Death of question mark.

I looked at her,
a sinuous tensile figure
trying to sustain the
one footed subjugation
of a gaping hole.

And she looked back,
those beckoning
intrigue blues,
tempting me to dive
and drown myself.

When I plucked her malleable spine
and lifted her high to my lips
wanting to melt into those blues,
she had already died
and there was standing
in front of me,
perfectly balanced
on the solid whole,
an exclamation personified !

Spelunking.

I love it,
love it,
when you come eagerly
through the dark mouth
spelunking down the bat cave.

Stirring curiously the shivering nakedness
where no one's welcome
and not one has ever been suffered,
but you...

Nailing carabiners at every fracture, you enter
the bowels of gloom even I dare not peep into,
and carve on the fleshy tender inside walls,
so gently with your scalpel of care and your eyes closed
the meditative chants about others and their suffering.

I love it... And you ?

Beat it, Milksop.

Fears,
well crafted in the curdled underneath,
suckling on years of circumspection.

Dreams sequester in the wrinkle slowly creeping
on the well moisturized brow,
struggling to dissipate the "what if" perspiration.

Fears,
persuasive, that one can always
close the venetians,
slouch in the subdued plaid
scraps of the sun,
flip the incandescent bulb,
and continue reading.


Well... I don't think so.

The Civil Cuffs.

We’re hiding,
You and me,
Primitive and carnal
Munch and Murakami
Under the white uniform coats
Yours with golden trimmings
Spotless, that cling.
They bundled you early,
And me too,
security is paramount and
instinct incidental,
We were told.

The pattern now is colorful
and adventurous,
and your fingers on mine,
are mutinous.
But even the revolution is tame
And quite frankly acceptable.

No one’s ready
Not even me yet
Or you
For the white rabbit unreined
The insidious vagabond
Reality, where
we swim naked
The hot blue turbulence,
And the coats lie wishful,
bundled on the shore.

ही शुभ्र फुलांची ज्वाला.

पाउस कधीचा पडतो
झाडांची हलती पाने
हलकेच जाग मज अाली
दु:खाच्या मंद सुराने.

डोळ्यात उतरले पाणी
पाण्यावर डोळे फिरती
रक्ताचा उडला पारा
या नितळ उताणीवरती.

पेटून कशी उजळेना
ही शुभ्र फुलांची ज्वाला
ताऱ्यांच्या प्रहरापाशी
पाउस असा कोसळला.

संदिग्ध घरांच्या अोळी
अाकाश ढवळतो वारा
माझ्याच किनाऱ्यावरती
लाटांचा अाज पहारा.

This flame of Dazzling flowers

Been raining for a while
On trees the moving leaf
I'm woken up so gently
by a faint note of grief.

Into eyes, descends the water
On water cruise the eyes
the blood boils over
onto this pristine precipice.

How come it hasn't flared up
the flame of dazzling flowers
the way the rain has poured
near the starry hours.

Nebulous rows of houses
the sky whisked by the gale
Today on my own shores
the waves stand sentinel.

The Stripper

The persistence of memory, and reverie
shines hot in the smelly music
from under the fiddle of your petal whisper

They tar and feather those dreams
with Bad girl and sordid drooling.

Yet you are a delicate purple symphony
after I sing.

The Price we pay.

When we together but separate
walk friendly footsteps on alien sands,
The half moon melts
it’s fledgling silver romance on hazy ripples
unsure if the water is ready for a tide
giving form to our dither...

When your stride becomes urchin
and smiles turn to giggles
the wine unleashes my warm
seductive caresses
surreptitiously on your cheeks
in ardent crimson blotches of my veiled desire...

When I walk away from you
Without a kiss or a cue
the clock tower measures in two swift chimes
what we’ve lost in miles and years
and the river is jade
with my envy for
the scarlet sunset that will
cradle you every evening...

Inspiration

If you long jealously
to inhale the subcutaneous glow
that whirls in me
And offer your ear
to the contagious feelings
of the first realization...

Then sneak up on me
my dear fecundity
with your elliptic waist,
and nibble all over
the ratty craven noncore with
your sharp tongue,

so survives only glistening spine
and writhing nerve...
and my vigorous spirit.

The sole new direction
in the tangled darkness
of your tepid heart.
The lone conclusive nemesis
of the ice age in your breast.

Love: Such a long way to arrive at a kiss !

In the mood for love

This film, based on a short story, left me quivering. The premise is that of two neighbors in 1947 hong kong who find out that their respective partners are having an affair. But it really is a exploration of how attraction sits much deeper in our subconscious than feelings of pride or social obligation, and can creep up on us, through holes and crevices that we subconsciously leave open for it, even when our conscious mind is trying hard to stay away from it.

Wong Kar Wei employs slow motion photography with great power to manipulate and intensify the emotions. There are many scenes in the movies which are almost like photographs with slow steady smoke going up in circles as the only moving entity. Also his use of gray and sepia tones along with a medley of tunes from classical opera to Cuban boleros (they were popular in hongkong during that time) is haunting. I have to see the sequel to it now (it’s called 2046).

Irony

Ultra-sonic screams
“love me, please!”
I can only shout them
Cerebellum to cerebrum
Id to ego
And not without jack on the rocks.

My head a puffer fish
bloated with hope and
toxic with envy.
You eat it raw
wasabi and soy
a green perfidy
in a sour brown sea.

Grief rises like beer head
I slurp it in
Without spilling a drop…
And pour some more.

Close the taps! honeybun
on the reservoir of guilt
You are inebriated enough
with it.

Dreams used to be
White blood cells
Recently I have developed
Multiple sclerosis.
I lusted for Nirvana
Desire is what I crave now...