not today

i collect drops of her smile as it froths bubbles and seeps little by precious little through the thin cracks in her voice as she sings in that ancient voice of hers which reminds me of stark naked unforgiving landscape bathed in setting sunlight with rugged mountains gashed by deep ravines which are as dry as the pools of my eyes with the same whirlwind trapped inside and yes, i collect those little drops of smile from the cracks in her song, gently put them drop by tiny drop into my eyes just to calm the dusty dry storms inside

and so I have this huge feeling swelling inside to catch her song in mid-air and catch where the cracks are and put my nails in between those cracks and rip it open with bleeding fingers and let the smiles pour and pour out and to just lie down with my head on her lap and let the smiles flow into the dry pools of my eyes with those dust storms raging inside for centuries and let it all get wet and calm and salty and then there would be some coolness spreading inside and some streams flowing inside and maybe just maybe a few tears too and some things fresh and beautiful will sprout and peep out and maybe that would be a smile as well but i am tired of opening these cracks a million times and letting those trapped smiles out of the songs of strange men and women

and this one, she might not even want the smiles out…out in the open where everyone can see the colors and textures of those smiles and they might touch and smudge them for ever and maybe even rob her of all of them…so i just place my cheek on the cracks of her song and feel the coolness as the smiles drip and thread on my cheek just below my eye and i want to reach out and kiss her and touch her soul somewhere which would also open up the cracks in her song and make those smiles gush out and i can bathe in them and splash them on my dusty face with weathered wrinkles which will then be smooth with the balm but i just don’t

oh, i just don’t kiss her as even without bringing my lips to hers i feel the taste of her on my tongue and how it will slowly move inside me and fill up my mind and my heart and i know it is lovely and nice and warm and fuzzy and soft and it will creep up to inside my eyes from below and slowly well up through the forgotten dried up springs inside them and maybe calm the winds and give me back my tears and sprout some smiles of my own but wtf, i am just not kissing her and not dancing with the long shadows of thoughts and feelings that have started to sway with the music and i just sit there in the stillness of the night alone with her and her song and the half hidden moon and enjoy the fear and the thrill of seeing those cracks with smiles inside again and i just am alive fully at that moment where i am suspended on a thread a million feet above in the dark lovely sky, dangling on it and shutting down my mind and heart and everything else..and just listening to the song as it rips the universe just to get me to open those thin cracks a bit wider

but no, not today

ride, bull, soul

life is moving
like a bullock cart
the left side bull's right side horn
is broken at the tip

& all horns of both bulls

are painted
blue green yellow and deep orange

the broken horn carries an agarbathi
& the fragrance spreads like
ink on a blotter
& makes a beautifully wierd pattern
in the still air...as the horns slice through it

the minds playfully gets lost in these patterns
suddenly emerging to breathe clear air at times...
soon trying to move back again for comfort...but the patterns play hide and seek


the cart is swaying with the road
& me too
& the mind caresses faraway walls of reason
& swings back

the reigns are loosely held
& the whip has gone to sleep lying down

---the hand can touch it, the mind cant
the mind can move it, the hand cant---

the tails of the bulls
keep the flies away
& swings any way, even when
the flies die trapped in the maze, crowed by the pushy mind

the bulls droppings
are dry before they hit the hot sand
& the heat make the far away palms dance
to a rhythm
which
the water-maids copy with their hips
fragrance from their sweat
pull the mind out
to capture it and safe keep in the maze
for warmth in the night

a lantern is lit
& hung behind
& swing & swing
to join the fire flies
caged flame lives
free flies die

the breeze turns cool
& the birds fly home
a crow alights on bull-2 for a free ride
its dark deep eyes taunting

the minds moves the whip
& the crows' off
its laughter cracking open the dark sky
telling the world that the whip moves

lying on the cloud
& sipping chilled wine
the soul watches
the journey down

spider

perched over my ear

the spider

gently whispers

sweet nothings

.

