inquiry

I bask on banalities.
My conflicts are lukewarm.
I have no stories to tell
but tiny moments,
fractured from life.
My imagination,
not a robust rock,
but a fickle soap.
my characters are not people,
they are peopleoid at most;
my dwellings and musings are trivial:
a curious child when he sees me smoke,
a frail lady who halts on sidewalk
while the whole world moves.
things that are casual and dont reek of profundity
simple things
like missed calls that become silences
like non taste of sugar free biscuits
like a smoker’s matchless night
I think but dont try to form thoughts
so the words sometimes lay suspended mid air
and i wonder
if i am really a poet..

Upshots of struggle

love
an upgoing spiral,
mighty whites,
deadly blacks,

stakes
always getting high
joys wilting in pain,
pain minting the joy,

lives
at mercy of tides
trying to tilt our boats
to fight another day

One sun

the sun that dips
in my west,
peekaboos red
in your east,
What is lost to me,
finds a way to you,
In looking at it
we make it one

TRANSUBSTANTIATION

when the doubts of life
mutate into hopes of one,
“The Stranger”‘s harrowings,
Incubate little bliss chicks,

And the boredom of usuality,
Same-shams of relationships,
Are swept by renderings,
of sensations that flow,

And the shackles of heart,
Reshuffle into crown,
And the cautionary tale, transsubstantiates into poetry

Acrylic Life

Perhaps you are right
that the world is spent.
No magic, just patterns and disarrays.
Black and white,
paper and graphite.

perhaps you are wrong.
perhaps the clichés of poets,
are clichés for a reason,
love and thou shalt know,
how love turns your soul into cake shop.
where the textures are put in,
and out emerge pastries!
vanilla,butterscotch,blackcurrant?
life a proustian magic,
the dichotomy peeling like snakeshell,
the world not a water-oil tendency,
but a beautiful colloid,
sense cascading into sense,
an acrylic paint

a beautiful average

I woke, rubbing my eyes
to glimpse the dawn.
It didn’t shy away,
but Unfurled,
In azure glow.

I looked at you then.
That first haze,
dissolved in your radiance.
Your senses,
Beckoned eastwards.
Your soul,
Leaked in gratitude.

Two suns painted my sky.
One bubbled at dawn;
Other was my dawn.
My extreme wants
morphed slow,
into a beautiful average.

Violet dawn

one dawn,
violets shot from the east,
passed through you,
drunk and vain,
“I am a gem!” you held,

You sharpened your edges,
So sharp they pricked your skin,
Cut through your brother’s flesh,

” A jeweller will come” you fantasized,
Chose solitude to stand out,
It’s been years,
Nobody has arrived yet,

That violet dawn,
has started haunting you,
You wake at midnight,
the light of sad moon,
reflected by you,

“not a gem afterall,eh”
a voice sardonically grins,
you shut your senses,
there is nothing else to do,
but hope, hope that you were right…

Drunk Valentine


Dont open this gift!
I told you, didn’t I?
to not read between the lines,
to just take a bite,

It was a simple thing, it was no labyrinth,
your gift wasn’t at the center or end,
what I showed you,
this, this was my gift,
for whatever it was worth.

I told you,
not to pick it apart,
to see what’s inside, it was all the same in-out , love crust love center,

i knew you were dying,
dying to know,
silly child that you were,
to know,
what it all meant,
This strange gift,
That i told you not to unwrap,

But you were doing it,
picking this poem up,
pick picking like a bird,
pick picking away
drunk valentine

Affliction

My white little stick,
wrapped in death’s cloak,
looks so benign,
till it’s tip
burns red,
of it’s own accord.

my hands, the docile slaves,
my lips, the concubine,
the stick, my little master
eats my breath,
i am cremating myself,
a gradual burning of meaning,
the sense, only sad ashes.

an inspiration or emptiness,
i have forgotten which,
lighted the first one red,
then like perfect parkourer,
it slid into the gyri and sulci,
and deeper,
until my will was a cigarette,

i prowl the midnight street,
why i wonder!
hell bent on finding that 24/7 shop,
where half drunks come to grab a drink,
and zombies like me,
for a death stick,

it needs to stop,
it’s not too late,
that’s what you tell me,
but its all a mistake,
i have become my cigarette,
a mad speeding wreck…

Things that are early and late

This egg shaped life of mine,
Floats in things that are early and late,
Supported/Unsupported by them,
It is strange; this egg shaped life of mine,
Evoked by things that are early,
Finalised into things that are late,
A hairball past that defines me,
A snowball memory that defies me,
An alleged romance of creators that made me,
And conquests of creators who made them,
A ghost of the life after me,
And perpetuation of it,
I am accumulation of the past I never saw,
I am the harbinger of the future I won’t see,
What is this egg shaped life of mine,
If not a sweet nothing between the things,
That are early and late,
If not a sweet nothing between the things,
That are early and late….