragrant bedspread!

 Today I was tossed back to my school reopening days while smelling my son’s new 1st std text books…. Scent retrieve once familiar, now veiled bygone days….. Recollections that never elapse…. yet those we forget to remember….

Secrets will betray me
The day you die.
They will walk out to you, in queue,
from my eyes, that night.
Black and white
Of a language

Call me a cheat, then
As you leave.
Let me lie,

Lanterns in woods 

I saw him red.
Black stones 
lined up random 
behind, at leisure.

Was it the color
or the death in his eyes
that took me along
brick lanes silent.

and here,this winter
am in a shack
that I share with poppies.
crimson blues.
Lanterns in woods
that I keep within


I have walked beyond…
my self.....
my consciousness
my reminiscences
my realizations
my being


am in a no mans land....
Gazing the dusty oasis…



lift my hair….. I fly
shatter my vision…..I trip

Sunburn passion marks my silhouette

Should I slow down?
To hold your hand?

World has grown so small
I swirl it in my palm
and pick up old friends
from here and there.

Eclipsed and displaced,

Removed and remembered, 

Like the loves you have lost!

I count your number of friends

every now and then
To feel your presence
on the screen space we share,
Mutually distanced,
With a million others.

at times
in between busy chores 
and so many thoughts
the air pauses for a moment.
I leave my dirt 
and float in my intangible loss. 

the walk, the face, 
and the love linger around 
like photos, framed,
of farewells
staring blank
at their death rites.

bye is so easy a word

like flowers of the altar
that whisper prophecies

I need an open balcony
with distant views
a rocking chair
a book
to talk to
so that I can
sleep like the end
...................of a tale


Sreela Nair said…
Highly sensuous and limitless! You attempt to go beyond time and space and that petty spaceship called facebook! Great going!

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