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Hemang A Desai

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My English Poems
by Hemang A Desai

Saturday, September 20, 2008
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Hemang A Desai
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v                Published Poems of Hemang Ashwinkumar Desai
 
(1) Equation
 
Two semi-circles grown parallel to
Parallel railway tracks
 
Bent down blades of arm long grass
Peeping in their concavity
Poor stringless bows
Telling the tale of the heavy wind
Borne nightlong on scrawny backs like Vetala
Which flew away with cockcrow
 
And just as much
Or a bit more
Arched crone
One that would remind you of a sickle
 
Slouched stock-still in the first-class coupe
Of your train shunted to siding
You wait with your eyes unsidetracked
For a slight movement
A quick flash at least
 
Now, yes now
It’s due, of course
There it goes.
 
Two vertical tracks splayed between
Two arches frozen in the dead of
A simmering summer afternoon
And you
Form a striking equation.
 
Startled you strain to sit straight
And the sickle you had swallowed long ago
Tears your tummy apart.
 
(2) Fixation
 
Nobody can be sure how long he has been here
He came before anybody around
Hefty hawkers selling cheap knickers and trendy brassieres,
Salted peanuts and roasted grams,
Kitchen sink blowers, scrubbers, brushes,
Soapboxes and tumblers
Or the warty woman with bunch of grapes on her face
Selling equal bunches a day
Or that old map seller for that matter
Whose face has greater wrinkles
Than his khadi kurta has.
He was here when there were no pavements, no mosques,
No roads, no cities, no states, no countries.
He has lain by that pavement wall from time immemorial
A living witness to everything that has been
Written, scratched, scraped, graffitied and peed on it.
-Quit India
Tum Mujhe Khoon Do Mein Tumhe Azadi Dunga
Swadeshi Apnao Desh Bachao
Pakistan Murdabad
Allah-o-Akbar
Gali Gali Mein Nara Hai Hindustan Hamara Hai
Pani Manga to Kheer Denge Kashmir Manga To Cheer Denge
I love Meena
Meena is a slut
Call ---------- if you want to have fun
Kar Lo Duniya Muththi Mein
Jo Chaho Ho Jaye Coca-Cola Enjoy
This wall belongs to Municipal Corporation
Soiling it in any way is criminal-
 
He has slept over it all
The ashen slab under him has come to bear his shape
A macadamized map of a country no more
This post-colonial Bhishma is mortally wounded
But has fixed the period of his death
For his fixation with his no-man’s land
Nobody can fit better into.
It’s the seat of his acute consciousness
Of the years he had stolen from time machine
For none else to relive them in ensuing millenniums
To know what he knew
To feel what he felt
To be what he became.
 
He’d not commit the same blunder twice
Would not step down his rightful throne
For his fathers or stepfathers, uncles or stepuncles,
Brothers or stepbrothers, nephews or stepnephews
Grandsons or stepgrandsons
Not the same bloody stepbusiness again.
 
So cut the slab with time capsule
Bury him on his memory bed
Let him breathe his last with a relief
That his land will not be dismembered again.
 
(3) Blood Flood
 
Can you wash the blood of its black?
Can you redden the black on the blasted track?
You want me to write a poem
Forget it
My hands have gone to fetch out the flood of the red
Soaked by the thirsty road metal’s black
Along with a band of bloodied hands digging out the quaking land
Knobby hammer-hands, greasy palms and hirsute backs
Hands doing the time rake
Whack-whack hands, bite back hands,
Wipe ass hands, scratch back hands,
Hands without thumbs, hands weak and numb
Hands pale sallow or with rosy sheen
Bright blue or grey, brown, white, green
All hands dug with their mouths thrust in mud
But one hand carrying the swastika in palm shrugged
Wristless, anemic, crumbling fossil of mummified past
The digging hands bled,
The black that oozed form the land blasted their heads
They groaned and cried
And the wristless hand patiently consoled
Rose above the rest, showered holy graces
Then it went to sleep without turning off the drip
And the city got flooded with bloody graces
 
