cellar door scar

cellar door scar
A night, weighed down into existing,
by hazel clouds without tears,
turning the moon into a nail-clipping at their behest,
There, the illumine finger of the night,
moon-drop engaged shining ring finger,
the sun lay beneath the hazel cloud asleep,
the cushion of oceans abound,
yet the rising was in the wake, a sleepless pair
of eyes reddened in fraught remedy for life,
It was only the taste of ink, thrown into the sun’s mouth
by the frayed-coat poet as the fountain of his pen
flailed, impotent and frowning at the brightening sky.
The smell of an old yellow crackling notebook then,
And he remembered to look down
The boy’s eyes told stories undone and unheard.
The sun, looking through lashes and bleary eyes saw the scar
under the belly of his hazel cloud,
and then the one torn into the asphalt below.
The poet escaped to his cellar door, leaving another scar through
his frayed coat, leaving time alone on driftwood,
yet the poem was now a wondrous spider spilled like ink on paper
no longer crackling but faking apart.
The boy’s eyes still shone and the poet was proud of his scar, looking through same lashes and bleary eyes that the sun did.

The Dozing

One where the nest fell,
and then the shoe followed suit,
followed by another,
quite uneventful, the day said as he sipped
on rain in full view.

And the dust gathered in no hurry, drawing
a sheet upon the time lying deceased
as the distant window blared advertisements
for watches.

The ageing floorboard made no bone of the
pain in his shin,
no pain was worth his voice that creaked
in silence and wait of the apocalypse,

The oracle said it would save the day,
and sleep would be restored.

Confidante

I like talking to walls mostly,
and find mirrors under their skin,
They don’t smile much,
or scowl when I turn,
like a coin waiting on the sidewalk
still on spin,

Their ears are yours alone, for
a moment atleast,
Wail, shout and howl as you may,
these walls haven’t yet learnt,
to stalk your words to the feast,

A feast for strangers,
whose mouths are tongue-less
and hunger wrought ,
gobbling all you say,
not a single morsel dropped,
just another sun,
unborn in the dark,

But how long will it be this time?
before the writing’s washed off the slate
and the wall?

How long before the wall
shall hold again
your mirror as bait?

Your words are naked now,
making their way to all
roads and ears abound

Only because you looked
within and never
without…

Its a little cold inside this womb you've kept me in, strewn like rose petals
on the grave I had set aside,
for none but my dreams, a well dressed mannequin
burnt hair by hair and a little plastic heart stuck in freedom talk,
and then the placebo comes knocking like the opiate man.
hoping you're inside, stuck like hair to a sweater worn just
before the endless brood and television glare glue ravine,
and you thought every rapid was going smooth,
much like the ocean you had never seen, but heard fables of,
its waves crashing and mumbling into your ears,
sweet nothings and dreams undreamt,
but your gills are now sold and dressed with the half true diamond ring
some man hopes to turn his girl into wife with.
The lastI heard, you had learnt to play 'big eyed fish',
and sing along too.
But now look at you, a motion picture stilled by just
one glance at the mirror.A likely fall into half cooked bliss,
no poison tree or nibbled apple to blame

blind dream

the ash of the cigarette , spread on the ground
like earth's grey hair, strewn in an order only He,
the deranged, and the myth can see,
The hurried flurry of your fingers and the door
slammed,
you said i was way past me
and a little too far behind to appreciate the view,
Well you said a lot of things.
Lest you disappear, I feed you with care and fodder,
I am god and so are you,
I have stared too long into the lake to know the difference.
And so I jump into myself again.
I drown.
And then I'm awake,
having wet my bed yet again.
A real nice shiny dream i bought today.
In exchange for my eyes.
Lest I sleep now?
or dream my blinding dream forever?

A mirror for a mirror

A mirror for a mirror

I feel like carrying the burden today, of peace talk
And deflowered trysts, promises stripped of their skin
But their clothes on,
The sting tasted like the ancient dew, a life-spring of fragrant
Crackling century old pages,
Their print quite poker-faced. Like the eyes I see in the mirror while I speak,
To you dear friend,
I speak of and for you oh comrade, bleeding like wars unfought inside you, hanging, in limbo, in wait.
Godot lay at the corner of my view, waiting for the mirror in front of me. The deepest juice of lilting sun of an autumn afternoon spent in the arms of another. Mirror. A mirror for a mirror. A hole for a hole.

It was winter I believe. And as far as I can remember.
When I met your eyes. Broken like mine, dry-cleaned like wine-stained linen. Bearing nothing but the ash from the cigarette we shared in bed. The morning after pill; silence. So how was it.
Terrible, nauseating and splendourous like a two day old Spartan warsoil, dry blood and all. The smell of your skin.

As I conveniently dreamt myself into the warm cocoon of your orange lamp. Overhead, I overheard your squinting eye and the parched corner of your lip from a wintered day long sleep, breaking into a wry smile.
Cracked, your lip uttered not a word that your eyes couldn’t.
The lovely silence of you and your shadow falling onto this page you read.
Confession.
Overhead, I overhear your dreams as well when you leave your lips slightly ajar and I crawl into your eyes,
Or so I’d like to believe.
I slither inside the untread bones of your contention, the words I decode before you awaken to find me deep, deep, deep inside of you.
How long do you think I’ll last as a page in your hand?
No. Wait. Don’t say a thing.
Do you feel it yet?
We are turning, slowly, into a new species of silence.
Endangered from birth

Angry Tree

There was no fall for the leaves that day,
sunning their way, the prophets of end and a half,
the angry tree bellowed and burned right to the ground.
His was the sun, his were the waters below,
yet he wore no tears, might they moisten
his arson dream
Mostly muttering and sometimes whispering with intent
the wrinkled priest followed suit;
burning his altar to the ground and then his dream of god,
his jesus slowly falling from the worm-eaten crucifix.
Looking down from way above the bluest skies
and the darkest cloud, there he was,
my god with sunken, reddened eyes, sloshed
on one prayer too many.
My eyes were mirror to the all the apples on fresh
dew,
which were once in his eyes like I was in my father's. Perhaps.
Wide awake with his flaming lips, he spoke to my eyes,
'smother some mothers, steal all the clocks and watches you can,
sell all your dreams until they reek of the same, till they smell
like the decade old bible your hands clasp'
And all the while there was a wooden stairway,
many falling on their way to heaven to
descending upon this land as a milkshake
of a cupid, a jesus and silence.
White clouds came pouring down,
grated like cheese upon earthy bread, flowers all
deranged in fragrance.
The wind came down, caressing the old man
with iron claws,
He was finally going to make the grave. The one
he drew on asymmetrical toilet paper as a child, with
crayons and blood,
he had his way; persuading the molehills to adorn
cloaks of snow-tipped mountains, their beaks all
piercing the cotton sky, his pen with him sat meek.
And there was day!
The wooden jesus shriveled into a smile and forgave
all in a day's work while the shredded clouds
fell upon these pages praying for endless neon night.
Bringing the moon to the sun, burning to the ground
cotton-fields of the boldest hue and cry,
the angry tree churned embryos in his dreams
into a fine thin thread of silk;
dubbed silence.
In repose, looking as the angry tree narrated his
familiar story of being a worm-eaten wooden jesus in a past-life,
the haggard, hungry silence spoke;
of a time when he was never born, never needed,
just like eye do.