To The Judges.

ONE

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.

TWO

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.


THREE

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
Of
Physical nothingness.

Good Morning Love.

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

So,
Behold this time, lady!
The dawn of time,
When you shall

Rid your dolor.

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.

I love.

I love
Who I love
What I love
Not for love
But for love.
And thus I love
Too much love
Only love
And you.

The Gypsy Girl.

She drank beneath my yellow branches
The gypsy girl in a drunken spree
The world alas had a drunken lover
Who made a secret pact with me.

She had a little pot like belly
Her skin was blue as she could be
Her eyes were misty in the morning
And yellow in the evening sea.

She lay there like a broken bird
She smelled like a forsaken bee
The ale in her mind could work out wonders
And perhaps she dreamt about me.

Who did not rhyme by their good names
Who did not come by me to plea?
The world always forgot the drunken child
Who had one and none to reap.



And then a fire had raged amongst the heaven
And all the brave men did flee
Forgotten we were when death kissed her
The earth had stood still by me.


And if you ever come around
To seek my yellow branch and knee
You will find the forgotten ashen bones
Of a drunken gypsy-girl,
Neighbouring me.

The Bee Wife

Once upon a time
In my raggedy little room
Came a little bee
And she rested upon my knee.
Yellow she was-
The colour of the sun.




But as old men warn
About sparks in a barn
About beauty that weep
And feelings of a creep..

So I heard their chorus in my sleep

‘’Must we not fear little things
That swings and stings?’’

My brain stood aside
It wanted a stride
To crush the little bee
A flowers glee
Forever into that sullen sea.

But my heart forbade my grey friend
It beat,
 ‘Let her be. Let her be.’

So the story goes

As you see
That men like me
Like owning things
Living things
For no fee.


‘Pet’- Said my dear friend
In a tempest fury.

‘Hell No!’ I said

Wife she is to me.



And so I sinned
Until she stung
And died upon my hairy knee.

Because it rained here tonight ( For you)

Like those farmers
In a warm country
I have always
Depended on the
Kindness of the rain
No, not in the
Mere poetic harvest
Of a sacred nostalgia
No, not in the
Symbolic cleansing
Of bitterness and hatred
Of dirt
Of every god-forsaken thing
Wise men talk about.

Nothing of that sort, you know.

That pristine sight
From my balcony
The smell
Of colored wet walls
The pick pock sound
Of that
Endless repetition

Caressing my inert sensation

Has always
Been
Good enough for me.