Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Woods

A slow bleeding of sensation
Comes into my faces and hands and slowly
It terrifies me some, slinking in with every breath
It's as if my memories are hitting a grindstone,
the pictures in my head becoming liquid
And flowing with my blood to the source
The source of my passions
To the centre of my narcissus
My headquarters, my middle bowels,
Undoing my skin, my pulse,
My mental-control system's main entrance
The gates of my flooded feeling garden
Master of my spirit and soul
Inside my physical neurotic brain
Not neurotic but neurological

Time for a pause and look
Exactly this time in my last memory
I stayed for three days and found a violin line,
A tune without an owner in a jungle
is like a banshee wailing for nothingness,
Naked and precise and death-like ugly,
The mask that tomorrow wears draped
On the face of the desperate creature,
The fire of its insides scathing the air,
And the weather is not sorry
For the loss of dignity,
Or the passing on of the fire,
Or the extinguishing life,
Or the callousness,
Or the mistakes, the wrong-doing,
Or the hard lifeless, bearded knuckled undone broken passing time.

The brain is watching from the inside,
But is it outside?

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Just Guessing

Even when my body is open
and relaxed,
my spirit shrivels up,
something is inside but vibrating
recollecting the gone past
of every shining rainbow,
the last birth.

Possibly, quite possibly,
another dimension opens up

Our bodies can take the shock
of our spirits not being comfortable,
and that makes it bearable, I guess.

Or they hate each other completely,
and through the little crevice between them,
we are looking down at our feet,
dust and pensive looking toes.

And the blabbering mind,
which talks about existence.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Nights in White Satin

Gather your mind and body to take this out
How our spirits awaken when we sleep
During the night and the orb like moon
Stands witness to ebbing waves
On the beach of humanity,
Garden of existence,
We float further,
Tireless, baffled,
Might as well put out the light,
And rest for a day in the bright,
Sunshine which burns away
Even the most silent violent
Prison spirit.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012


Friends leave - and never return
In the same dress again.
But the open garden invites
the darlings - the cloaked visitors
of tomorrow
bring light
and new fishnets
for our inflated lungs.

Saturday, September 1, 2012


How the stars darken is a mysterious charm of the universe.

In spite of ourselves we look and search
for a lantern beyond these puffs of dark matter,
and pierce with our clarity into the little room
left out for our spacious thoughts.

How clean the ground was when we met with our births,
assuming the grave was awake with littered perspiration.

In this humble womb, the heights and widths
are built in our minds, only the depth of time
is lost on us.

As we chariot our horses towards freedom
we get tangled
in the very residue of our experience.

Sunday, June 10, 2012


The caustic independence of daily life,
of which I share with you a significant portion
is the mother of most of my disappointments.

Caring naturally for my abrasive temperaments,
you disregard much of my untoward talents,
and I go peep into other people’s sullen bedrooms.

Open carefree fields are always available,
for the little comfort I have to bear for existence,
in the sterile service of your everyday dreams.

The music I am devoted to is silent on the subject,
the light points out the darkness below my eyes,
and God is the last to go to bed,
passing sedatives to his benign humanity.

Parikh nazar se haathon ki nason tak
Bisar bisar kar aata hai sach ka paimana
Phir nikalta hai imtiaz-e-ali ka nazrana

Keh gaye peer baba, jaan ki parwaah kar
Badalon ki tasveer zameen par bhi maujood hai
Chashm-e-maashooq se allah ka deedaar kar

Humne kaha talaash humari majtalaf hai
Daanish-e-mehfooz ki rakhenge pakad
Tadap tadap ke ho jayenge amar

Tuesday, May 15, 2012


Through the sliver of the dark dungeon
comes the light atop the hill,
the passable wind of the hollow trees
gushing throughout the plain of sand,
and into the thorns that thrive
on the other side of the hill,
coming from beyond the bodies
of the shivering, cowering animals
in the everlasting blossom of the sun.

