Saturday, 16 April 2016

Gypsy Cloud..!

My premonition fondles the lips which do not speak;
Of a silent mouth of expression & it's sorry squeak;

Her tongue tastes like an illusion she thrives upon;
To be an impossibility, for the possibility she seeks;

Neat as a lie, as frail as her resolve when it peaks,
Crumbles into cracks of her shell whereby she leaks;
She is the miscellany of vanity & a parasitical sigh;
Which throbs like a conceit when it inanely screaks;

Becomes a precise picture of ornery when she speaks;
Of her twine with ennui, when it blushes her cheeks;
Unfulfilled yet accomplished, incomplete yet perfect;
her fibbing eyes mirror her heart as it double-speaks;

Of my lucid craving for the abode I do not bespeak;
For the taste of a longing is neither to have nor seek;
A sure & friendly womb, for the abiding chasm within;
A courage to brave out self, a courage to become weak.

Wednesday, 22 May 2013

Aftertaste of Thirst...!

Thereafter nothing happened! I ceased to be. You quit not to. I did not wish to succeed, you desired to see my failures triumph and the road ahead turned out to be the only obstacle. We walked up-to it, like an epileptic inertia and opened ourselves up, to its perplexed closure. The key you were bestowed with unlocked the door, but not the mystery.

Now, having arrived here with a childish carelessness,
my only sanctifying sacrament, the absolution in my own depravity. Your parched embrace became my shroud, draping the coffin of my skeletal confinement, with an acute sense of oblivion. Shovel after shovel of rue burying me deep, into the realms of meanings, overwhelmed by whose obviousness, I fail to discern. For ground when found becomes a pretext to depart and when lost, the purpose to arrive.

Like a shot, you come to me in search of a realization, the penance in my eyes attempts to grope the guise in yours, beholding the reflection of it without disturbing the wakeless contours of the dream. Your blindness being the final resting place of my anxious sight, masks my eyes with varying faces of your gray heart. I visualise you turning into a wreath on the tombstone of my gloomy visions.

At long last,
like a dejection injected with desire strengthening its own fragility, the night, a condensed sigh never heaved, takes you into the folds of its peril. Suddenly you spread out like a bewildered answer and are relieved of yourself. The heaven succumbs to the silence of moon. I listen to the desires of the earth sobbing like a skylark in my heart. You paint yourself with pretense and dab devoutness on my eyes with the remaining brushstrokes.

Morning, an eternal tale of epiphany you dread,
grows into an altar where your insular silence confesses all the stories supposed to bring you expiation. With a devotional pretext, your lips pronounce my name, possibly to coax the dreadful faces of your heart away, from the candid void that made up mine, as though death of an accomplishment shrouds itself in the eternity of demise.

And so am I!

The distance with which you measure the gap between my constraint and your craving, a prayer afflicted with solitary pleasure, a desolation devoid of pain, the abode of remorse. A sudden sense tossed between one commandment and the other, alive only in the thud with which I fall on the flinty surface of desire, the aftermath of this fortuity, imperceptible, almost as perfect as Our Lord God, a sentient numbness.

A metaphor lost in the similarity of differences which turns me into a subtle shadow yearning to embrace your vivid image in my forgetfulness, and a powerful image looking at your subtle shadow from an arms distance when I remember.


A dream now, from the cracks of which you drink and draw the courage to face the mornings, as to disappoint the stealth of the day and entrap its blinding daze. A tomb to the continuum of time, whose epitaph is made of the regret of days adorning the grave which houses the solitude of nights.


A failure to contain my unrestrained bloom of aridity. I overflow the banks of accord & denial, to embrace the turbulence of discontent with which life flows. For only by journeying through the sin and withstanding the turmoil of guilt, can be attained loss, the sole virtue worthy an atonement.

The freedom rendered meaningless, dangling between your unconscious vigilance and conscious eyes, as a pause between an unknown calm and a known one, you having overcome the urge while I seeking to overcome the urge to overcome. A rapture full of furore, an affluence of nothing.

A momentary convergence of an infinite trial to never utter never, an inescapable inevitability.
The elation of its chasm lightening the burden of gravity. The blurred image of a vexed wonder which conjoins yet also demarcates, reason from feeling, cause from effect being from annihilation while itself staying clear of them all.


A farewell to the mockery of being which watched you orbit the absence of fulfillment, when it clung to the jagged edges of its own fragmentation, like a mysterious belief memorized to be forgotten for good.

In colours of the evening flowers hushed into an embrace with the black of the dusk, am the void which breaks down to fill the emptiness imprisoned between the multitude of lacunae in cosmos just to felicitate the repletion of the otherwise baffled sky.  

