[untitled]

I boarded the train at the metro
at around 9:00
or 9:15
or perhaps, 9:30, 9:35
but time is of no consequence
here;
I had to go somewhere
I remember
from here to there,
there to here;
what does it matter?

I sat
the Alchemist, my sole companion
held my hands
and we were
falling
in love
perhaps.
But now I can’t really remember him
or her
what does it matter?

There were others too in our compartment
with us
and without;
we were together
oh yes
we were together;
they had eyes,
no irises,
no flowers
ever grew below the earth;
so there was nothing to see anyway
but I saw shadows of them
each penetrating another
to give birth to
monsters,

we were journeying together
endlessly,
here to there,
there to here
from darkness to darkness
although there were electric lights within
to illuminate
floor, furniture, faces,
advertisements;
I looked out of the window
and saw
Narcissus
drowning in a black pool
but no promise
of a flower.

A phone rang in a corner,
that farthest corner,
a voice,
it was mad,
it was selfish,
it spoke alone,
perhaps
it was lonely,
merely sound and
Echo
lost and drowning in its own waves,
insignificant;
my neck,
a serpent,
twisted, turned,
meandered,
in search
of what?
I never remember

We had everything before us,
we had nothing before us,
and behind was the same;
we traveled
from darkness to darkness
contained in a tin box,
sardines
marketed
here and there,
there and here,
rotting in between
the sky and the fires

But what does it matter?
what does it matter?

The Shirt

When you sat down
To sew my torn shirt
With needle, thread and
A forgotten love song,
You pricked a finger and
I realised,
You bleed too.

On days,
When I wear that shirt
I wear my gray coat to hide
A red secret.
__________

On Grandmother's birthday.

Amidst the party hats and presents
Wrapped in garish colors
From the remains of family and friends
She cut the lovely chocolate cake
She wasn’t allowed to eat.
Yet nothing was left
For the fridge.

They sat her in the corner
So she’d have a view
Of all the song and dance,
And when it was all over
Wished her goodnight and a long life
In one breath
And left her to clean up the mess.
__________________________

Th Jacaranda Tree

It grew in a purple madness
Perhaps at the joy of having him
Close enough to hide him in its shade.
He was just a guest, a tourist
And he also made a remark about
"The pallid splendor of this savage beauty"
And how he’d love to
Plant it in his backyard.
The tree sighed,
And shook its branches to bathe him
In blossoms.

In the evening, he left
Without a word.
The violet, bloody now, in the sunset,
Stood nude, perplexed,
Its garments stretched out on the floor –
A royal carpet for him to walk on,
Not to walk away!

That early morning, we found
It moist from last night’s weeping
And all around us,
Purple tears.

***********
*******

A balloon boy.

Go visit this little street,
Squeezed by grey buildings;
It slithers like a worm.
It has muddy puddles
Which reflect your face
In ripples.

There will you see him:
A young boy thinly clad,
A floating cloud dancing above his head
Attached to strings.
He sells red hearts to lovers and their child
For a few coins.

He sells them to strangers,
Who burst them open
To reveal a nothingness.
And at times, a stranger's grip is loose.
Then they drift up and far away,
Searching.

They walk away into the grey -
The lovers and their child - happy now
With the purchase of an inflated rubber balloon!
Such was their want of a heart!
The giggles get stifled by the dark,
When suddenly, it breaks, with a loud burst!

When he presses his gaze
Into a restaurant,
Saliva leaks like a faulty tin roof.
The man in uniform,
With dirty words, chases him away.
He and the balloons dance to their rhythm.

If you ask him,
Of his dreams,
They are ridiculous!
You'd look at him with such disbelief.
Why you'd break his heart
With your laugh.

At night a man hurries through the lane;
Another sits here, another there.
They all have daggers, to stab you open.
The buildings shut their yellow eyes
And turn away.
They'd rather avoid the scene.

And yet he sits there till late,
With his red hearts,
Vulnerable to those steely lusts.
For he too desires
In that sameness, that is theirs and his.
After all, he has hearts to give away.

Will you stay on then?
To witness, a spectacle, so...so strange;
To see those strings get cut in a dance of blades,
To see the balloons drift up to reach the moon,
Spread like stars across a secret night;
Those same balloons filled with air.

Nausea

It was one of those days, when there are songs in the air and rain to keep beat. We decided to go for a cycle ride, all of us, to unburden ourselves from ourselves, to run away into the dark, to get lost. The rain chatted on tin roofs, and on the streets, noisily. It had secrets to tell, but we had more to tell each other. I left the whole world in my room, except my wallet. It was the heaviest thing ever, even though it was empty and yes, the emptier, the heavier.
Anyway, we were on the road that goes around in circles, and we cycled in circles. We didn’t have anywhere to go. Yet, we were in such speed and hurry to reach that end now, and then that end. Well, you can say we were searching for endings, but we didn’t really find any. It was alright though – We had each other to search with. So we cycled here and there, there and here, leaving trails for each other. No one else besides us would have wanted to follow. So we led and followed each other into the dark, passing cars and cars passed us. And we saw so many faces on the roads, all of them were the same to us. They were all nameless. I wouldn’t recognize a single one tomorrow.
So we cycled, and then came night – Night – not the ascent of dark but rather the feeling that stirs inside you telling you to rest, to sleep, to quit; it told us to leave our vehicles behind, and we, slaves, obeyed. And it was over.
Do we go around in circles again tomorrow?

an evening run

i run in the dark,
in the wake of cold fears,
half-aware of where my next step will be,
to feel the black wet mesh
brush against the warmth of my skin
as i devour it,
to feel my flesh wanton
in sweat - drops of me
penetrating out through a thousand pores,
to see the view
with that tourist's interest, indifference,
the one i had a chat with, sipping tea,
to meet that end of the route,
glance behind,
and see where i was then,
to listen to the grass
crumble - yellowed memories -
beneath my feet,
my body pounding my heart
in that heavy aching rhythm,
while i litter a thousand thoughts
here and there
in that discolored dark;
then i move on to something familiar.