Wednesday, August 24, 2011


Even after we left
I know
our laughter remains
clinging to the underside
of the desks.
echoing, rebounding
increasing in volume, in madness
my infinite memory.


Fan on the slating roof
prattles to itself
and continue its complacent
one-foot dancing.


Dawn created indigo shadows
spattered over the pebbled ground
phenomenal things occurred
with every breath the day took.

shadows in sprawling patterns,
in strange ways
finding connections
to the ground it lay upon.

inanimate, intangible coincidences
the ways of the universe

the wind made a leaf laugh
it grows yellow, mellow
dries and dies.

In my head is a dead butterfly
iridescent powder from its wings
filling the fissures and folds.


Come taste my hurt
feel its depth
the congealed blood

touch my wound
the pain within.


Remembrance is a tricky area – a shape-shifting mass of grey mist reflecting at once a dove, a bowl of soup, a cat’s furry paw or the delightful last page of a book – all passing over a pool of still recollections.

Sometimes all I remember is a rush of smells, a long forgotten flavor or a maddeningly familiar texture.

Photo: Leaning against my Dad's old Rajdoot on a Christmas morning about 20 years ago.

A Poem Wish

At times I wish I could-
turn myself into a dryad
and in the heart of winter, hide

weave from there
the poetry of spring.

Some of Us

Some of us have lost our minds
they lay abandoned on sidewalks
and freeze until they implode or crack.
like toys left out in the rain
faces bleached, clothes covered
in goblin excrement
their souls stolen by the cowering storms.

Some of us never find them again
They lay there, blue
running from their eyes
a grief-stricken blue rivulet
streaming down their rosy cheeks.

Some of us don’t want new minds
so we lie under the garbage piles
and see another kind of dream
of nylon hair and plastic limbs

a trapped sigh,
a silent tongue.


Each word you say
is a key that manipulates
the complex mechanism
of my love.


I believe if mushrooms could speak
it would narrate the tale of the rain.

the secret language of spores
of the infinity of things.

Picture: Trees at Fort Cochin


My need spins a disgusting snare
around you and your symbols
my love,
my allegory.

Photo: One year back on a rainy day at Varkala Beach, Kerala. Photo courtesy: Superfuzzy


She laughed with an odd bitterness
of an Eve banished from paradise
before she could taste the apple
before she could taste her Adam.

her hair, premature grey
under the bloated moon, shone
the grey strands like alliterated verses
between a long ballad.

A piece of sky melted,
and in her eyes merged
where a thousand mad moths
danced to an invisible melody
a flame in the storm.
distant, frenzied.

and suddenly she smiled, golden tongue
flicking over a pomegranate mouth
I realized that
she needn’t taste Adam,
nor the apple

because she had tasted the angels.


specters of dead wings
shrieked in the air

Friday, August 19, 2011


We keep our mysteries simple. Our distances complicated.

At times it involve the folding of a leaf and whistling through it, or finding logic in the patterns on a turtle’s shell. (We left it in a shoreless lake engorged with jellyfishes, remember?)

The dawn outside the gates were unutterably beautiful, we danced like nobody was watching, we made love like nobody was listening.

And nobody was.

We were free, we escaped, we learnt.

Not everything was explicable perhaps. Through millenniums some things remained the same, others changed. The innocuous Sundays, the handfuls of over ripe grapes we ate, the tea we made (milk, sugar, cardamom) and our helpless laughers made up our incomplete backdrop, that room smelling of  jackfruit, our helplessness, or harmlessness. But I said incomplete, it was incomplete. You blew the dust of my memories into the songs you sang at night, the music sparkled and I appeared in your arms, a shape carved out of your voice. I sewed you into my scent and sought your presence in the t-shirts I stole from you, sniffing, memorizing and agonizing. It was all incomplete. Hasty stories, fervent byes, and our conversations filled with the incunabula of many still-born plans.