Proudly the heads lift,
and grinding, the legs shift
plying into motor-call,
all living and pulling beasts
woken up from the slumber
of beauty.

The smells of the garden flowers,
however reminiscent of the womb
must be left behind.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Mother and Father

Your music is not the pulp of your existence. In the evenings when you are totally gathered around your body and sitting up in the darkening airwaves of your past, you have the tune playing into your ears, but then it’s not your person who participates in the musical activities of your brain, it is your consciousness that dims when you are listening to the words spoken into the microphone with the lightness of the night which has gone away.

Now, the intensity is invisible packed inside the body, the brain is falling sideways coming nearer every Sunday afternoon, please tell me when it arrives so that I can come back and sit with my legs crossed below my abdomen and my head inside the memories of a time when I needed dreams to feel alive.

Your navel is the proof of your birth from your mother’s womb in the same way as your father looks like you, and look at him, he has lines on his face from the time he shivered in anticipation of your birth, of your coming to the world, you ardently supported death in your first few moments but then you thought maybe let’s carry on for at least that amount of time that it takes for your father to realize that you are as worthless as him in the doing of the diminishing art of beauty – he is not beautiful and he needs your mother pretty much around his ears and her hair touching his eyes when he is absorbed in the sounds of his mind playing out his fantasies.

Your father is like you, again and forever and bound to the little music which plays between the two of you even though you hate him and he despises you, you are the same core, the same skin, the same glowing carbon of pure feeling, the same beautifully carved apple shaped head aligned between the ears which hear the same minstrel songs and the same hair which feel the air gliding through as you drive on into life.

Your mother is not like you, she is playing out the tragedy of your would be life, even before you know how she acts during the months your sister is born, but please don’t caress her, or touch her, or scold her, for she gave birth to you, and died in the process or did not die, and lived on to see you live your life in freedom and utter straightforwardness, when all you could do was suck and play and let tomorrow be damned, and your books she hated, and your eyes she loved, and your late nights she hated, and your eyebrows she loved, and your music she hated, and your legs she loved, and your trips she hated, and your glasses she loved, and your secrets she did not know, and she surmounted your being because in the end she is and you are not, she is and you are not.

Roll in the dust for some time for your mother, the gift she wants.

Young is old when you know your purpose, because young knows no purpose, and middle age is life after death, young is diamond, young is lake water flowing after the thaw, young is classic in the time of now, young is fleeing your sight when you are sitting and waiting for you at the top of the roller coaster when you are running. Young is free and old is hard to get to know, because young is not knowing, but playing.

Playing and knowing are the only two activities of the soul.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Last Night

Until the blanket of last night was propped on,
and the lights silenced out,
we were talking about a tomorrow
you know swimming and you were telling me
you want to swim out to the sea,
but now that it’s today,
it’s time to face the waves, and wash your face
with the water, and find that the salt
is heavier on the south side.

Tonight might be a good time to gaze at stars,
but don’t follow me out to the terrace,
it’s my private palace, really.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

To Music

You grasp my little thin quivering wrist
And stroke it with love, when I’m splayed out
On my cold bed, staring at little alcoves of darkness
Rushing in and worrying about things, and people.

You’re the immediacy in every hesitating moment of my time
And I’m warped inside the world you bring along
Hanging in your neck, swinging from side to side
Glaring at me straight in the eye, with wisdom, and more.

You’re piercing joy, dissolving the tattered remains
Of last night’s smothered cheeks, and humbled speech.
Ankles freed from bonds of pleasure abiding movements
And mind swaying on the garden swing.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


How can you love one song and not another?
‘cause the one is the many,
and one pretty girl is as good as a world of beauty.

All roads are one road,
all pools and seas one stream of water,

Hiding in the forest is our one collective wooden soul.

