The other

I hear songs in yardless rhymes


rain-drenched fingers

In the guise of

Echoing my fingertips


I return home to incessant chirpings

Trees, naked in broken branches

Flowers, shying in damp cheeks

Tucked beneath pillows dry.

Gods play with songs

Curvilinear paths they draw

Of sins and virtues

Moon lines sunlit corners

Keeping you alone in a corner.


All evening, all along sundown

Staying elsewhere with the other girl.

Recurrence

She spoke of Mackennitt in green rusty eyes


She uttered of coral reefs and I heard mumbling

Evening was lain in incessant rain drops

And my sundown bathed in moondance

She spoke, although she did not

Dragged by breathless child-like manners

Inane and curiously haptic, shady groves

withered. Alas, I fell in love again.

She promised choirs, she promised apologies

I only asked gently to cross gently wet roads

We promised dualities and east european footsies

Crickets rumbled and rambled, spring had begun!

We parted for a smoke she did not wish.

In dismay I eyed abyss, "When again?"

The last few

We are surely learning to roll with repetitions

Words now urinate to their self coital death

Tolerating little play, unsure of every uttering

Your silent monosyllables, stark elitism

They die too, coiling, curling up their own hymen

There is no furore of life, only the sly of the indefinite

Silence rests, in its foetal sex-wig.

Prologue to Alienation

Yet starvation definite

Sighs ceaseless around my mind

I'm a poet of the destitute

I see nightmares unbridled,

Death in crystal forms.

My spring is spent in hunger rows, anticipating

Siren of my sleepless nights blows circumspect

I find adventure in the cruelty of the ineffectual

Wherein my wonder springs armed,

Looping cruel disciplines.

Pebbles

My golden pebbles, I will rip open
Over these downtrodden arms
These locomotive shadows wherein 
I shall keep in silver 
Our still captive days.
In pretense the captive birds be flown
The gust in their wingy winds 
Submissive to the breakfast of freedom
Inspite of the softer pillows  of absence .
For us to steal stealth 
In their frolicing leaves
Your milk-lining, 
And more tons of it, with ease which 
Shall erode the silent wailing, 
Tons of corrosions, 
And just like before, 
Your dawn will wind up
Around my dawn, for it to admit longer
And long enough.

Poetry

Poetry writes you well

Seasonally gifting shoelaces to tie,

Friendly,

The falsity of this twisted head.


In little pages poetry arrives

In lesser folds poetry folds

Into your youful towels.


Poetry gets scooped up

The smallest of your combs

Wipes off well in the pages

Where poetry rests.



How easy then, for poets

To become friends.

To A Cat

Now and then ,
between the finest unfolding of a day,
I meet the cat ;


In the shadow of the trees,
Flare of the sun,
Or the secretive parting of brown leaves.

Somewhere after succeeding a few fish bones
Then encumbered in the carcass of white soil
I find it absorbed in his self ,
With his heart ruminating
Like a bee.

Yet ,continually he scrapes his claws against the gulmohar tree
Pursuing the sun all day.

Now I see him,
Then it is lost somewhere.

In the softening evening sun, crimsoned he plays
Caressing his white paws
Fisting the night in tiny blobs
Then diffusing them all over this infinity.