You want me to relish your poem
Forget it
My nose has gone to slurp the piquant red on the stink
The red of blood camouflaged by the stink of black mud
My infrared sensitive tongue nosing the red without a wink
Slithers hither and thither with
Snub nose, snotty nose
Beak nose, trick nose
Dunged nose, bunged nose
Big bee’s seat nose, rat smelling catnose
Everyone rootled the stench, but a fat nose blenched
Plucked a black lotus fed on the red in the marshy land
The lotus stank of rotting corpses and clotting hopes
And the nose admitted its anosmia
Can you wash the lotus of its black?
Can you wash the black of its blood?
Can you squash the flood of its blood?
Can you cause the blood to flood where once it did?
Can you guess exactly when the black in the blood hid?
Or can you tell me who actually did it?
 
Blood is thicker than water
They have soiled it
The black will evaporate
Somebody please boil it.
 
(4) War Song
 
In the dead of every anaesthetized night
An insomniac dog barks by my bedroom
Shattering the card house of cocoon sleep
I chance to creep only after oozing the whole day
 
Slighted by every sered bitch
And rotten right up to intestine
Gone to dogs completely
About to go to gods partially
But he barks still
Standing right under my coitus window
Spies on me, eavesdrops on me,
Nags me, pegs me, laughs at me,
Abuses me, diffuses me
Goads me, railroads me
Yokes me, provokes me
Challenges me for a final feud
I feel like shooting shabdavedhi arrow
But I am not Eklavya
Though I have lost my right thumb long ago
 
I have been Arjuna all my life
Pet of all, good to all
Apple of everybody’s eyes
Whose arrows could rend the sky
But who had to enact a eunuch for a while
- even he, the primeval Man, the Nara,
couldn’t escape the hereditary human syndrome
A fat-rat-pushing-in-the-manhole reflex
On seeing a crow
Yes even he couldn’t escape –
And it seized him in the nick of time
Made him yield his arms in despair
And shot down Bhishma from behind the shield of Shikhandi,
Who couldn’t kill Drona
Had Yudhisthira fall from grace and space
Naro Va Kunjaro Va
Who killed Karna when he was distracted and armless
Who couldn’t go to heaven in person
Too weak and helpless
 
But that dog readily went
Could this be the same fortitudinous dog
Telling me off for being so frail?
Or that one whose barking mouth
Shot stiff by Eklavya’s arrows
Froze my every limb?
May be because I can’t clap at
The mosquito who has entered my net
For the fear of awakening my wife
Who might, you know, take me for
a eunuch.
 
(5) Smoke
 
I am aware of your idiosyncrasies
When sucked and choked in the claustrophobia of my lungs
You taste like a jellyfish
Lip-servicing to salivating transparency
But be a serpent of a sizzle, swirl and sting
When I cut your umbilical cord
And let you free into your very own cosmic ubiquitousness
You smokescreen the rainy pallor of my eyes
- as you abhor everything crystalline and colorful-
Spongy white or dusty dark
You swim right up in the blue arc of sea upwards
Like an amorphous shark in collusion with other mutant white fluffy mass
To devour the chameleon of colours
With the skin of due, bubbly blue
Teary pallor, dot in the middle
Refracting countless hues
 
I wouldn’t know how many epochs
You had waited to see your dreams realized
- Hiding everything under your heavy hips
Co-opting it into your mythic smokiness -
Vacuous sky you swallowed long ago
Couldn’t fill the hollow of your pit
And you palled over the vulnerable earth
As the fifth epoch, after Kali
Claiming your mainstay in tigerskin pattern of
Black and yellow
Or burning blackness that in blindness wallow
In suicidal cigarettes, sateeing houses and buses
In the chagrin of chimneys worked by Churches
Which release you every now and then
To announce the birth of a new avatar
Who never descend, just like you,
To ignite my unlit hearth
 
You are a mutant fish of fattened solidarity
Simulating a shuddering shark
But remember O smoke
You are a total parasite
Owing your being to everything burning
 
I hereby vow to drink the seven seas
And piss around
Until everything burning is doused
And you are regrettably out
 
(6) Internet
 
Industry incarnate
Perseverance personified
You have not spared a single nook
Tied the world tightly
Falling freakishly apart
In your flimsy gossamer
You are the deliberate Creator
The Supreme binder
 
Spreading out your live-wiry legs on
Hexagonal ripples of silken webs
The shockwaves of calculatedly executed tandava dance-steps
You electrify the anthropoid trinity
Into a willful renunciation of sensual indulgence
- Seeing, hearing and speaking -
Flanking sedately a temple’s flagged faithpath
In line with Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma
Poised in midair
Floating in stardusted space
Sold in heaps on every full-moon-day.
 
