striking tongue in octaves-
the lurid mirth of dead flowers,
ectoplasm of a million bee-ghosts-
Honey, a fumbling fugue
fragrance of untold summers
trickling away, syllable by syllable,
prickles of blazing dulcitude-
from tongue, to throat
The refrigerator hums our story-
while we chase the strange thing
flapping in our ribs.
old crows walk over our eyes at night,
leaving footprints on moist sands.
We see ourselves in nightmares-
our expressions unfurling
full-blown bubble gums-
we wake up with displaced faces,
deflated, creased and saliva-spilling-
becoming one-second strangers
before all the world reassembles in our heads.
Other days we bite into seasonal fruits-
a grape, a sugared papaya,
a pineapple that bites us back
and talk of the pending rent,
of the diminishing flour, phone bills,
backaches and broken doors-
waiting to be fixed, solved, restocked
only to break down again and again.
But for a brief moment,
we chew on the fruity sweetness
on the lies we plan to tell
on the truths we already know.
We grope in the tub of tapioca chips
sitting in our backyard facing the forests
put out comfortable roots together
a scratchy beard, two veined hands;
our inner diagrams bare-
our toes turn muddy
while our eyes grow wings
and fly backwards to an old summer.
our palms like insane spiders
clinging to folds, a chuckle emitting
from the salty madness in
our possessive limbs.
scars age slowly, sucks up all exhales.
unquenchable, the ancient cinders
stir in our ventricles;
we taste them imperceptibly-
and call it love.
Today I walk inside you-
through the entire
length of your algebra;
your organs turn to cumulus clouds
through their porous cartilage
the ground is unkind.
In an old indoor game we played I-
took you apart under a microscope
morsel by morsel, I sort you
regerminate you in a petri dish
our roots tangle, jaws dance
bones eat one another
I seep into your seams
ourunevennesses fitting, grafting;
grove to grove, growing.
(lets just stick to the big picture here;
tuck in the loose ends, bulges)
we become zygomorphous.
To work out your jigsaw
throw away all uneasy pieces,
sprout stock habits, inorganic blocks
practice make-believe, keep it easy peasy.
In salty oceans of your neurons,
my diaphanous creatures dwell
I look at you through their see-through fins
thus I evolve bioluminescence, a crust
a flake of me live in each of your oceans.
To love you is to split you into arguments
imprison you in explanations
make you a school of thought
I have eventually summarized you
a concise copy, proof-read, spiral-bound
each chip and scratch labled
you now neatly fit into my armpit.
We are each other’s syndrome,
an expression caught unawares
(a twitch in the jaw/ that guffaw!)
familiar as the mole on my arm,
stranger than the odd Amazon fish
you dreamt of one fever ago,
We are, of each other,
older than comets,
you were that crossroad on a winter night-
the face springing up on patchy, wet walls
the leaf that bedazzled the breeze
made a fleck of daybreak dance
that changed the course of a certain destiny
you are my disorder
the laugh in my head
the lump in my throat
the lurch in my stomach
music under my skin
We are dust motes winking, twinning
in an astounding speckle of light.
We pull apart earth’s skin,
invent secrets to fill
our drunken mouths,
we are each other’s discoveries,
culmination of all permutations and intuitions
from the first cell
the primordial breath
until this moment
we are a life time lived
on that starry graph
all the glasses we didn’t break
all the mirrors that never saw us
we must be fate’s whimsy
we are each other’s schizophrenia
I draw a cloud on you and we drift up
you turn into a well and I brim
we are books we meant to read
(or write or wished to tear apart)
review, criticize, or keep under the pillow
You sum up what I have split into
an uncomprehending equation
We are the otherness in each other
created, filament by filament
a blend of all that comprises
we are chaos
lets empty ourselves, lets dangle our feet
lets sit there, at the edge of this incredible lustre
lets do nothing !
but watch this story take roots.
This poem bears my anxieties on its spine-
social-anxiety disordered, cornered,
see the words sticking to the rims
a diffident stain, that sheepish grin-
refusing to speak up, nibbling on cuticles-
this poem prefers to observe the cervices on walls
avoiding eye contact,
It is annoyingly harmless
not meant to shout, reconstruct, revolt.
A wiggly string of words, loosely bandaged
straining to become that language that makes
breath condense, teeth crackle, toes curl.
I am not enough to contain this poem
germinating, crowding pushing-
I tear down its waxy honeycombs
smoking it out
free-verses clinging to the under-side of organs
rush out rhymeless, flapping, falling out-
scratching my face
their bellows knock against my jaws
I tame them, clip their nails, brush their hair.
They emit frothy allegories at times
they stab themselves
dying out before the wings had dried
or eyes learnt to see all colours.
This poem chortles and coughs often-
cries too weepily, messily
(It sets my teeth on end.
babbling things I don’t dare to think of)
This poem is
the glide in the crow pheasant
the slickness in a neon nail paint
the whir in the elevator
the triteness of a tea growing cold
in a forgotten table (orange table cloth)
in a forgettable room (pale, cold walls)
in an arbitrary apartment (#32, fifth floor)
in a random street, in an accidental place
this poem is the banality within this specificity.
the primordial craving to shriek out
a bloated blob of nothingness, daisy-fresh, vacuum sealed
a cavity in a chasm.
It has very little to go with-
I’ve plucked out all its feathers
it has survived countless ice ages
a meteor attack, an earthquake.
This poem has been in my pocket for too long
lint, gum and dust sticking to it-
it nicks feebly at my bones
at times does a half-hearted strip-tease
It develops allergies, boils
and a craving for future tenses
it begs to be given a proper noun.
hovering and squawking
trying to get in the shower with me-
rubbing against my feet.
It enters my tongue and sings itself to exhaustion,
converses with my tomorrows,
ingrains into the scheme of things
This poem has held its breath too long
The words suffer from tooth decays-
a pastel, gasping fabrication
too sugary, a low-fat concoction
forced into existence, into meaning something
sentences running off broken bridges and banisterless stairs.
a rain of shining, spluttering mirth
This poem comes
from the protozoa that made it all happen
from the evening news, changing weather
a release of endorphin,
or the simple compulsiveness
of an infant
with a chalk and a wall
the logic of primeval lust.
It is my wound’s way of remembering,
First Published by RædLeafPoetry-India 5 poems archived/Published on 10.26.2014