Plans, a cornucopia of plans. Elaborate, intricate, scorching. I wonder why we believed that we could change the world, when we ourselves were only evolving, selfishly devouring each other, thriving on our identical lunacies excluding the rest of the world. What they sang defined our perfect little imperfect world, "....two lost souls swimming in a fish pond, year after year...."

But, how we dreamed! Still fathomless trance-lakes threading over infinite green and purple slopes of our dreamscape. Our irises were two pairs of rainbows splashing the world with iridescence. What we saw was beautiful, we touched each other and we were beautiful.

With you I lost count of the number of restless needs I clenched in my fist, I lost my footing too, flailed, then sunk into a vortex of stars. My bones grew pellucid fins and I swam across the universe to you. The pain was at times delightful, the happiness sometimes unbearable and the temporariness of it all was addictive.

The Tree of Knowledge remained lush and lonely in the abandoned paradise. It could only watch the sky produce a fresh batch of clouds each day and think of us. I think it misses us, but we don’t miss it. The bliss of ephemera is so much more precious that the monotony of eternity. We are free.


When your head turns into a dark cloud
or swell into a worm balloon
When the cards are reshuffle,
veins re-laid
When all the broken windows are barred
and the glittering castle
sleeping in your eyes crumble.

laugh your cackling laugh
harden the nail paint on your face
forget the sinking feeling
and the moonless horizon
forget the ache in your throat.
Forget to remember.


Saturday, August 13, 2011

Notes from a Disguised Kitchen

Sometimes something as simple as a cookie case, a petal, a pencil sharpener or a scrap of news on an old newspaper can create a myriad cluster of thoughts, a sudden inspiration, a half-day worth of possibilities, a life-time of magic.
Trees does this to me all the time, I can never get over that feeling of saudade when I see a tree, especially a coniferous tree.

The cough syrup bottle broke yesterday. Through the broken glass pieces the world became amber-hued as though steeped in a sea of rich forest honey.
In those moments, memories of bygone longings come flooding by and I feel nostalgic about things I’ve never experienced, about a life that I never lived. In such instances I ask the dead poets to sing to me the purple song and colour the air with vaporous bliss.


Each night the stars percolate in through the roof and sprinkle down on me and I wake up with my face covered in dew-wet petals, little miracles left behind by the stars melting on my skin.
I live in a kitchen. It was built to be used as a kitchen, it was meant to be a kitchen. A cement counter runs all around, there is a hole on it for the tube of the LPG cylinder to pass through, a tiny window and a large sink. Yet it's no longer a kitchen, I live there, I revel there, I rot there.

The kitchen sink has inspired several stories, imaginings and promises in my head. The ever-leaky tap has filled my nights with vague terrors; the drip-drip-drip... measures my heart beats, gives punctuations to my musings and turn into bizarre sign posts and street lights in my obscure nightmares.
Some days the water stops and the dreamy songs rise from the tap's dry throat. The song lights up its infantile mouth as it floats out, a yellow curling ray of light that fills the room with music.

I pray to myself each day, to be light, free and forgiving.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Smoke over Spirit

Nothing still
Your lemony aftertaste
pieces of me
distilled fragments
with your fervent touch
your prying mouth
holds a thunder storm

This is for you,
you, yes YOU.
you know who.

Friday, August 5, 2011


Words trembling
At the sticky tilt

Wanting to leap off.

Will you

Help me


It out

To roll the R's -- To swirl the tongue
To purse the lips -- To spill the beans

No truth potion, no torture
Could make me confess

The sound of night's indigo voice
And what it whispered.

In your soul mirror
I saw

All that you possessed--
The songs of a thousand kingfishers

Shimmering intangible colours
And my lute that you took away

Pledging infinity in return.

I see its point
When it holds back

Pink eyeless screaming worm
Blindly trashing
Rolling back
Imprisoning itself

A muggy cave of beginnings. Here, I
Stick out my neck, unstick those words.

Put your tongue
Where it belongs

You know where--


Probe for me

Among the distilled
molecules of my

Fragmented self.

Stifle my cries
O prying mouth. Seek
The lyrical secret.

Crush my words
Winged monsters

I want to speak
With my wounds.