A shrewd strategizer
You never swoop directly down
But wait like….
Expanding your diaphanous network
From the viscous sea in your stomach
-Only you and Agatsya have this voracious feat to your credit-
You hover over your prospective prey unconcernedly
And allow it to come out of its shell
The red ants scuttling in the anthill of my head
And let it fall in your stick-in-mud cordon of crisscross webs.
 
A detached attacher
You don’t devour
You leave it to its own devices
So as not to incur any sin on your head or stomach or legs.
Or may be there is a harebrained scheme in your houndhead
or stomach or legs.
You want it to be turned in to you
A prey into preyer
And aid you in your project of
cobwebizing however little anthills
left unwebbed.
 
(7) Imprints
 
Casting and leaving an imprint behind
is the law
etched by the strokes of wayward wind
on the sand of ebbing sea of life
 
the suspended sanguine sun
dazzles anybody’s vision
who stares into his fluorescent face
until its miniscule images
with patches of black and red
exact a sea to sink.
 
every goddam dog
for that matter
who sniffs and reserves all unurinated locations
with short jets of his urine
graffittying the invisible message for future sniffers
“Nobody shall urinate over this already-urinated over site.”
thinking that one day
when the whole earth would be washed with wee-flush
he would be called the cascading uriner
claiming almost half a hemisphere of earth.
 
 
And the quackery 
that sneezed at the sneaky serpent on my mother’s back
swallowing the successor of my grandpa’s sterile sperms
that unfortunately or fortunately
couldn’t take homo sapien shape
and cauterized my fair mother’s back
 
here I sleep on my pyre with my shadow
leaving behind no eyes, no kidneys,
no fortune, no diaries
no beliefs, no footsteps to follow
now or tomorrow
no will or ill-will
but
a woman who no more applies me on her head
a son who no more thinks me a fool
a wooden framed photo with
a wood scraps garland
that would hang slightly on
the left side of
the left window on
the left wall of the room
left to the bedroom
until fungi forms over it or
 
until my grandson replaces it with his father’s fit.
 
(8) Narayana
 
You wonder
How could he get everything
Worth his while
 
Just the right sized rectangular barrow
On ball-bearing wheels
The perfect base for his vajrasana posture
-one of the reasons why he can digest everything
Sweet, salty, soggy, stale sour, bitter
Shocking, rocking, balking, mocking, yoking-
He assumed right since he lost his foothold
On asphalt reality
 
To mount the surreality
Which entitled him to a free air slide
Exactly four fingers above the road
The modern Yudhishthira who
Unlike his precedent
Eventually went on to become
Steady in war
 
With sinuous arms and slippered claws
Tucking his index finger in place of toe
He handles the blackness below
Guides the newcomers to the city
To their destinations
 
As for him
He is a traveler to the horizons
Seaming the sky high ambition and sea deep truth
Of a crippled life
With the contours of bulging rainy clouds
The sallow expanse of shy seawaters
Kissed by a waning sun
The eyes of the platform-sweeper widow
Where he unfailingly reaches every evening
To become the Narayana.
 
