the lack of a person
pools next to me in bed
in shape shifting puddles of ink.
Friday, 24 July 2015
Sunday, 12 July 2015
Again
Again,
An insatiable flood of colour streams
inside
Channeled by twin charcoal paintbrushes,
Murals are painted
inside
And every day
a fresh coat is applied
Again.
An insatiable flood of colour streams
inside
Channeled by twin charcoal paintbrushes,
Murals are painted
inside
And every day
a fresh coat is applied
Again.
Overdue
The smell of you on my fingers
Droplets of your skin in between the grooves
Of my fingertips.
Crop circles traced
on your back.
My eyes caught in yours, whilst
the future presses against my eyeballs.
the future presses against my eyeballs.
Oh, if I could store every
Disintegrating moment in
A bell jar.
...
...
The past cannot be felt
So what is the point of this living?
Harf
My words lie impotent
under the filled glasses
of wine that
were yours', and once
were mine.
...
आवाज़ दे,
कहां है?
under the filled glasses
of wine that
were yours', and once
were mine.
...
आवाज़ दे,
कहां है?
Momentum
I have the same realization
Fifty three times a day
Orbiting in an ellipse;
The gravity renders my wrists mute.
Fifty three times a day
Orbiting in an ellipse;
The gravity renders my wrists mute.
On Edward Hopper - written in the Trump Hotel, Las Vegas, May 2015
https://koriental.files.wordpress.com/2012/10/hopper-11-a-m-1926.jpg
girl sitting, naked
save for pair of
dress boots, pink
and tasselled.
boor-zhwa-zee armchair,
sitting
opposite her, window. Bare,
save for a
summer low-cut
curtain, barely modest.
She peeks underneath the hem,
and outside
opposite side of the street,
house.
Unornamented, save for
an unmown moat lawn, and moans
of familial life escaping from within.
Life that means the world to itself.
Across the street, she peeks at this
almost-silent house, and the house winks back
in the receding evening;
waiting.
girl sitting, naked
save for pair of
dress boots, pink
and tasselled.
boor-zhwa-zee armchair,
sitting
opposite her, window. Bare,
save for a
summer low-cut
curtain, barely modest.
She peeks underneath the hem,
and outside
opposite side of the street,
house.
Unornamented, save for
an unmown moat lawn, and moans
of familial life escaping from within.
Life that means the world to itself.
Across the street, she peeks at this
almost-silent house, and the house winks back
in the receding evening;
waiting.
Chilla-nashini
She hides her nakedness from Hāfez, and yet he himself sought consciousness in her wine, and
would give up Samarkand
for the mole above her upper lip.
would give up Samarkand
for the mole above her upper lip.
Friday, 10 July 2015
Swallow
Lost in a sea
Of strangers who speak
In liquid tongues;
This amber infection spreads fast:
All alone at last. Alas,
That happiness is framed in a
Touch and a word, and photographs
Of kisses never fade.
I wonder if white mice
Desire the crutch of their cages.
Mine is not large enough to dissolve me; I
Float in lumps above the everyday.
The sun holds; by night men lose their reason.
Cower in quiet desperation
As the day squelches; whirlpools into the unplugged dusking sky.
And I only find solvency in an English response.
Words like flotsam.
Sentences like driftwood, lost
in the evening slurry as soon as they're said.
I swallow.
Of strangers who speak
In liquid tongues;
This amber infection spreads fast:
All alone at last. Alas,
That happiness is framed in a
Touch and a word, and photographs
Of kisses never fade.
I wonder if white mice
Desire the crutch of their cages.
Mine is not large enough to dissolve me; I
Float in lumps above the everyday.
The sun holds; by night men lose their reason.
Cower in quiet desperation
As the day squelches; whirlpools into the unplugged dusking sky.
And I only find solvency in an English response.
Words like flotsam.
Sentences like driftwood, lost
in the evening slurry as soon as they're said.
I swallow.
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