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.

Confession box

There, there, on the sun’s brow you will find
a drop of fire, waiting to turn into what
was fathomed as tears, but daddy ate with
pomp and prodding at daughter’s full inner thighs,
she wouldn’t complain, she wouldn’t paint her tears.
She was meaning alone and so was her name,
bundled like soiled laundry, she hurled herself quite
like an astronaut, NASA emblems glistening quite like
her eyes, quite like the sun.
Now, that she stood half a light-year away from the
sun, she threw her suit away and stood naked.
Yes, she cried for a microsecond before burning like
another aurora gone a whiter shade of pale,
The NASA emblem wouldn’t melt till it fornicated with
An Earth-bound asteroid,
Asteroids don’t hurt no one except this groping father.
He burned like a pyre, he dreamt of last night.
Premonitions were his only gift except for a reputation, a holy man indeed.
She became the tears the sun learned to cry,

‘Where the hell is my bourbon Martha?’
This was another father choking on every psalm he read
at church.
He too had quite a liking for the nuns in heat.
‘See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly’
Beatles were crawling all over his moustache, he was the
Walrus they said.
But the really story began when he groped at that bald nun
and gave birth to a little girl destined to reach not the heavens,
but the sun.

Of pungent dreams and time

Dream, but responsibly

I don’t think I had much to say,
standing like a still-born tree, 100 years old,
a leaf to wear as a half-glowing Tiara
in the morning dew and sunbeam,
I don’t think I remember my earth-lusting
roots,
Standing on the sidewalk, I was blowing kisses at the sun,
hadn't met him in ages you see,
but I saw the number in my dream...
the number of cars that stumbled by (uneven-pebble-afterlives)
thinking I was insane,
The sun came by at the doorstep of my dream
a little later and we laughed just like the cars. At the cars. Stumbling by.
but cried each time either went to the wash-room
after the draught emptied itself like
rusty gun-barrel flavoured memory down
our pretence-lacquered throats without a thought, but only a bag full of dreams,
these cars, like time won’t stop, no matter how you look
or you don’t (for your shadow sitting behind, smoking the same cigarette you are),
nothing is a word they said,
in my childhood and droplets of dreams
of who I will be,
But, it don’t take too long change words into
homeless homes called minutes (and sometimes seconds),
Except that the paper-weight is wearing away,
scraping against broken shards of my tomorrows
and memories stained with the ink, smudged in
endlessly petrified rain,
I first stood on the sidewalk, and then lay down on
the throbbing heart of the asphalt,

now that the sun was begginnng to die once again out of his slumber,

from his bed of razor-sharp
stars.
Then even the railroad waited enough as my hair and my ankles shuddered in utter bliss

as the morning frost lay like drenched Persion carpets upon the tracks.

Yet, I awoke (or did I?), unfortunately alive again.
ALIVE ALIVE ALIVE like the still-born tree!

But the joy of awaiting an end.
An end of what we have been caressed with whips,

into naming life.
I don’t think I am awake as I write this.
So long live the dead. So long dear friend.
And I like summer rain and dead daffodils,
lay inside a box of still-born willow,
with my eyes almost closed, open only for the
dream to breathe. They called it a funeral!

I called it birth. And if I recall correctly, they were the ones dead

by the time I shouted out from the coffin " I am still alive! I am still alive?"

But what if my handful of dreams runs out someday?

I know I'd die without them. Life needs antidote you see.
Will they smuggle it, into this box I live in.
With the flowers laid above me (I can already smell the dream and the rain seeping in)

Even now I don’t have much to say
because I am obscenely in wait,
for something, someone or better still-
Nothing at all.
Oh hell! I remember now,
It’s only my dreams I need.
It’s always just a dream.
It’s only a dream.
So, my name’s time, what’s yours?

Backdoor

How much longer can I escape me?

Escape words for they happen.
For they irk you and your pen wont bleed?
Floor is an open sky
For us creepy crawlers,
So much awe for root and none for seed?