(9) To the Omnipresent
 
O the lord of the ostracized
so what
if you can’t dwell
in miry luster of singed skins
in steady cradle with child slobbering over a broken bangle
in lawful hunger of unlawfully swollen stomachs
in the sea of eyes surging to catch the only shooting star
in the blood baring its intrinsic murkiness on asphalt roads
in cage rib of pinioned parrot heart.
 
you can live
in shapeless parvenu stones ungrateful to hammer and chisel
in garrulous graves chanting shlokas for lives fizzled
in the hollow dreams of texidermatised corpses
in the cardiogram contours of our lapse whorl
at some illusory jag of future where promises don’t die
 
in sigils of cow dung manuring thorny tongues
in totems of taintless non-tensile tenets in tenebrous sty
in odorous oodles of temples shooting like bamboos
in sullied rivers and on musty mountains
in glinting gold and chaste grains
in slighted gullies and on elephant black main roads with dead mahout
 
space is less, your aspect wide
but every inch of it
we’ll utilize
huts and houses
splotchy arches and crannied domes
we’ll vandalize
even in heretic hearts our holy tridents
we’ll drive.
 
but O the lord of the outlawed
tell me
why did you absolve that ghoul of gazni
even when didn’t shrive?
 
(10) Van and Shwan
 
Swollen-faced simian spread-eagled
Red lead-smeared
fixed in a shrine that squatted
like a screwed-up leper
On burning beggar footpath
Tearing his macho chest as if at public behest
Anemic Siya-Rama with the just-married’s celluloid shock
Sulking in the hulking’s homosapien hemoglobin flood rock
 
He is one of the seven immortals 
Seventh Day- Adventist’s immortal hope
though he never died
Living for all the seven ages
Never indulged in seven deadly sins
Would never get angry if anybody
Bhima or Ravana
Tampered with his prehensile tail
Would never be proud though he courted adversities
Befitting his masculinity
Gulping the sun, lifting the Himalaya,
So abstemious that ate nothing but fruits and roots
So agile that flew across the seven seas in a single breath
So lustless that steered clear of everything feminine till date
Because he is a brahmachari
Who never shed a drop of semen
Who surges with virility
Because he never wanted to push his way back into pre-natal protection
Unlike all the sissy sered dogs
Death’s head dachshunds
Who scamper away straightening their sickle-shaped tails
So deftly between their legs that
They give the impression of being belligerent Dobermans
Afraid of being hurt by unhurled stones
Seeking shelter in vulvas of bitches at every fateful night
Risking their semelparous sexuality
And who still graffiti urine-jet ablutions over the walls of his shrine
 
“Women should not enter the inner part of the shrine”
and
“Everybody should keep their shoes out.”
 
And who sniff at every
Dilapidated dome and pulverized home
To ascertain whether ‘Rama’- written stones
Smell of the same stale urine graces or not.
 
 
(11) Time Cauldron
 
How often might you have ogled today
At that detached hair of yours that
Clung desperately to your earlobe for all these while
And not being able to hold out any more
Took a hopeless plunge in the deepening pit of your shoulder?
How often did you sneak a squint at it yesterday?
And how often are you going to look for it tomorrow?
With the sum total of the times
You indulged in your obsessive compulsive disorder
A gigantic cauldron of time could be filled
And if you
Let’s assume
Jumped into it you would see
Your first standard bisexuality
Your second standard homosexuality
Your third standard heterosexuality
Adamant asopalavas aspiring to rip apart the sky
Bats doing shirshasana for eons to overturn the topsy-turvy world
Insurgent fishes swimming in the saliva in your mouth
And you swimming in the saliva of one such fish
Age-old layers of coconut hair-oil on the lounge-wall
And your almighty ancestors’ fallen hair fossilized within
Arcs of curled up naked ribs hiding their faces in the crumbling ceiling
And drooling spiders licking their backs
Cracked heels of mother rolling bhakhris
A zigzag pattern of your teeth on your wife’s squashy breasts
Bloodied carcass of a dead white Ashvamegh horse
Sitting beside innumerable barren belle
And coagulating illusion of innumerable stillbirths in their wombs
Ashes of smoked out lives settling thickly on ashen domes
Looming void groaning on the moist sagging cot
Distressing cry of songs slighted after composed
Lusty jackasses eating their own shit
Snoring pigs thrusting their snouts
In silky mire shining like burnt skin
And in the midst of all these
You
Woven tight at an untoward intersection on time’s loom
Standing in front of your cracking mirror
Gazing at the horns growing on your head
And unhatched eggs getting lost in the dense nest of wrinkles
A classic case of animalization and avianization of humans
 
But weak as you were at mathematics
You won’t take the trouble
And your calculator is too fast
For such a simple sum of addition.
 
