I have always been like this…
My being a dream that makes
no sense like scumbing village
cottages from a city portrait.
What's the promise of cosmos
done to us? I am unknown what
my body wants. I have till now
known joy as a place I'm an
illegal immigrant. Unsure, of
when any calling can come
I stay on heels like birds
always flight-ready. Something
creeps from my reflection. It's
a song feeling shame for becoming
a window. Mere coincidence it
fits on the wall of my wounds.
Whom to send plea when my
shadow unbolts me from her.
The flaky paper weeping words
melting from it. How everything I
love learns the art of shivers
into absence. This poem too
shall get dyed after minutes
into erasion of my face that froths
slow and steady into something
else. The world wandering and

maturing in its time-bound gesture

 

 

 

 

this made me think you and pomegranates seeds
in your hands. I am scared to see blood gush out
from bodies but not mine. So, to stand at pathology
queue and stare at the syringe take out blood
sample from you is a kind of profundity I ignore
staring at clock-hands as if meaning of time is
scribbled on it. The way light forgives shadows I
wish I am forgiven by you. We're never cross-questioned
by our fears. Hence, I thought of using the advice
like dust that covers everything but not itself and use
the idea of replicating theorems of dusk. How the red
appears on dusk's body for the world to merry. My
blood is warm, friendly. And ready to show
itself on my skin of consciousness. When this
happens with you, I too shall see, something
that runs polite, as the beauty of tree roots. If
ever, it surges out of fixed dimensions, like
 a rabbit from its unknown hole it too shall
 compose...          undebatable        wonder

 

 

 

 

Everyday I find something capable enough to be
morphed as poetry. Today I found a fluctuation in
my body that wore your name. If someone
discovers an undid thing after lapse of feelings
how much does it affect the weather of now. I
have never adored reflections as they hold everything
but not breaths. Today I did. Ask me why? As
my shapes unravel your taste on them. By this I
mean how I underlined your definitions in the
glossary of life-things. Something twinkles in
sad songs of wayfarers. I have felt deep, my penury
in moments, as I rolled their tunes beneath my tongue.
Nothing shines on my soul-statistics. It is just roots
of your shadows walked through me. I witness
the-almost-me-warped. Suddenly your voice
washed the air. Or was it I who peeled language
of wounds. I wonder what bounces from these helpless
sounds. Reintroduction to knowledge of something
proving itself; its potency in privacy. In this
 circumference I find a fertile mystery opening. Why
my bones forever stay half-rippled. Grief is
a wither that faces greatest of springs and keeps
itself frozen ungenerous to everything but the
owner. Night knocks at my threshold like it wanted
refuge. Or was it I the one waiting for it to end the
today I wanted to turn into a verse holding all
poems of a decade after I caught your body's light
winter my desires. And see glimpse of my own
dead with a mouth lapped by yours...

 

 

 

 

That evening, balcony was blushing by breaths
of your shadows. I felt it smear a shapeless colour
on me. Before winter comes I wanted to say something
that would float on your eyes. Like possibility of
a horse to enter the empty pastures of a wall
hanging. The stars invent light at nights, I invent you
in me, everytime I catch you stare at what world calls
things. Secretly, I wished to be last among them
like the preface of a best-seller. Attention to it is given
at the end. Something radiates in me as wind finds
meaning twirling around you. I stay in the drape of
the moment as if engaged in draft of a prayer that
got answered by chance. The birds have songs of
everything unfrozen. What do they know of a
country that swells between us. Frigid. Disenchanted.

 

 

 

 

My sister serving me water,called her own
name instead Di. This made me think what
is it to be called by ownself. I called my name
in repetitions. The way mother called me while
I was deeply lost in childhood sleep. What I found
was my name emitting, pink candy smell. How to
reciprocate to a sound that necks out from my
interiors. This absence for certainty like body
describing its end with feet, translates me into
an algebra of suffering. I want to say, a door of
awakening opens and I see my histories hold a
season settled inside a reflection of wind against
wild leaves. I watch them sing some soil song
that floated from continent to continent. With an
unsaid possibility. It sounds like a dream oiled up.
What rises from viscosity made of jumbled things.
Say memories. Somehow it resembles the street I
met you. The way destiny leans on palms. I understood
my arrangements longed to be lost in you. My story
is not a promise done to the cosmos. By this I mean in
this world I have seen my being as a quest not
knowing its origin. Like the snow geometry. Sometimes,
I try to learn my name the way your mouth held. As if
rain radiating songs. Here's what I found. A renovation
that went wrong. My name morphed to carcass at goatshed

I think these poems are absolutely weird and want some raw reading through them. 

>>

<<