Three P.M.

Three P.M.

[I]

Smoke –
Against your throat –
Creases, and an obscure
Curvature, juxtaposed –
A punch of
Citrus and cherries;
I buried my nose –
Your lips, promising no eternities
With your mouth, sucking my rationale
Right out of my throat;
My lust, dripping lazily
Between my thighs
Right up to my toes.

Your wall, a billboard
Of lives you want to lead
Of lies you want to believe;
A few more puffs and swings
A little more
Inebriated and crazed,
Leaving, a bitter taste in my mouth that
Made your tongue taste
A little less
Of cigarettes and regrets.

[II]

If my half-stringed sentences made sense,
You, my love, would see right through
My blunt ends, impersonating a double-edged sword –
I have played Russian Roulette this one time and it has
Stuck on to me, like an addiction,
Like I have been addicted to my memories,
Fast-forwarding them to the point that they have
Corroded beyond recognition.

When we exchange words, is it more like
A monetary transaction? –
Your utterances, carefully rehearsed,
Convey stilted facts in the garb of honest musings
While I so naïvely, rambled, along this unequal barter –
I bartered away my –

I have lost count, really.

[III]

Our bodies heaved, and fell
Never, in sync
But, in rhythm
When I suppressed my moans, it was only to let my body
Dwell in its ecstasies –
(As if perfumes have stayed loyal to the glass bottles
That had them encased.)

With a cigarette dangling from the
Cistern of an unused mouth, I
Crave for your stories from when you were a boy
With a heartbreak you tried so hard to make sense of,
You sewed it on your sleeves –
The carcass of a failed experiment.

I have trust issues from the day I saw my mirror lie to me.

 

 

1 November 2017

 

Picture Courtesy – tina-modotti-black-white-photography

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Sins

Sins

I cannot tell the feeble sound of conch shells,
From the monotonous patter of the raindrops
On obscure puddles.
Like the never-ending gossip
Of idle people,
The murmuring is punctuated with uncertain beats of the dhak
Pert
Crisp
Eventually melting,
Blending
With the sensual wisps of camphor –
A potpourri of nostalgia and yearning.

My body aches and shivers;
I am no Believer,
And yet, I would make love to you
In the backdrop of incantations.
I would transgress with you
In the haze of incense and spice.
I would climax
Over…
And over…
And over…
Your whisper, louder than the loudest
Dhak, louder than the
Conch shells, louder than the sonorous drawls
Of devotees;
Their voices, only half as loud as the desires,
That swarm in the pit of their souls,
Easily forgetting, that the Gods
Are no wish-granting machines.

Fireworks echo into the night,
As I wake up to
A stifled sky
With soot collected under earthen lamps,
Imitating the soot
Dripping from the corner of my eyes.
I did not offer a hibiscus at Her feet,
And chose instead to plant one
At the edge of your neck.

I watch it wither
Along with the dying fragrance
Of camphor, blended in rain.

 

 
20 October 2017

 

Image Courtesy: deviantart.net

Fingers

Fingers

Your fingers in
May
Had more frost
Than mine could in December.

Even when you clipped
The wings off the
Dying butterfly,
I echoed
Your callous laughter,
Not realising, that when your fingers
Graze down my spine
They are searching for
Other fragile wings
To tear apart.

I have felt
Your fingers inside me
Curl into a question mark,
Searching for answers
Between my thighs…

Did they pause in astonishment…?
Did they not know
Of wings that find a way
To bleed from
The tiniest cracks…?

Your fingers…

Played me.
Berated me.
Unmade me.

In my humiliation,
I chopped off mine.

 

6 October 2017

 

(image courtesy: @petitesluxures)

A Sunday Night

A Sunday Night

Drunken questions
And unexpected answers –
Truth or lies?
Fleeting glances, hiding self
Blame games, deaths, heartbreaks

– I’m an asshole.
– You had your reasons to be.
– I’m not relationship material.
– …

George Carlin, of dark humor
Trips to Pune
Fears…constant fears…
The colour of tea when you pour milk
The sound of sugar in sachets
Your eyes, when you look at me
Pandemonium
I. Need. To. Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. You.

 

Cigarette smokes, biryani, slumping down on the sidewalk

– Do you love her?
– I probably do…

The contrast between shock and calm.

– I know that I can never have that connection with women who have grown up listening to the kind of music I listened to after growing up. It will never be the same.

Am I going to lose you?
I am most definitely going to lose you…

– I should start being more apathetic.
– People who are, actually do seem to survive these days.
– But I cannot lie to myself.

 

Humor.
Twisted humor, black humor,
Your humor makes me laugh anyway.

– The Joker, is an interesting character.
– Mmhmm? You want to be the Joker?
– He wanted to bring back the humor in people’s lives.

I’m not possessive, but it
Kinda
Makes
Me
Feel
Bad
When you speak of all those other women
Like you are not really here when you are with me…
I. Really. Need. To. Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. You.

 

Drunk people. Awkward moments.
I could have suddenly been transported to the 20’s.
Ditching the metro for a walk back home.
Park Street at night could be like Paris
Except those catcalling hawkers.
The sole of my shoe came off
Barefoot, gypsy, in shorts and spaghetti top
Do I look insane?
Cinderella lost her shoe as well
But she didn’t have her Prince walking her back home
No, you are not a Prince, don’t flatter yourself!
You’re the weird guy with big eyes and a head bursting with magic.

– You look like those religious people, walking barefoot.
– I’m used to this kind of thing. It’s actually fun.
– Of course it is. You are now free from the binds of society.

