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?

You dream far too often to live inside me

We have dreamt too often of the
sandy, balmy that evening
Unchained by time or space or thought,
licked by the sun's last
lusting yet inert sperm-shaped rays.
The sun kissed my toes as I awoke,
Awoken by her insistence that I should try dying,
for a while atleast.
'You can start living again if you want to, like the glorious
gaudy sunshine in the middle of lilting night'
(She said this as I saw the sun drown into
an imaginary dawn)
I understood. She needed time alone with the
frail sandgrains preaching of long weary journeys.
I think I promised her that I'll make it painfully quick.
'You wont have the heart to love, hate or believe'
the words spurting out of my mouth
like a tired spurt of paint upon a dusty canvas.
The thick blood-red paint dragged the dust
into an embrace. Like lovers making love for
weeks and weeks upon sand-dunes after sand-dunes.
'You dont have to eat, drink or dream if you
inhale the heady blend of love and death' I said.
I think after a long while of pasting the blue velvet
of the Goan night sky onto the curtains of my parched eyelids.
Those eyelids, which I wore to school, to college, to life.
I wore them everywhere, except my dreams.
The sky was now sweating in a imperfection
that only clouds hold in pregnancy.
'Will you stop your murmur. Will you atleast open your eyes?'
She had stung the moment with nectar, the venom
Fallen prey to the loving refuse of meaning.
While her hair involuntarily brushed my pupil,
I waited till my eyes went the same blood-red
On the canvas. It was precisely that moment when I realized that
It wasn’t any paint from a palette that I spurted
Onto the dusty canvas (I had always wondered how could the
Paint look so much like blood).
It was the second last hour before my second last death.
I too had fallen far too easily to the loving refuse
Of meaning. Time did not matter anymore. I was dying again!
‘Bliss atlast!’ I thought. Yet time, in its heavy, unmovable
Stance rested upon my wrist. It stood between the puckered,
Pierced veins and the irresistibly rusted blade. Yet
I found my way and died my second last death.
Even then, I remembered the journey of her eyes.
A decade in which the incurable innocence of her eyes
Turned into the same listless, soothing indifference
Of eyes, drenched in insomnia and the pregnant sky.

I slowly lifted my head off the pillow and watched
The maternal love of the clouds letting her children fall.
‘They were born to fall’ the cloud whispered to me
As I let one of her sons fall right into my eyes,
Turning them red.
I went right back to my pillow trying to
Paste the blue velvet of the Goan sky
Onto the inner curtains of my eyelids.
I tried wearing my eyelids for the dream
But she refused. She liked to be called ‘eyelids’
For she was night-blind.
…her insistence that I should try dying,
for a while atleast.
'You can start living again if you want to, like the glorious
gaudy sunshine in the middle of lilting night'.


'You wont have the heart to love, hate or believe'
the words spurting out of my mouth.
If only I could pretend my eyelids
Were the canvas. Just like she believed
She was an eyelid or two.

‘You dream far too often to live inside me’

Talk

They dont teach you to float, or sink even
they dont even have enough air t0 breathe in,
They undo everything they are told to do,
They crumble into invisible, see-through
mountains of decomposed teardrops when told to
believe,
They are always there to see you fall,
sometimes even when you sleep,
uncomfortably nightblind,
They hear everything and speak in deafening
silence,
They have slowly learnt to glare
after losing their eyelids last fall,
They rustle like leaves
and befriend shadows,
They live your lives for you,
when you try hard enough to die,
They are many in number
and none in weight,
They often forget to eat,
while smoking your cigarette when you
talk to pretty strangers starved of truth
or tense,
They all look alike when you conform,
they slowly divide before you find faith
They are too old now to caress your life
into cold damp meaningful fruition,
They are breathing closer now,
to your ear because you are alien to your
malnutritioned pillow,
They are nothing and everything
as and when you choose to talk,
They craft your dreams only when they die,
one night at a time, as you
outweigh your respective wombs,
They can stop you from looking at others
and dismember yourself instead,
They can become you
you can never fit their shoes instead
They can sqeeze in opulent lighyears of space
between
any two minutes in your life,
They stop people sometimes,
from describing them in words
or death

I hardly know them

For

They look straight back at me
from the mirror

Lights out

I know how to stand, like an inevitable corpse,

hanging my sight upon kegs of indifferent births,

I like to get born every now and then, more so the death

is as warm as a vein in euphoric pierce,

wrenching a puddle-full of tears onto this gardebn of night,

i take a walk under the neon sheen of my plastic eye,

The sun has remained that harmless pest,

a shameless visitor to my hidden room,

these blinds melt far too easily under the warm-gun-push

of his beam,

Far too naked in my pride to lurk like thickening water,

uncertain in my trickle, i behave like ink,

With a pastel prayer wrapped in high-grade cellophane guilt,

I talk to god,

Like this technicolour glee upon your eye, i sleep like a

fruitless bark,

You have had your fair share of fire,

dressed in library flavoured silence,

your eyes begin to look like black black soot

and time turns into an aimless habit,

For you are all love with

just a little taint,

God breathes beside

a fornicating saint,

But they tell me you know how to smile!

like a full moon starved of light...

a day in the life of dear friend death

Underneath the ink, a thousand trees cry

overhead the fall, wets his blue cloudy eye

right beside the feet, have never walked alone

a roll for a roll, a stone for a stone

And right when the man laid his bed not to sleep, or dream but lie,

they called him a coffin, and coffins dont really get to die

a stranded TV anchor with a slliced tongue

today, i need to crave,

a crumbling cave, i have no more mountains to eat, no more pages to dry

frequently so, a white flash of light

upon screens of celluloid polygamy, mothers and fathers naked

beware the night,

she shines like a hollow star, between clouds and curtains of space,

dreaming her dreams, growing her hair, speaking like a death in wait

i have received the rainman's parch, lips torn teeth biting the air

today, i feel the bottle break without a sound, just a trickle

of heavenly red, this is why neon eyes can never bend

'how many more?' asks the asphalt to the moon,

'i have some time to kill, a lil innocence to buy'

'just bury me alive if i fail to die'

'just undream my dreams and let me cry'

do you?

do you wait?

like a street-lamp for the night to end,

for its too late for the early bird to prey

do you breathe

like a wine, through cork and fleshy stain,

satin you become with eyes in constant rain

do you care?

like an unborn mother with a baby to drown,

too many horses with paid saddles to mount

do you live like this word

like this word chasing your eye,

the world's a stage, we could be better lies

do you have?

what others dont like the air you breathe,

just like the tree trying hard to bleed

do you sell?

your soul for for bread and time,

living on roots and wheels and a lil rhyme

do you know?

enough to own your shadow, before you die,

renember your broken mirror was never mine

do you die?

to live or live to die,

upon your stage, i'm a better lie