Everyone is the same,
except for their silly tongues.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Age of Aquarius

Our tissue is expanding fellow brothers
Our body is throwing out the toxic
Our soul is ushering in a new heaven
Our gathering is now binding, coming closer
Our minds are now floating mid-air
Our dreams are now touching each other
Our voices are garbled into one another
Our pastimes are re-inventing themselves
Our homes are now uniformly lit
Our lamps are all swaying
Our gentle clothes are flowing
Our hands are voicing new sentiments
Our young ones are shining ever more
Our time is coming back slowly
Our lives are folding into the future
Our growing bodies are relaxed
Our flames are gently lit
Our quivering feet are quivering
Our skulls are hard and clean
Our thoughts are surprising us
Our lovers are gathering around us
Our love is now sapient
Our love is now juvenile
Our love is now paramount
Our love is gregarious
Our love is terrible
Our love is sweet
Our love is cascading

Into the ever-flowing basin of juice
Kin and friends and foes
All melding meeting and dissolving
one kind glorious hope of existence.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Swaying Summer

This morning brought for me the feeling that summer is approaching.
The morning was not cool, the water in the shower was the same colour of mud as the bathroom floor.
Today, I didn’t dare to walk in the sun. I don’t fear the tan as much as falling sideways in the dirt and all the people watching.
Today, the summer is coming, the sun is blaring like a huge torch in the sky, you cannot look up anymore, you just don’t look up anymore.

And when in the afternoon, I went out to have my post-lunch walk, I returned with hot boots.
This is my first summer since college.
Back there, it used to come very quickly, and slide under our beds and into our sheets appearing as smoky sweat when we slept and passing out through one window and coming in through another enchanting as a flowing madman in the midst of white rye fields – but we never used to care, the summer was coming with holidays and time to rest from the primary load of studying and appearing for exams – and summer sneaked on us, catching a glimpse of my eye once in a while when I sat up late at night and scratched my ears and groin, thinking how warm it is getting.

And summer was a dish served piping hot, seasoned with the Rolling Stones, a jumpin’ jack flash before a morning bath in cold water, and afterwards a Joni Mitchell sweet spell song with the fan on and her beautiful soprano caressing my standing hair, plus the sunshine outside was bright enough for any kind of real Technicolor dream.

I agreed with myself on a still summer night in June when half the campus had given up and hurried on home, that the blues is summer music par excellence.
You will find that the blues is music from toughened bodies and lurching souls in turmoil from the unbearable heat. The scowled faces and the singing which is not musical is not borrowed from the Alpine pleasant courtrooms of eastern Europe – the blues jump and trop and trapple and gimble and push on through the summer – it has to end one day! Singing in the shade with your guitar, and afterwards maybe singing in the rain.

So during my college days, I was always willing to take an afternoon walk through the sun and the shade towards an unlikely destination – the cigarette shops nestled in the trees and sipping hot tea sitting on bottom-tearing hot concrete sauce-boiling and chitter chatter passing the time beautifully under the vast arching sky of benevolent IIT Kanpur – and the summer beat. When they called me in the evening for another round of smoking, I refused and stayed in the room with the fan running slowly now because of the hard work it had done in the day time when I was out.

The canteen with the hot furnaces behind the blackened wall and the fat uncle sitting in his tired clothes, hung up with a fly in his ear and gathering money slowly on sleepy Sunday afternoons – I go and ask for curd and he refuses with a bored side-look – it will not be ready until the evening. Okay we will have a Pepsi anyway for now before the heat burns a hole in my soul. Have a Pepsi and lie in the kind shade of the canteen front door pathway leading to the infernal heat outside.

So summer is back and this time I am alone without my previous friends and my previous insanity – I am thinking about saving my ass from all the heat – I am thinking that sweet lassi is nourishing and how I will survive these hot months on a carefully planned supply of water to my body with regular intervals of exercise and a sparse diet of juices and sugar and incense and all those summery things that I remember but forget, remember but forget.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Be Overlong

Be overlong
pressing, gleeful

Just try once.