its hairy legs

begin a slow dance

tickling the base

of the neck

.

the web moves

slowly back and forth

swinging me softly

to sweet surrender

.

mind shuts down

the body opens

the soul stirs

sprouting more spiders

.

from every crack

every corner and nook

deep inside

the safe darkness

.

tonite

tonite as you sleep in the darkness, if i have to take something away from you, let me take your eyes…let me scoop them out with my nails and wipe them clean on my jeans of the blood and stuff that they still ooze..let me then kiss them dry softly and look at them long and tender holding them in the cup of my palms…let me dive deep into them and taste your little thoughts which lie trapped without ever coming out…gently, with the tip of my tongue so that they don’t wake up and come alive all of a sudden…let them sleep…unknown to the world, in the deep pool of darkness in the eyes…let me turn those thoughts around and separate them one by one…with a bit of me that is wet and dissolves the thick glue that binds them together…then let me ever so slowly dry them with my breath…caressing them gently as they slowly wake up…untangled and whole…and start that dance in the deep dark pools within the eyes…let me waltz with each one, by one…let me hold then close to my body…their nakedness fresh and pulsating in rhythm with my heart beat…let me swirl in the pool with them…round and round and round inside the eyes..till there is sparkle and there is fire that smolder and there is the beginning of warmth…let me then leave them to dance on and on, and slowly climb out..out of the eyes that now light up everything around..and still holding them gently in my palm, let me open your eyelids and place them back…let me kiss you on those very eyes…let my tongue glue them firm in the sockets…and then again, let me let you sleep…the sparkle and the warmth from the eyes spreading to all nooks and corners inside your body…let me see the fine strands of hair around your navel shiver as the warmth spread…let me, gently tiptoe out of your room…let me let you wake up to the lovely solitude in the warmth of darkness…glowing with the light from your eyes…

monsoon night

let me wrap myself around the empty space where you were before, just where you sat with your legs folded under you on the bed…molding my body around those contours that still throb with the warmth of your presence…let me, before the moist monsoon breeze steals that warmth with light kisses as it tip-toes around in rhythm with the raindrops drumming on the roof…let me gather those fragments of thoughts you couldn’t pack and take along with you before you left…those which shiver silently in the darkness in the loneliness left by you…let me, before they cling on to the streaks of moonlight and slither up and out through the window…and let me lie still and watch your smile as it flutter around from one precious moment to another that had bloomed at our touch…let me catch it in mid flight with cupped palms and kiss its wings…wings which sparkle with the screaming greenpurpleyellow that we painted them with…let me lie in that deep darkness and watch the twinkle in your eyes move about the room like fireflies skating on frozen silence…let me slowly peel off the layer of tiredness that crept on me through your fingertips and covered my body…let me hold you even more tight, wrapped around the space where you were, before you seep out ever so slowly, into this monsoon night

time flies

time flies

buzz around

the rotting clock

.

little beggars

fight to mount

the lame horse

.

tortoise drags

the decaying sound

over the sand dunes

.

a smile leaks

from the wound

painted on your face

.

licking it off slowly

i stick a fresh band-aid

healing the joy inside

.

time

flies

.

monsoon afternoon-2

small droplets

of old memories

rain softly

.

smell of fresh pain

rides the breeze

spread slowly

.

your presence

like monsoon clouds

loom dark and heavy

.

i escape indoors

wrapping safe solitude

tight and warm around me

.

pottery

rooted in the same space, the tongue dances…molding pretty words out of the messy muddy clay in my mind… words that are wet and sticky…words that promise to hold very many, very much…even without saying anything…words which then turn and turn on the wheel spun by your thoughts to shapes that you want to create…which you gather ever so tenderly…and gently place inside you where the fire is lit and the oven is hot…firing them to your perfection…nice smooth strong defined…waiting and waiting again for my wet tongue to reach out slowly…so slowly not to touch the breeze, but just the hues of your yearning spread all over your nakedness that you bare bit by bit…for me to touch taste the pain little by little…and smear paint smudge all that is inside…with bold wild licks making those colors scream so loudly… as they get burnt into the words in the heat inside you…and wait and wait for the fire to die and the oven to cool…so that we can take out those pieces that we created without our fingers getting burned and smile together marveling what we see. without words. in silence.

