a well scripted sub-conscious

I am for this moment,

perhaps
not even a person.

... Just a pair of eyes,
seeing the seen,
or just a voice
whispering inside your head.

You,
yes your head.

It is me that you hear,
a dull stony non-syllable,
that was never not your own.

Never the silent hum of the ceiling fan,
or the million buzzing droplets stinging your face in the shower.

An ephemeral blank,
in the richer shades of blue,
a few drops me,
a few dollops you.

The glorious sloth,
of a thousand and one years,
is
on the brink of snapping off.
Some tense wires resonating music time and again.

A forced self-love,
and a sweaty ecstatic climax later.

why are you still awake?
While you can still call out my name,
or yours.
Have my wrists bound,
and your eyes shut tight.

Search for me,
while you are still alive.

P.s- tranquillizer twilight..

the absurdity that is US

Its been a year.
The concept of rains has changed from Darjeeling tea to semi-ground Columbian coffee beans.
Although grave hours of contemplation still require chewing paper.
The world is still a crumpled orb of discarded poetries, and elaborate love letters written the wrong way.
Its actually a huge transition from chewing the edge of your paper cups to tissue wiping rich plum lipsticks.
... We travel backward more often these days and my feet have these tiny bunions from standing on my toes time and again.
The rainbow has of late travelled one whole arch,
and is probably waiting to reach the other end.
You have more creases traversing that mole on your palm,
and I am yet to get that wisdom tooth removed.

We keep some old muffled giggles as a leftover,
like silly little hangnails,
that you keep nibbling on to kill time.
Its been a year, and we're still frozen in time,
calling out to the hushed planets of each other's names.

a tiny casket of eccentricities

Merging colors,
and fragrant essence of thought clouds
squeezed to oblivion,
It were your steps,

while I moved as if in a trance

.Let my feet not give away,
I wish to stay afloat

 a few thought clouds more..

for the love of absurdity

Give me a random world to explore,
or an unknown island lit all night by fire-flies.
Bring me the content hums of a lullaby pickled in tongues not yet discovered.
I crave to paint my eyes fuchsia, blue and white to rob them off my individuality,
to give them an alien expressiveness.
Let us be withering constellations over a dark planet,
waiting to crash and ignite.
Of late,
a dervish spun by my room,
crashing a coffee pot in his wake,
and thus,
my room is slathered in coffee,
and my coffee is left with bright illuminated glass shards.
Let's share these tiny rainbow bit by bit.

Rugged landscape of half-truths,
part-lores,
abyssmal noughts and dismal infinities,
I am a wanderer,
soaked in cognac,
bubbling fantasies,
dusky undertones
pop-art poesies.

You are succint half-a-dozen prose,
a pint imagination,
bottled-up rationed metaphors,
a grand burlesque Red and Gold,
dry vermouth and
tonic forsooth
fiery breaths,
rebellious,
bold

A heady cocktail,
you and me
exempli gratia
ecstasy firedrake
closed eyes
and compassioned souls.

the muse and the mistress

1. Always the prototype custody freak.
‘Patriarch for the purists’ says he,between puffs of smoke
then again, the countryside dawn isn’t exactly what we suppose it to be.
its just an inherited mansion,
its just an inherited space,
No metaphorical wilderness,
No omnipresent sepia shadows

and I am not complaining.

now, the way I’d write a prologue , our girl won’t be all flannel draped, safe fashionista sipping pink panthers, and why again does she have to have the bearings of a botticeli to snatch your attention.
but it so happened that I didn’t and when its him, you can always tell.

there’s always an aquiline nose to start with, one of our man’s lost causes as we’d come to know later in the course of story. There’s this insanely morose shroud of nonsensical prose geared cleverly to give one a taste of their own desires. The Freudian ego and the Id.
I’m tempted to call that reverse psychology a clever maneuver.
I’m tempted to claim him.
Claim him for myself
but not unless he has no claims over me,
I’m tempted for my own selfish will
tempted , in fact A LOT lately.

2. For starters, let me just –ever so strictly-warn you against the unsaid rule,
you do not breathe a word of this to ANYONE,
what I am about to entrust you with lies in the deep recesses of my clandestine head,
far from the asinine proclamations the world has made about him,
and the smoke-engulfed taciturn versions our man here is more than just ink and paper ramblings of weltschmerz , world weariness.

To get down to the detail, as he most lovingly prefers it to be,
an old dilapidated mansion , the rich Persian rug, and some colonial furniture
air thick with incense, and tobacco smoke, it might for sure take a while for you to navigate your way around the room.
and there he is, by the windowsill,
a sculputresque reticent figure with age dripping through his pores,
down to the placid grimalkin purring on his lap,

3. Contrary to his works, only a few have heard him talk,
through his words ,
the impeccable throaty renditions of some unfortunate trysts with faith, Earth, heaven or hell
scars borne out of life and death forsooth,
and then
for once Dante aligheri is just a crazy speculator.
those religious lords just swanky billboard adverts.

4. Our man seldom has favorites,
his eyes betray any presence of emotion,
but it is through these glassy conduits beneath the thick white brows,
that I saw the slightest footsteps to his heart,
That when one holds on to an enchantment,
he’s led on to intrigue
holding on to intrigue,
one finds obsession,
and when one is obsessed for quite a while…
voila!


5. so it is me, the favorite one,
me, of the aquiline nose, and slender spidery fingers
clutching the precarious Mediterranean silk on me,
all his yen packed into glittery packages,
into his blue-blooded mistress
a 16th century princess.

slurping the pink panthers nevertheless


6. Our man and his unusual ways,
and I’m the last person to be complaining,

am I not just ink and paper
another impeccably penned character,

at best-a muse, at worst- a puppet


7. ‘someday I shall soar up,
and then collapse on my own’

‘you sir, are in a mortal risk of being immortal’

‘that does not mean the world shall know you as mine’

‘someday, I shall soar up
and collapse to a zillion shards with your reflections ’

‘I can not for my life, let the world read you, be you or desire you’

‘But in any sense, wouldn’t they be reading YOU instead?’

a solitude together

For others they were formless-tired-smudged-kohl eyes, and incidentally it were your words that breathed life into them.
It was once again, while- as it were- ranting about how helplessly self-obsessed we are at times.
On a second thought isn't it what the lone and desolate world of reasoning permits.
I know what you might say to that.
You'd say that I was a bipolar double agent on a Counter-espionage team.
And then I'd laugh myself silly.

Some few months later,
Some few hundreds kilometres away
I wake up bleary eyed,
A week's worth of kohl hounding the hollows of my eyes.
And I lack your precision (at wiping all the stray smudges off)
I look for traces of your breaths trapped between the unsuspecting hyacinth.
Perhaps the oars shall strike upon some thoughts wondered aloud.
Or
Thoughts left midway.
Maybe the damp, sultry wind gives me enough to subsist,
Until the next time, when you untangle them somewhere near my ears.

'for crying out loud you are still the closet anarchist I left behind'

'isn't that pretty much ALL the luxury that solitude provides,
Or maybe,
My predilection towards loneliness is just an excuse
for having you all to myself.?'