past perfect

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.
-Oscar Wilde

sittin by this computer and staring at the screen
the soft spoken words spoken not so long back
and images that come flashing by
not so near yet so clear
voice that resounds in dreams
face that lights up the night
a baby smiling by her side
the hair rubbing the shoulder
wrinkles in the eye a sight of delight
bubbles from the ring
colurful shining bright
the smile of hope
to swallow her grief
to see me by her side
brushing against the arms
the nails and the songs
loudly singing in chorus
with a fixed glance
on me or something she could see
a saviour in the moment of grief
the magic in the smile
to heal a thousand souls
and it was all me
swept by an emotion so unreal
so fleety and free
no boundaries it could see
a delight landscape out the window
a hand so light it could freeze
those things they call paradise
in the arms of a child
a lost world, a lost time.

wrong number

she had been waiting impatiently for his sms for the past 2 hrs as she cut the onions. tears rolled down her eyes inexorably. 'its the onions' she told herself. he had told he would msg when he reaches home. 'he must have reached by now' she thought. 'but the traffic in bangalore!!'.'yes it must be the traffic' she consoled herself.
minutes went passing by, the knife came down furiously upon the onions. she glanced at the calender on the table. each day was marked with stars. it had become her habit to mark days with stars. llike a movie review. five stars meant an unbelievably good day. single star was a hopeless day. yesterday was marked with two stars. two stars always meant a confused day. three star was just about 'okay' day where nothing too bad had happened but nothing exciting as well. but two star was worse than that. it left her perplexed as to what the day was really worth. yesterday was one of them. he had messaged her 'sorry dear, i have to go for my uncle's wedding anniversary' but she was not convinced.
when she ran out of onions but not the tears, she got up to mark the day with a single star. pen in hand, she approached the table. but the phone rang. it was an sms. thrilled, she ran back to the bed and picked up the cellphone. it WAS from him. it read 'my mom found your bra in my bag. why did u leave it there last night'.
she did not pick up the pen this time. she did not turn to the calendar. there was no need.

fast and furious

there's nothin that could have changed my world the way this has. in such ways i m scared to speak about myself. trapped in the god knows wat of the society of and the tradition and evrythin they think r sacred to them. and i ve broken it. now i loathe it. u talk about love. damn u think u know a bit of it.wats this this thing u r talkin bout do u evr see thru from from a window striped naked of evrthing u ve presumed u have been? this society the custom. neutral milk hotel watever they meant when they sang 'how strange it is to be anything at all'. how true, how absurd, how inexplicably devastasting and healing at once. dont read between the lines it ll kill me. i m already half the way to death. i thought i knew evrythin, in deed i was convinced. and now these visions blur. i m enjoyin this ignorance of sight as long as it lasts. probably for ever and this is wat i fear. i m so trapped inside of me i m afraid might implode into myself if i dont let some air push me around. damn i m such a fuckin pervert. pervert?? u sure u really are? or is it something far beyond being pervert. an understatement? i hate myself for but wat can be done. and the whole thing about 'god is a place wher some holy spectacle lies, god is place u will wait for the rest ur life'(yes, milk hotel again). why's it all comin back to me. is this the point i ll wait for the rest of my life. and the holy spectacle? wats that do i understand it or am i tryin to convince myself that i dont. hell, things r pulling me apart and i m still waiting. i dont even know wat for. i dont even know wat i want now. im so confused its threatening to say the least. why did i ever get into this. why?


but i m not gonna talk to god anymore. he's given me evrythin i wanted until this point but from this point forward i dont know wat to ask for. let him be him and me be me. but then again who m i? dint my existence really mean only that one straw. THAT SAME STRAW. wait m i gettin too close.

this one's by a bastard

When a raven crows in the morning
Someone's going to die by nightfall.
Today too some old sixty year old
Fucking a young girl, and dying on her belly.
In his mouth, gaping red
A gold tooth glitters under the mucus.
His shorts, thrown in a corner
A butterfly set free by the girl.

When your lace breaks in the morning
Someone's going to die by nightfall.
Today too some queer
Fighting over a man
Grabbing a knife, a military march
A black and hairy leg, the Adam's apple
Drenched in the blood that spurts
Flowers that bloom beside his mother's grave.

When a mouse cries at night
Someone's sure to die by morning.
Today too some butcher's wife
Killing herself with a young toy boy,
Her chipped manicure, dyed red again.
Forty chains until the morning
Until the morning starving bodies
Killing someone so they can live
The only destination, the chill of handcuffs

six word story

inside his pants. diamond. a miracle.

an enemy

he held a pen in his hand. a white sheet of paper waited languidly. for breathing life. but there was something twirling all around him. taunting him. torturing him. even to the point of haunting him. he tried to shoo it away but it kept coming back. swirling round and round, and round. words, things that he had once enslaved, now eluded him, mocked into his face with a sardonic smile. he couldnt stand it anymore. quietly, very quietly he dropped the pen. and with one loud smack the mosquito sank down to the floor. the paper was watching.

the wait

he had waited for this morning since ages. he slept early last night. it would bring morning sooner. but restless on the bed he stared at the cold sunlight that reflected off the moon. but morning will be here soon. with gleamin warm sunlight piercing thru reluctant moisty leaves. turning the earth we call home orange and red. and he'll step out. he'll smile facing the semi circled sun his face will be orange and red. it will shine on his forehead. and then, then he'll stretch out his arms and run on the road headed to the sun. for this one moment he will touch bliss.

a fresh page

neatly, he turned over to a fresh page. he stopped to think. held his pen against the paper and wrote a poem. he loved the sound it made. the friction of the paper against pen. the romance. pages upon pages words flow in uninhibited vehemence. words come screaming out dancing in merry, weeping in pain.he finsihed the last few words 'for all that was me'. he looked out of the window. children played in the streets. they shouted they hollered they made unintelligible sounds. he turned back. tore the pages. he mused at himself and turned over to a fresh page

there were faces on the walls he'd seen before. in dreams. perhaps sometimes in the sky. two crystal eyes trapped in a whirlwind of confusion and hatred. two crystal eyes gazing at a distant land. nothing else but the eyes. he could not stand them. he punched the wall. he broke the mirror.

she lay him to sleep and walked out the door hoping he'd wake up, stop her, hold her tight, swallow her tears.
but then she stopped, walked back in, picked the knife, fell over him, and hoped she would never hope again.

i dont know who this she is

stones gathered in the backyard
fallen from trees
ther's a light that shines through mist
or is it your blinding eyes

snow in the mid summer
trickling down the window pane
yellow stains it leaves
reminding how we went insane

clear clouds in the clear old sky
a bird's swayed flight
like guitar strums on your wrigggling spines
tears the silence of the night

drops of water on your forehead
they trickle down ur nose
the cheeks they smell moisty green
your tongue a fragrant smoke

goddmait why i wrote this

often i've wondered aloud
in my dreams n in my thoughts
in the pages that i ve torn apart
in the deafenin silence of my heart
was it ok for her to die before i was born

often i ve heard a voice
speakin softly to a coming child
speakin softly in her waking demise
speakin softly words that apologize
softly, ever so softly the words go flying by

often i've seen lights dance
with the blueness of sky
with the bleeding tongue inside
with the fine white foam rise
fine white foam in rain drenched snow

often i've curled up in bed
hoping to whip these thoughts away
hoping i'll see her another day
hoping to never hope again