Society is restrictive. It wants me to follow a linear path.
But what if I want to run amuck in drunken circles and zigzags?
Your worst battle is between what you know and what you feel.

 

– Does drunkenness around you make you drunk?
– How is that?
– Acquired drunkenness.

Shops closing down. Hawkers scream. The looming museum.
I have always wanted to spend a night in there.
Or spend a night with you – your musk fragrance and gammexane hair…
I can taste you between my lips,
You linger between the folds of my skin,
Our naked bodies were sprawled between the orange sheets.

– ‘I’m singing in the rain…’

There is no rain, though.

– ‘…Such a glorious feeling, I’m happy again…’

Are you, really? Have you been completely happy? Ever?

– Look at you hopping along the roadside…

Affectation, was it? Maybe you are the reason for the spring on my heels…
You are the reason.
You know it.

 

– Your thoughts are kinda childish.
– No they are not!
– Yes they are!
– But I am pure evil.
– You just want to be noticed. You want to be known.
– Batman hid his real identity…
– But Batman as the persona was famous…

Maybe I could walk the entire night
With you
But journeys and dreams come to an end
And you wake up with sands in your eyes
Or underneath your feet…
We’ll meet again, I know.
We will, right?
When I hold you close,
Your musk fragrance.
Your gammexane hair.
You bizarre, crazy, apathetic asshole!
Why do you always have my back?
Why do you always pull me out?
Why am I worth fighting for, really?
Your whims are like dandelions
And your fractured laughs put back
All my broken pieces together.
I. Desperately. Need. To. Stop. Falling. In. Love. With. You.

 

 

29 August 2016

Myopia

Myopia

Delusion eyes and an empty heart
Would gladly welcome
Sunshine wrapped in cellophane.

It takes practice, maybe, to decode
What dilated pupils speak
But you never looked at me
Straight…
What were you hiding?
What couldn’t I see?
I’ve always been myopic, since age six;
I could never tell the difference
Between a lamppost and a tree
At a distance; they were just blobs of
Colours, to me.
(Or the lack of colours, maybe)

So I made my own colours
Blending strands of red, blue and green.
That’s when you said I saw things differently.
I knew it must be true
For I saw phantom colours in empty spaces.
It’s terrifying how myopia tricks your brain;
Blindness is honest to not expose half-truths,
The veiled counterfeits that have you believe
Otherwise.

The room was a miasma
Of unfinished tales
Hiding away in nooks and crannies,
In floorboards and folded sheets.
And you, as the protagonist,
Was the lone reality.
My fingertips were more accepting
To Braille
For although I mistook the colours
In your bookcase
I could trace
The smoothness of your lips,
I could touch
The calm of your face.
1 August 2016

Unsaid

Unsaid

Skyscrapers and sea waves
Of lilting evenings bathed in drizzles
That splattered all day long.
And on the top of the world, we stand
Talking of great falls, and greater divides
And Starry Nights.
Of neon lights and fireflies in distant lands
And endless roads, waiting for journeys
To unfold.

Stories untold,
Sprawling all over, like episodes through your eyes.
And smiles.
And sighs.
Like the world that lay before us, washed of all
Its cynicism written on blue ink,
I tried creating newer words out of the sodden heap
To show you, that for a phoenix to rise
You needed to be sure of the fire you were allowing,
To devour you, through and through.

Were you ready yet, to burn yourself anew?
Of all remembrances and vestiges
That pulled you down into mires of despair;
Your intoxicating breath, mingled with
Clamouring thoughts in whispering strains.

It was strange, of how
I could count the stars, but not the unsaid words
You translated as
Your parted lips
And broken thoughts
Met with mine, halfway through the fleeting time
Of unaccounted
Pasts…Presents…Futures…
And for a while, I know not how, but

Time

Stood

Still.

26 July 2016

Blue

Blue

“She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by –
And never knew.”

-Shel Silverstein

I can never be your “Blue”:
I am two shades darker, I suppose
(Cobalt or Prussian?)
Or was I the Azure of the sky?
Or the Sapphire in your eyes?
Or the Cerulean sea, maybe…
Or somewhere in between.

I was “Blue”…once…
Your “Blue”, maybe
In a palette, not scrubbed too clean of its previous shades.
So how could I stay unaffected?
When the “Red” hit me hard, I thought
“Purple” was royal, and majestic
But I forgot, that “Purple” was also the shade
Of a bruise…
Or maybe…there is a dollop of “Yellow” in me
Somewhere,
Deep down, like a submerged island of butter,
And when it dilutes, you’ll see
That I am probably, a slight shade of “Green”.
And I thought “Green” was symbolic of luck,
But “Green” also stood for envy…
There were secondary shades of “Pink” and “Sienna”
And they did nothing, but add on to my misery
The misery of seeing my skin, turning to horrific shades
Till a point came, when I turned “Black”
And “Black” seeped into my soul and turned it into charcoal;
No light could pass through me anymore…
I was the absorber of all things beautiful,
But reflection, was out of the question!

So would you believe me now, if I told you?
That I was the “Blue” of your depressive outbursts,
Or the “Blues” of your tunes.
Or the “Blue” of your walls that were the mute spectators
As they watched the mingling of two shades of “Blue”,
In a bright “Orange” afternoon.
But the “Blue” you called your own,
Is lost now, in the Sea of Hues,
Trying still, for a salvation of some kind.
Will you be patient with me, then?
Will you?

19 June 2016