Tuesday, April 30, 2013

To The Judges.


My father’s diabetic appetite desires sweets, like a jailbird.
He jumps for it, in secret, wary of lady warden.
My mother looks away, aware of the misdemeanour.
Men become boys yet again, hurting feminist sentiments, and the rain does sparkle on their rooftop, washing a few dirty birds thus adding on to the forty years of meaningful love-chores.


My friend, who is deemed fat by a society full of people like me, points his unhappiness to the lack of a lady love, and not his unjust appetite.
He often asks me how to talk with girls, suspecting my made up lady luck.
Whenever he gets drunk and sentimental he announces everyone I am some alpha-male thus boosting my ever hungry ego. I kind of like him.  But he is possessive about things he doesn’t even own, for instance say an unclothed-mannequin on some street shop.
So, I tell him, one day when he gets married, he will be very happy.

I am morally unfit and unsound, and my words disappoint civilization.
So I convert them into desires which grapple with each other ruining any inherent innocence.
In my dreams, I desire eight different women every night, and I always end up dying like Julius Caesar.

And the judges of the earth keep on judging,
Feeling important perhaps-
In this tiny rock
Warmed by
A tine fire
In a vast universe
Physical nothingness.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Good Morning Love.

The morning sky
Like your old palette
Confound you with colors.

Behold this time, lady!
The dawn of time,
When you shall
Rid your dolor.

Friday, April 5, 2013

Another Spring.

Time stood still as the meridians of his life perplexed themselves in the bitterness of beauty.
The window by whose side he had 'dreams' once upon a time, boasted those glistening yellow leaves of spring, waiting to invalidate in the beautiful evenings of summer, and just like them he was waiting to perish in the darkness of the lonely evenings with listless thoughts of no importance.
There was beauty at arm’s length and he wanted to swim in it, he had so much time, he was so spoilt with the gift of time.
A friend would accuse him of being a loner- it was every friends’ right.

He would light a joint, and point the table fan towards him, to drive all the holy smoke away, the valid precautions one takes for a secret love.
 Mother could sniff it out, he knew, the secret love and the secret life.

And that’s how he would gaze his days away staring at the blue skies and the green trees, flying in the easterlies of his table fan, dancing in the smell of the holy weed, thinking of all the beautiful songs that he could never write down, thinking of a muse who would die in summer- thinking of her.

Men could think of women that way too,
Like a spring leaf and a lover,
Like some secret beneath a river,
Waiting to be found,
Perhaps with the right words.