Silence(d)

Silence(d)

I was sixteen when my mouth
Was forced open
With an unfamiliar tongue, dripping of lust;
Chapped lips,
Violently brushing against mine…

Hands.
Hands.
Hands.

I belched enough saliva,
As I watched my guilt trickle down the drain
To accumulate
In a cesspool
Of blood, tears and similar tales.

Buses, trams, metros…
Invisible hands.
Ghost hands.
Under my skirt.
On my breasts.
Around my hips.
Everyone. Wants. It.
A bit of it.
A lot of it.
ALL of it, if they could.
Devouring,
With eyes and leers and
Unsolicited hands up my thighs…

What do you even do with scars
That no make-up can hide?
I poured them
In cologne bottles
To put it away in a cool, dry place
At the back of my mind.

And we are urban fireflies
In a concrete jungle
With several, greedy hands,
Lusting to taste our light.

17 October 2017

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Matryoshka

Matryoshka

The calm, unperturbed body
Is the first layer.
Perfect eyes, lips, skin.
Perfect clockwork smile.

Skin…

I peel off my skin with the kitchen knife sometimes
To make sure if I still reside
In me.
I make sure if my walls are soundproof,
My windows, bulletproof,
And my attic, decluttered and ready
To hide my chaos…

I have locked in my chaos
In the wardrobe of I am fine
In the iron trunk of I am exaggerating
In the bureau drawer of It’s just a phase.

It is not a phase.

By the time you have reached
The second layer,
You will try to second-guess the restlessness in my blank orbs,
You will try to figure out why I am a problem,
You will try to calculate the equation of my violent sobs.
But you will give up
At the third layer…

And I won’t blame you
For not even trying to venture
Into the fourth, fifth, sixth…
Because your eyes will speak what I have always known –
My mind is a barren land
Of plastic bag relationships and open sewers of insecurity.

But don’t you worry –
You will never go beyond the first layer
Anyway.

10 October 2017

Switch

Switch

Autumn was crammed carelessly
On the shelf of Transition
Where she sat, uncomfortably,
Between hurts and healing.

***

There is barely enough leg space
On the days I want climb up the shelf
And look down at the world below;
Humans appear less condescending,
Less selfish,
Less ignorant.
They usually do not.

***
Between Summers and Winters,
I was Autumn –
A phase.
My transient words sound like lies,
Once mixed with spirits.
So I pour it back and fasten the cork –
I am inebriation,
Wrapped in innocent banter.

***
Autumn was a paramour
Dangling from wires of
Maybes and probablys…

…Hoping its crimson
Would mean something
Someday…

8 October 2017

Identities

Identities

I am a
Foil;

Malleable.
A little crushed,
Under the enormous weight

Of unfinished tales –
I can’t bear burdens;
My bones ache
With stardust and gunpowder

As I breathe.

I am a
Fragment;

Lost.
A discarded alphabet
From your directory
Of unmade beds.

Standing by your doorsteps,

I am a
Cadaver
And a
Cemetery;
I bury my own self.

5 October 2017

Tell-Tale(s)

Tell-Tale(s)

All my silent cries
Are two edged daggers,
Peeling the walls of
My throat
One swig at a time

While the stars danced
To vile tunes –
My melancholy was the crowbar
To force open
The drawers of self-loathing
And anxiety.

Purple nights crept up
Behind old walls
Of shadow puppets, playing out
Ghastly scenes in past tense;

You dwelt comfortably
In plagiarized tales,
Mimicking my skin;
Each night
I find myself,
Renewing the lease
Of your stay.

When I run out of metaphors,
There is Famine –
Gnawing,
At the cornice of my
Failed charade,
Or making love
To the tunes in my head –

I cannot tell.

22 March 2017

 

(Motel (2015), Clem Crosby Image courtesy Pippy Houldsworth gallery)

Street

Street

In that street,
The lamps have dimmed,
The shadows, twist in themselves,
Contort into insomniac magpies
Hurtling towards darts of shiny specks;
Broken beams illuminating
The Shadow People
Made of tattered dreams and scarred self-esteem.

Their trinkets try to wrap hastily,
But sobs don’t rhyme
With the jingle-jangle of broken bangles
Neither do colognes mask
The salt of unspoken seas.
Barters made under neon lights
In an unlikely backdrop of
Unsteady harmonica tunes.

To the shattering of bottles,
Emptied in the hope of vanquishing demons;
Who knew they were knotted electric cables
In disguise?
Dumpsters overflowing
Reeking of selfsame horrors
As unspoken minds
Have let their thoughts rot –
Putrid carcasses.

And the first rays
Thereafter
Wipes all evidence without a trace;
A stage stripped
Of all realities.

30 November 2016

Prologues

Prologues

Gooseflesh.

Can you tell
Fear, from the
Gradual numbness
Catching on to your feet?
Like brambles and nettles,
Do you carry them around
Like unconscious badges
From robust strolls in dewy morns?

Or when at nights,
You dive underneath
Your coarse blankets and linen sheets,
Are you cold, or in hiding
From your skin, weighing on you
Like an armour?
If your breathing does not seem like
The solution wine glasses are made of,
Don’t let it clench your throat
As a rope made of
Question marks would.

***

Mutilation.

Does my blood remind you
Of war paints, war zones
Mourners, murderers?
Are you nauseated yet
By the acrid stench
That trickles down your perfectly arched back?
I hope the answers you seek
Lie somewhere among
The carcasses of your past identities
You now deny access through
Barbed wires of your present pretensions.

I’m out of tissues and blotting papers.

Several attempts later,
I hung around slovenly,
Strung of halfhearted melodies
And smokes mingled into
Frosty nights.

***

Precipice.

Is there a Rise without
A Fall?
Prison walls could not mute
My jarring thoughts, an
Antithesis to my public side.
The inmates leave,
Their voices remain
In dank memories of
Worn corners.

Don’t come too close;
It’s contagious.

16 November 2016