Flail and pounce
the shallow waters,
the deep is waiting

Friday, February 17, 2012

After All

I am interested in what you left in the drawer
I want to know about your hidden box of paints
Could we talk about how you completed your education?
We might go on about your many rings and your rain-coats.
It will be fine as long as you keep talking.

The things you don’t like are all interesting to me.

Your broken guitar still has strings – steel ones.
Your weather-beaten purse still holds a coin in its lower fold.
Inside your wardrobe linger your old dresses,
which you wore to merry parties and stood and
smiled and passed the drinks to your guests,
who thought your house was bigger than
they would buy for their daughters.

In a little while, your alarm clock might ring,
shaking you out of your stance and sleep,
putting you back on the merry-go-round,
in the middle of the sunlit yard of the clown-show
with all its little silly boys crowding around.

You haven’t told me your gardening secrets.
How do you grow the roses, how do they
come out so plump, when the water in your
locality has too much calcium, and your fingers
are not long enough for digging deep trenches.

Tomorrow I am coming to dinner,
I want to eat in a broken plate,
and have a large cracked bowl by my side,
so the soup flows on to the table,
and brands the tablecloth with the colour
of the afternoon, and our conversation,
and your many returns to the subject of my choice,
and the light lands on your eyes,
and illuminates how your roses went wild,
in their last season how they found a new smell,
and how your car veered off the bridge
in the middle of your tuneless song.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

In Death

you will always remember me as a smiling carcass
baring my teeth with sincerity
skull polished with silver balm
ears in perfect shape
stench coiling into your nose
fibrous tarnished cold feet
illuminating eye-holes.

you bend forward and
kiss my lips of bone
and puke into my inner reserves
and dream about my bursting body
tissue carved from heaven.

Monday, January 16, 2012


I pick out very early in the day what kind of day it’s going to be. As the morning takes shape, people wake up in their night chambers, and I get up myself, I can’t completely forget my dreams. Initially I am very dim-eyed, very pessimistic about the day and the world and all the proceedings in it and my life in general, my brain is just a damp cloud in the morning before I’ve had my tea or coffee, and it’s not before I have taken a shower that I feel like I have feet, brushing my teeth is never a regular thing with me, so that’s my daily forgiveness for myself, I let myself go on that one. You know, it’s really cold in the shower sometimes, and I feel so cornered and fearful during the first few seconds when I get under the harsh stream of water that I just utter God’s name whispering and whimpering and making sure I don’t slip on the wet tiled floor, and in a few more moments it’s become warmer under the shower and I like the freshness of the soap so much I thank myself for being a little brave and entering this contract. I have my shoes all soiled with dirt mostly and I don’t take more than a minute putting them on, never really caring for what they look like, and getting up and away into the street after locking the door, I keep the keys in my pocket and try to smile at the passers-by in the street immediately. You know, you have to take yourself up by the shoulders immediately and make yourself understand that you’re going to be a positive mancho today instead of a wuss. You are walking suddenly down the road, in the scenery and touching the strange people in the road doing their odd jobs, and looking at you with a wonder of sentiment in their eyes, they just catch you for a second, and then they are forced to forget about you. You take a position behind your face, fists in tandem flowing from the depth of the chest, and feet shifting below, covering your sorrows for the morning to shine, and you walk and walk past the world. I usually decide sooner or later during the first part of the day what kind of fantasy I am gonna live today. It’s sometimes the urban hermit fantasy, with the busy bus-rides and staying aloof and lonely in the general milieu of the city crowd. Or the pessimistic holder who holds onto things and broods in the shadows for a day or two while the sun is up and waving about for him but he doesn’t listen because he’s not feeling well. Or there is the science kid fantasy, where I am a player, tinkering and pushing stuff a little, very different from my true self sometimes, and telling people off and being rude with them, but then it wears off after a while.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Your Song

I am compelled to write
for your beauty and dance
in praise of withered cheeks
and the tears that run
and hide but only find me
fighting for a chance to see them
and write about them.