(12) Dirge on the death of daredevil
 
history says ‘never ever dare cross
glimmering shadows of life’s ghosts.’
but you did
did as that yellow serpent
soft cool carefree
crawled off its carved course
crosswise the asphalt reality
got crushed
soft cool undermined.
 
you too lay cut-up cross on the iron bier rail tracks
crucified
because you crossed
because you didn’t know history
like that stubborn spider
struggling to hide the age-old photo of the purdahed woman
under the shadow of towering cactus
with dusty tangle of its webs
 
you wanted
to break the bloody horizon caging the flying song of sapphire sky
to pile the corpses of purblind farrows in stinking sty
to be different and so had to die.
 
they say you will become a ghost
they peer about in lecherous darkness for your shadow
but you can’t become a ghost as you said
ghosts are invisible day or night
ghosts can’t get their shadows right
ghosts dissolve in the darkness of blind eyes.
 
still the ghosts of life
halloo in slighted streets staring with the dullness of oft-raped eyes
hover over houses pandering to impotent lust and crushed bust
roadside dustbins overflow with piling polythenes of What? Who? Why?
souls on their last legs bellyflop with flippers
dusty white cranes stand stoically in black runnels
happy couple on platform bench sit close their hearts huddled
 
I am sorry but you won’t be remembered
By the fuddled shadows lost in time’s muddle
 
Published in “Crimson Feet” July, 2004 issue.
(13) Alchemy of Stones
 
 
splayed slut-like on a sinking stretcher
i wondered whether she was
a rock woman like the cursed Ahalya
and i was a shy sculptor
of glowworm dreams in the soot-dark hollow of my mind
rootling and jerking
to carve out of her
the sati of my whims
 
or whether i was an enlivening Rama
a life giver though for the first time
timidly stepping a stone to salvation
scuttling and smelling rat like
too afraid of swords of light that swipes and slashes
checking the chinks and creaks in sullen windows
inviting and open when i was out
closed and frightening when i am in 
 
but then she was not a rock woman
no she was a snail cringed shell
spreading her bangled wings out once it was over
and became a butterfly rocking the crying cradle
carrying the finicky fossils of some liquid stone lust
of some surreptitious salvager
while i lay flabby with
panting belly heavy bust
 
i also wanted to fly
but then the doctor said you have got stones
stones of aluminum sensitivity of steel stainless superiority
stones in heart stone in brain
stones in blood stone in vein
 
waiting to be operated with stones
contaminating fattening turning me into a statue
i look for the touchstone
of the Rama’s feet that would not disappear
in the dark of anonymity
 
Published in “Crimson Feet” July, 2004 issue.
(14) We, the people
 
We, the jiggered, jerk
suddenly slogged rat like
when life injects its vaccine
in our dead tails,
sitting sleepily in up and down train
regularly irregular, shunted and
pachydermatous.
 
We, the anonymous, graffiti
fucking figures eternalized into aching stillness
fidget behind cagey windows
to be seen by dusty window panes
of A.C. trains passing by
get lost in the exploits of detective novels.
 
We, the cupidised, speak randy puns
and get our eyeballs
forked by Christmas-cap cones
of pneumatics and
at ephemeral nights
welcome succubus with anklets
of trickling tap of toilet.
 
We, the queasy, sulk eating outside
as we can’t stomach
anything infectious
samosa, laughter, even happiness
of others.
 
We, the cheesed-off, with corruption and cronyism
dodge tax and tickets
be local geckos scowling at exotic bugs
wallowing in their paid-for privacy
reserve seats for friendly strangers.
 
For we, the people, life is
a splayed bitch tottering crisscross
on nought and crosses square
groping to fawn on a sered alsatian
for alimony.
Published in New Quest 153, July September 2003..
 
(15) To the Tower-clock that stopped
 
Even you broke the promise
of eternity
you bade to this city of finites
just as this sun immersing in golden sea
contravenes the parole of coolness
the next morning.
 
