Undulating lines

The catharsis of insolvent memories
Seeps out in tears and pretentious smiles
In Pather Panchali
In La Pieta.

Fields of brown singed grass
Flow over the taut bosoms of virgin
Mindspaces
Contemplating coition and moksha.

Semblances of sanity visit
Whistlestopping executives on Divine duties
Balancing up the piled up stones
Pyramids of hopes and supporting lies.

Still there exists my own grasps on reality
Clutching door knobs of rooms
Housing all dreams
Sheathed underneath mommy's saari. Safe.

Love

If I could clad any emotion
It wouldn't be anger
But love.

But it prefers to be naked
Like a papier mache sculpture
In a chilly sleet.

I try hard to put a cloak on it
But it bares itself everytime
Exposing its gentle, docile bosom to
Virulent winds of wisdom.

Strnagely enough it still has survived
An oddly standing bronze satuette- Green

Amid a purple holocaust.

Lunchtime stories

Luncheon was served on round tables
With polished cutlery firmly esconced in
Starched napkins, warm and flaky.
When she started to eat her soup
She found two stories floating in the cream
Croutons of a melted past, downy.

She lifted them to her lips
Noth together on one large soup spoon
They dangled at the egde of her -
Pink lips, like petals of a morning dew stained
Rose, in full lustful bloom.

She strongly told them to keep quiet
But stories rarely know silence,
People all around her ate. Clinking and clanking
Tinkling and tankling, mimicking falling
Jewels on clean bone china bowls.

Stories, as they were, prevented her from
Savouring the presence of the soup.
An unseen tear drop met an unspent smile
Somewhere near the chin, exchanged pleasantries
And disappeared into an essence.

She forced the spoon into her mouth
Chewed the croutons and swallowed.
They tasted slightly bitter, like malt of a rare scotch.
Stories are delicious, smelling of a decadence of an
Alluvial mind on which harvets are all done.

Castle

Plumbing the droplets, escaping the faucet of my dreams
I built a little castle of pearls, just to stare at-
Not to live in.

When the moon shines or the sun sets, it gleams eloquently
And I see small birds and large butterflies
In each crystal.

Sparingly I clean it with care and a small handkerchief
Always afraid it will dry up one day, evaporate
Into a very thin air.

Untitled

Bleed Bleed Bleed, burn burn burn
Slake your thirst and run
Through green grass and marshy bogs
And through fire,
Baby I have given rise to hell.

And when gas fumes rise and rosaries fly
Along with Ice candy and jolly lollies,
Gather them for your sofa feasts -
And when you are plastered up
The really hurt Michelin man
Cry out for more blood and
Cry, for momma to soothe you.

Road to redemption

Stringing drops of blood
On a thread of smile
I cruise on the six lane highway
Of life-a charlatan, an outlaw.

She stands far away in the
Sunshine, like a revelation
Beckoning me onboard her
Magic carpet - to eternity.

Auburn skies and red eyes
Cloud my vision, maybe I have
Driven a little too fast
Down the road to redemption.

One afternoon in a dark room with an open window

The afternoon sun shone brightly
On my two feet, just peeking out of
My blanket of dreams.

Warmed thus, they tried to find some
Solid ground, just below my bed
And found a carpet.

Soft it was, downy flaked maroon
Threads – woven to perfection
Each string. Then the eyes opened.

I saw my warm feet, saw the stale
Bread on the table. Yeast, jam
And a few Creole words of fantasy.

Then the sun moved across my
Window, searching for my hands.
Found them, drenched them.

Then it moved finding my lips -
Wet. Trying to dry them, the sun
Failed, fell and left.