Trail the mind

Trail the mind as it goes dry,
a trickle & nothing more
so soon, soon swoons

Time a beggar
and I the tricked
Walk parched brown lands
Counting cracks 

Of lost steps & wishful 
thinking. An urge and
a rightful anger.

Photo Courtesy: Nandha Kishore

alone one afternoon

Sometimes, the pangs come to my unfurnished mind pricking, poking, nagging, imploring and what-not on sunny afternoons wanting a better cover, a mask to thrive behind, to dwell, and to consume slowly like sipping tea, the mind first, the heart, soul and even my body later. Every pang brings with it a soft thud that does ripple to the heart and then the veins till I could feel it in the tips of my fingers and toes and see the silhouette of my soul move with the gushing blood; all of a sudden, I am lighter, I fly and flow, and in love my body and heart skips about in sheer ecstasy in a jocund world of endless dreams and star-dusted skies as I dance and dance and dance swaying and swirling in a trance, until the dying but still sly prudence, gasping at some distant nook of my numb brain sends desperate calls to a bunch of dreamily conscious cells of my body which wakes me up from the blissfully dazed and intense slumber into painted paradise to a hot noon and a smelly cup of not-so-hot mess tea. And I frown.

Can words explain?
What the heart reeks of...
Splitting the silence,
breaking walls and minds

Cues in red

Fling my body
Against a wall
And let it
Drop dead
The wretchedness, the memory
In cues of red
Like a mosquito-patch
left after hit
on the wall.
The many walls,
Blank spaces,
Waiting to be filled,
Hoping, waiting,
Thoughts yearning
To become, spoken.
Still waiting in
Void darkness
Hiding at margins
Lingering vain,
Only materialize
When flung
At walls,
Leaving cues,
Cues in red.

My Corpse

The heart burns inside

my body which is aflame,

eyes trickle down to hot tears.

I’m dead long before,

But why do I burn now?

Alive with hell fire.

Love or hate?

You seducer!

Brought my white dead heart

aflame with your kiss.

Today it is burning pyre

Licking my ribs,

swallowing my breath.

It is craving like a fiend

to quench it’s thirst,

which you have generously given.

Waiting for life or death?

Answer not!

It is death when you don’t live.

I am dead.

Where are you

O hot-blooded fiend?

O heartless seducer

take my corpse in thy hands,

show me life as you have always done...

(first published in writetoscribble.wordpress.com)

an evening's fragment untainted

Walking to my room terribly weighed down by the heavy mess bill in my hand, I muttered to myself to put it on my table and forget it till further notice. But then I was roused from my not-so-conscious state when I felt a momentary stir on the table, like a speck of dust flying from amidst my books towards my coffee mug. Only that it was not flying but crawling fast, so conspicuous on my pink table cloth. An inch long dark devil. An involuntary shriek escaped my mouth and I swiftly armed myself into defense mode. And by what followed, I knew that we both shared a common emotion- Fear. Battle ensued. It first jumped onto my MLA Handbook coveting a hideout and soon realizing its uselessness, traversed from Faulkner to Peter Barry to Miller and Hemingway, all standing tall and unmoved. By then I was armed with my ruler and a broom (both utterly pointless) only to find it snuggled between the ever-treacherous bulk that is History of English Literature and Fantasies of Femininity! We played cat and rat for some more time except that the roles were reversed and it kept dodging all my moves, visibly enjoying my pitiable state. Maybe it was my imploring eyes, or my desperate religious chants or more realistically the sword in my hand that made magic. It jumped onto the window sill from the battle ground, leaving for outer territory. And now, like an outcast gives me sly glances lurking behind the wooden midriff of the window waiting for a slack in my attention to regain its regality.

a micropoem

clouded by tears,
the night wears 
a black moon.

the vile truth

Truth,

are you there

in the next bend of the road?

or beyond my reach?

or in the behinds of the door?

I walk in with held breath

to encounter you,

to bare you to shame,

and to imbibe slowly

thy oozing venom-

the wine of ages,

intoxicating my soul.

No! You live in the dingy damp cellars,

cloaking into disguise.

A sweet grape

held within thy womb,

nurtured with poison and darkness

dubious ever of sinful grace

behold never sparkling rays

but Night’s shadows

of blackened veils and

Kohl-lined eyes

smeared with Satan’s blood

kissed into life by asp’s fangs.

It grows and grows

into uncanny shape

eating minds raw and ripe

alike, until nothing to quench

but itself, the monster

gnaws it all,

devouring the dark by dark

the venom by venom,

until the remains

are mere bones, dried,

tear-blood soaked hair,

nails streaked red,

and a strange broken

frame of a skeleton.

The raw bones speak

truth, the truth

through every pore

when the war is done,

when the air is stiff of

dried stinking stained blood,

when no soul cares to hear

the reeking truth

thundering amidst bones

as it rises, puffs in the misty air

and vanishes omnipresent,

yet intangible!

Photo Courtesy: Nandha Kishore

Hypnotised

The hypnotizing torch of

the pale night sky

heals me with her scars

and washes my sins

in white…

Bleeds through my window

Her graceful intrusion

as I lay naked knowing

Sinful clouds shroud even

Her grace! 

(first published in writetoscribble.wordpress.com)
Photo Courtesy: Nandha Kishore