silence.pregnant

despite watching the cycle, despite non-penetration, despite the condom, despite the diaphragm, despite the morning after pill; the silence is pregnant. very. silence is always silent, but only at times pregnant. pregnant as in having a life forming inside. at the moment. as you watch. as you feel. as you shift uncomfortably with the knowledge. a life is forming inside. not just life, but a form which contains the life as well. which will have a full body soon. it will be born. yes, it will be born. soon enough. and it will resemble the father. maybe the mother. maybe someone’s grand father. or granmother. so the silence is pregnant. the words are never. pregnant. words are always empty. no life forming inside. simple. hollow. zilch. but that is wishful. now we have a silence. that is pregnant. it is growing. little fat tummy. soon you can see the form on the screen. feel the beat of the heart. feel the kick on the inside of the tummy. of the silence. which is pregnant. very. truly. now. shit. eat green papayas. no. silence is serene. silence is divine. pregnancy is divine. it is non-penetrative. silence is virgin. pregnant silence hangs. like in mid air. it hangs. and hangs. no one touches. all serene. all praying. let it not fall. let it not rupture. let the form inside not be born. yes. not be born. whythefuck should it. it was not to be. no need. silence. hangs. pregnant silence hangs. in collective silence. just by the rope. round its neck. slowly swinging. slowly. finally. slowly. it stops swinging. yes. dozens of eyes moving leftrightleft suddenly stops. yes. sure. they stop. it stops. silence. pregnant silence. now dead. really. and truly dead. and a smile is born. no. many. smiles are born. Whew!

checking

problem with blog, checking up if everything is working

magician

magician picks one

lemming from the pack

throws it way, way back

.

lemming sails a while

rides the breeze

kisses the clouds with ease

.

end of that bit of time

it comes crashing down

leg crushed head split skin torn

.

runs again rushing

towards certain salvation

sad for the f-ed up magician

.

waiting room

stale smell of chloroform

slither hurriedly into the nostril

chased by different forms of fear

hatching out of thin shells

.
sweaty palms make abstract art

on crumpled reports, frayed files

on which stick random thoughts

faded dreams some little lies

.
multiple projections scream

alive, livid on the wall

re-wind re-write re-shoot

re-play another dream

.
time swings slowly

each wait their turn

as her long fingers dip deep

picking the next number from the urn

.

tarantula

tarantulas are spiritual.very.they have transcended the routine mundane. they swing. they rock. they make love. and then they eat you up. yummmmm. just like that. just so coz you are good in bed. and you taste yum. and well, she is hungry after good sex. always. so i stroke this pet T that i have. gently as she swings ever so softly in her web. the one that she wove between our minds and the pasts and those stubs of insanity that we hold so deep so dear so hidden. within us. so i pet this T that i love. who has suddenly popped up again and connected another strand of the web to my mind. it tickles and she moves gently. crawling sensuously over the crevices on my mind. arousing that restlessness. that little treasured insanity. and as my eyes lock her wide wide ones, that look of absolute innocence. insane innocence. and i stroke. long fluid skin-ever-so-gently-on-skin strokes. just to discover her again. to map her in my mind. not like a picture. but. like a dance. like the water that rushes between rocks after rain. and to reach the spots that i havent reached earlier. when ever i have touched her. with the long fingers of my mind. unbraiding the braided hair that only i can see. with the nails of my thoughts. rolling the balm squeezed from our words in my palm. massaging it gently on her back as she swings on the web. as she crawls on my mind. as she trickles the restlessness alive. and the clock ticks on. and she says. it's time to spread out the bed.