O the edifice of time
you were unblinking witness to its growth
from its carts to cars
its lugubrious lonely lanterns
littered like moon light on black lakes
to its sodium shafts blazing the streets as on Holi day
its infantile nakedness
to bungling pock-marked nudity.
 
Why couldn’t you coxswain
this single-souled shallop to
the shore of permanganate future?
its oars became
spears and swords
bisecting it into moieties
to be devoured by
the maelstrom of vanity and vengeance
whim and venom.
 
You didn’t shepherd it through the miasma
of blood that hasn’t gone asphalt yet
of flopping corpses that hasn’t decomposed in gluttonous gutters
of quivers of baited helplessness and smothered sighs that still echoed
of houses smoking bidis of life
of sore eyes that stopped waiting for Kalki.
 
You know that after every twelve of torture
comes innocuous one
then why did you stop?
tell me sotto voce
what did the pavement parrot sortilege?
triskaidekaphobia?
.
Published in New Quest 153, July September 2003
(16) Aghori
 
the natural nudist wearing the apparel of sky
tangly matted hair
a shock of stringy dusty beard
purdahing twin-baby pregnant belly
male-turned-female breasts’ nipples peeping,
emerges like an earthworm
from the prehistoric hollow he had crept into as
he loathes light
ephemeral and illusory
loves dark
all-pervading and permanent
 
he is an absolute sucker
-not in that derogatory sense-
but in that he sucks well
there he sucks a cigarette
with his lugubrious lingam
hanging loosely down his crotch
like a shriveled drumstick
he has trained it in sucking
first water, then milk, then ghee
and in a climactic crescendo
quintessential fire of a fresh womanhood
but without falling as
he preaches the gospel on the public pee-wall
“Every drop of semen shed, has a part of your youth fade”
thus abiding by the ancient adage
“Renounce what you want to pounce”
 
the holy ash on his body is
his armor against everything worldly
once subverting the sexual law of man losing, woman attaining
he snapped his bond with arousal
to avoid even an adventitious fall
chose cave over consort
to worship Lingam –the archetypal phallus- uninterrupted
however the earthworm performs staggering feats
pulls a car, lifts a heavy stone
and faith fertilizes barren women.
 
cross-legged he sits at times
staking his tarnished trident beside
-from its tip glides down the sun
cuts itself into a crescent moon-
poised on one leg like a crane
he does penance at other times
smoking a legitimate ganja chillum,
the devotee of Nataraja
sways and swoons in frenzy
and rocks the world
with the tremors of his thumping feet
at still other times.
 
(17) Celebrating the Immersion of Elephant -Headed Hulk
 
how do you feel O hulk
being left deliberately half-immersed in the shallow water
for the by passers to cast sadistic glance
craning your head desperately above the salty waters
hankering for breath  
seeing the sea world for the last time
waiting hopelessly for dissolution.
 
now
you realize the horror of slow self-diminishing
wearing away when you thought you had not enough
of life and love
of clumsy clay and flushing doves
drowning prematurely after the silly second
when you thought you had to eat the ladoos at home and go riding on your
rodent bike to friend’s birthday party eschewing homework
seeing whining darkness, ballooning big and heavy in mind
creating vacuum suction in ears, nose and stomach
floating feather-like into the bottomless valley of unknown
losing grip on the fading straw of consciousness
when serpents of water force their way into every pore of body
and you see silvery bubbles of life forsaking you
dancing, giggling and gurgling hidden truths
and you concentrate to unravel and understand
and peer until they blast into utterly white serenity of salvation
 until swelling balloon of blackness detonates
and you become a silvery dancing bubble
 
nobody will save you,
O the saviour of this flimsy world,
as you have eschewed your homework
have only eaten ladoos
and have rode on rodent bike
 
those kids* are definitely salvaged
what will happen to you soul
 
 
 
Published in museindia
 
*Those kids here refer to the kids who had drowned in the surging monsoon waters of river Damanganga on account of the collapse of the bridge at Daman. The socio-political ruckus flared up by the tragedy was doused inevitably by apathetic celebration of Ganesh Visarjan.
 