The squeeze of your supple absence letting the world trickle through a fracture, which separates me from everything & everyone that could possibly distance me from you, a fatigued & hollow promise relating you to the rest of existence.

A why that never happened without you, yet always hidden the same way too, like a seizure borne out of the doubtful what and a promising how. An enough, the journey which postpones the destiny, eventually sending it into exile unto the delirium of surrender, the lone perplexed tangible of existential clarity.


A desolation, the only companion to the deprivation of this prison whose walls are as lonely as the patch of blue sky making love to its hollowed gray, taking in each other, drop by drop, grain by grain, as if life devouring being, breath by breath, all during the very lifetime, until existence becomes a taunt jibing at life, life an unwilling existence in the making.

And then a limbo which brings me back to myself only to chase the dream away from me, to the ruins of your wakefulness, as a pilgrim unto vanity of being the visible invisibility

An announcement of silence as loud as the choke which whimpers my name and sticks to your throat like a melody in coma, an intoxicated disquiet, restraint in trance.


I am the fact, garbed in your naked perception, whenever I wish to bare myself before you, I strip myself off your desire and become fiction.

Thursday, 14 March 2013

Hungry Insolence...!

Holding on, my fellows, to the last missive from you,
The messenger, they bought him, his past, with their future
Of the cracks in a barren land, letting the patches breathe
I am the carcass, nourishing, the cracks, the patches
in this death, I outlived the life as comfortably as my dungeon,
which has oft outlived such myriad departures, unremittingly!

Don't denigrate the noose which embraced my Jugular vein,
She is a beloved, for being a tether, the only link to freedom,
Whose child is the difference, distinguishing me from you,
Don't mislead and call yourself saviors, Don't.
Wicked is the mistaken air of grandeur,
flaunted by a haughty destitute, and too of the,
pretentious insolence of the mistaken minds, like you,
who vainly try to draw rectangles, by a broken compass.

Don't misguide life, it is enough a lesson, a known error,
You are a cunning guise, unworthy of my austere temptation.

Didn't you all stopped being, the moment you betrothed
the existential convenience, watching with a comfortable grief, 
The Postcard pictures of slain fathers and the mutilated brothers
the mother whose womb became the grave of her unborn child,
the wife who demarcated her presence with her husbands absence,
the orphan who is consumed by the throwaway meals he eats
while you, as devotedly as printing presses, endlessly analysed,
their pain, shame, loss and painful shame of loss of being. 

Your tummies full with feigning words and with pitiless grub,
Your bodies lying in the warmth of your bedding, with a snub,
dissected the chill in their souls, the anguish in their hearts.

Didn't the determined will, of the hollowed lad,
cover the naked shame of your hideous phoniness
While your editorials featured his denuded dead body.
Why would you stop praising the lad for being a cause,
to bring forth such poetic semantics!?
Granted you are not hungry in stomach,
but let someone's blood quench the thirst,
of your careerist ends  and guided ego-trips.
What good is blood & flesh otherwise?!
Only spiced-up to be a morsel for vanity?!

Don't you mourn that which Is worthy to celebrate,  leave me be!
for,  you let them split your lives into alluring events, 
for you to celebrate your own bereavements.

Don't succumb to memories, when you can forget and fete
Don't call my deliverance a narrative, it is a slippery occurrence,
One you can never hold onto with the gloating weight of your guise,
Never bother yourself with the actuality of where and who it strikes
As when & whom it does, the upshot is kind enough to see you flourish,
You rightly have sidelined the shame, as cravings are shameless.

Monday, 3 December 2012


Perhaps, a veil made of the evidences, that gave me away;

To be reclaimed by your dissonance, pregnant with a calm;

And be a prisoner to the mystery which makes up your heart;

Me, an endless today betrothed to your strange eventuality;

You an ageless tug, a tomorrow after the time ceases to be;

A book by shape only, turned otherwise to a tiny slab of dust;

On your bookshelf, also must be lying, trapped in remission;

Memory, a darkness , passionately incubating all the dreams;

The long silent pauses, illuminations, blackout with an abandon;

Perverse strings of a million spaces and of the millions of faces;

Disappearing into a dot, lonely and pointless, vanquished;

Such a posit of wish-less devotion, your memory, my absolution;

Memory, that props up as a wall of separation, only to become;

The very path, that puts us up in unison, an echo unto the void;

Patience of our shame, witness to the desecration of insularity;

A shade of cold light embracing the shadow of sanguine darkness;

Life not even an existence, only odd presence, mere absence of us;