somewhere in my incapacities

For some reason, sleep betrays my eyes the moment I crave for your dreams.

The aching chafed soul drowning in the sheer wretchedness of loss, like the first sudden epiphany about the legends of fairy folk or geriatric bearded man making wishes come true.

The way you strike rock bottom only to realize seconds later that some more quagmires are yet to be braved; it continues to be a string of endless disappointments.

I fail miserably at all attempts to create poetry out of translucent longings.
I write,  erase only to re-write some more,
and hence emerges a shadow-play of all the wishes unfulfilled and left floating in the air, against the bright flames of our dried hushed voices, covered behind a veneer of raw desire.

I aspire to be as blatant as your advances and demure as all my attempts to escape.
My sighs offer a voice-over, amidst the dull percussions of life pulsing through our necks.

I aspire to write out my careless exhausted insanity that refuses to slip into submission, the way you often evade my imagination in the commute of voices following us.

The way you find ways to trick the elements around me
 as more often than not we unravel earth beneath a veil of fire and water trickling through the pockets of wind.

We’ve woven stories out of unsaid desires before haven’t we anyway?
Like that time you fell off a poetry only to fall quietly in my arms or the times when by breaths silently took your form.

Like your common aliases, silence and the quiet,
I crave for you again in this un-scripted un-rhymed poetry of mine.
Try not to fail me, if you please.

As for me, I shall be just sitting here gazing at the meandering thoughts of you sorting through my memories instead.
As you grope around for words which quietly replace the pictures in your head.  Pictures, cunning, capricious and fickle, threatening to flit past at the speed of one breaths too many, or heartbeat skipped through.
I shall see you wandering amidst fragmented clouds in rich sepia sky looking for that prayer thought out aloud.
 Torschlusspanik- a fear of time running out, of running out of opportunities, of moments unlived, I shall see you panic and maybe that might set me free.

For the time being, let’s assume me absent, un-aware, imaginary, like the characters of an unfinished fiction spread out in the sleepy Sunday sun soaked yard.
let you  be scared of me slipping away, as I watch.

 For now let me just go by my selfish intentions and let you jot down the dreams that haunt you always with my presence, let me breath in your sighs, and trickle down the back of your neck.

I shall be there, at the sheer horizon of my absence.

ramblings untitled

They say the best of works stem from melancholy.
That when you seem not to mind reaching anywhere you carve the best of roads in your way.
She, to the world is just a tiny figure carved in silence. She apparently curls comfortably somewhere within her perfect personal space.
She is being  just a tiny figment of an old lore, by the sunlight filtering through soft curls.
To the world she is just that.
She sees enormous waves crashing against steep cliffs. Labyrinthine blues and mountain music wrapped in benign white linen.
A bundle of contradictions wrapped up in floral scarves, that when the veneer of plainness thins down, out explodes a billowing smoke in rich mauve, crimson in blue.
Colors of the utopian dream, in her own personal choices.
Momentary  lapses of reasons that visit the quarters in hours hidden from the world, that no-one sees nor defines ever.
It’s a kaleidoscope of words,  a chiaroscuro of whispers played by the tiny hollow beneath the ears where dreams usually trickle down to nothingness,  an estuary where lullabies and nightmares flow as one.
In a body betrayed by desire, there stand some virgin fires never having seen the light of the day.
There stand some silent sentinels of love unstirred, unshaken of pure aboriginal innocence.
There stand I somewhere between her eyes and a blurry dream forming miles away.
In the tiny fingers entwined in honest  untangled lost.
In silent promises made to herself, wilting beneath the pillow, some unfortunate personal biases squirming , pulsing within the delicate ankles and wrists.
There stand I always helping her stay afloat.

a muse resurrected of blood and ashes

A thousand words in her voice haunting the damp celtic quarters, her peaceful sighs punctuating my sleeps, and the perennial mist that infests the bay windows, she’d be as imaginary as evolution itself.
At the least, to the world she’s still surreal in the mute portraits adorning their walls.

There she stands, or lies rather, as a silent sentinel of the floodgates,
guarding the guarded, snatched away from me everyday just because some other man ‘feels’ he could relate to her mute predicament.

My nonexistent muse,
 my Ariadne of the labyrinthine subconscious that I nurse.

Gracing me albeit , of her presence a few auspices  more than the vernal equinox.

she of the pristine blithe flesh and raw gaping wounds
she of long calloused fingers entwined in my hair.
and a proven necessity, if you ask me
to sit before an easel by the break of dawn.

My sparkling aquamarine in the deep recesses of dreams,
my ecstatic sighs spread on the canvas.
one night too many obscured in psychedelia,
my precious,
of the trembling hands, and bruised lips.

a stolen figment of my broken world,
of corpses in the armchairs,
and military tanks on streets.

a distinct rumble of agitation,
all stoic silences drawn over windows,
and yet dreams woven on threads of tears everynight.

She resurrects herself within me now and then,
only to adorn the naked walls of history.

and bleed,
in
silence.

dog or an oyster(written in collaboration with a friend, chytra)

A downpour tonight,
predicted with a thunder too many.
What shall i do about my sensitive hearing?
A thunder in my ears, multiplies ... up to infinity ...
And some incessant howls clouding my thoughts.

Why,
I'm harmless enough inside my shell
Day in and day out
...
Why do these sounds rattle my soul ...

They make jewels of my agony,

bead it and flaunt it as pride
Those tiny little allegories of pain,

of genuine gold-plated dog tears

And write about them sympathetically in old books dog eared
Hypocrites!

Or clink glasses a few,

of dead tonic and gin.

Over lonely dog-tales

No one sees through my eyes
They drown in their glory
To feel high!

The downpour tonight nevertheless,
shall be the end of it.

And furry little truths shall crawl out of their shells.

Oh no, they shall make no more jewels of dogs pretending to be oysters.

Not after
the
thunder
tonight.

For i shall howl too
And dance alone

Also dig a hole
to find a bone
And rest my shell
Free is my soul

 

lessons in wanderlust

Someday, just like one of these,
I'd simply
numb and quiet,
walk out of this shell.
A story engulfing me shall be shed, then a cast of dead skin if nothing else.

I moult through words, phrases, punctuations and names. In a constant flux of transition between what was once me to what is unknown.

I live in a fickle sense of reality,
the present being nothing more than a metaphor.
Like evolution, crawling out of ideas is what we call the essence of survival.

The way, a poet gathers the sand in his fist and lets it , again to seep into a distant reality.
A sand-dune to another.
One formless form to another.

The arrow of time piercing the thick vivid canvas of the metaphysical like everything else.
Like everything else,
my abstraction walking with me towards the needed disorder.
The way we all shall,
expanding hot masses of nebula destined to be a white dwarf.
Yes, somewhere in our lifetime, our brilliance shall stretch out to the horizon before fading, and leave behind a warmth.
A warmth of words, phrases, punctuations and yes,
names.

We all evolve.

‎*two dreams, verbatim*

That there,
that is a hoax.

don’t leave, 
don’t rise
stay
and breathe.

maybe. 

disintegrate.

******

you,
you are forbidden,
you are beautiful.

I self destruct.
I am invincible
and yet

helpless.

******

let’s drown the silences,
savor the quiet

Let them watch,
let
us
melt.