(18) Kaffeeklatsch
-
‘tis true coffee rouses you
in all five senses
more sublime than liquor does
and no sedimentation feared
 
a cup of cold coffee over a hot controversy
and the quadruped in you
raises to be a biped
to touch the posterior of platitudes
like a piggy mounting a sow
ejaculating ismic sperms 
stale and contagious
 
a cup of coffee over a salacity
and your ears become sensitive to
almost anything low
crooning of crickets in claustrophobic corners
burbling of the wiggling wind
and the hearsay of your hearing dog
 
a cup of coffee over an insight
and the blinkered microscopes of your eyes
can plumb paper thick depth
of Mona Lisa’s ochre eyes, nose and ears
and limbs
visible and invisible
 
a cup of coffee can sure cure your anosmia
and your bunged-up paramedic nose smell soporific sweat
in the garish wings of the budding butterflies
which you wish would embrace your whims
and lend some colour to your dark moon-burnt skin.
 
a cup of coffee can
gentrify all nine tastes
of this world
some utopian too
and can right
the headstrong bats
of your upside-down dreams.
 
but a cup of coffee gets wasted over
the sixth sense
that is kaput
like that of the lobotomized goat couple
fucking in butcher house.
 
O lord furnish us with feelers
or else invent a stronger stimulant.
 
(19) Proviso
 
I asked the sweltered sanguine sun
slinking into the sallow seawaters
“When will you set
our rotting rancid earth
on fire?”
 
The sun replied
“The moment you come out of
your glacial igloos.”
 
(20) The Original Sin
 
an apple a day keeps
blinding darkness away in which
i never wanted to be consumed
i wanted my head to be hallowed
with flashing light
i wanted my body to be daubed with blazing beams
so i did what Adam did
ate the apple
but it got stuck in my neck
and became Adam’s apple
to dance at the tunes of all consuming dark of my ballooning stomach
and my self-size shadow always remains with me
the sun blinds my vision
wherever i cast a naked glance at it
i have to wear black goggles
i have become shy of the nakedness of my eyes
i keep the curtains drawn
over my dazzling windows to keep it away
and also to keep the black eyes of neighbours at bay
because in my dark room
i strive to unravel
the dark mysteries behind bikinis of bay-watch babes
i remain cautious and careful about
the bungling Buddha’s laughing face
it should straightly face the front door of my house
i stealthily sneak a sidelong glance at my horoscope
i always think
if only Adam had not eaten the apple.
 
(21) Words
 
words are drones stuck up in
dusty webs of meanings
forsaken by fuddled spiders.
 
words are cursed chameleons subpoenaed
for having swallowed vibgyor bugs
and flayed open to the fancy
of blindfolded goddess of law.
 
words oozed from peacock’s quill
to colour their monochromic calligraphic fantasies
and danced on sandal bark
like chaste fragrant fairies
but ended up blackening public lavatories and urinal walls
crannied like a harridan’s face
strip teasing gargantuan gigolos
and seasoned sluts with big busts.
 
words are both saints and shudras
apotheosized and ostracized
revered and fevered
too sacred to shun
too tabooed to touch.
 
words are hollow prostitutes
wiggling on white- scummed volatile tongues
that lick and fuck them and abort them
when they become pregnant
leaving them hollow
again.
 
don’t you ask me to pen anything
you will find many a pimp
pandering for their brothels.
 
(22) Pining
 
i look and linger to become
a star, bright and burning
and much longed for
 
but then
stars have never embraced
any moths so far
as they prefer lamps to stars.
 
so what if they hang on sublime
in the sky
they are
 
                l o n e l y
 
they cannot lighten another as a lamp can
that’s why they commit suicide.
 
they say when the lamp of life
extinguishes
you are
reborn
as a star eternal.
 
well then its better
to be a lamp first
to be gushed over
by moths.
 
i look and linger
with my wick erect
to be lightened by another kind lamp
in the dead of dark stormy night.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Reviewed by Jeff Mason 9/24/2008
rather lengthy, but a lot of interesting poetry and prose.
please consider posting each one (1 through 21) as its own separate piece - then you will be able to get more meaningful peer reviews -- Jeff
Reviewed by Chantilly Lace (Reader) 9/23/2008
Interesting indeed...be well and safe...Hugsss



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