Hypnagogia

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Clouds are drifting away

Like a dream.

The frame in this movie

Guilded by golden

green leaves.

Sunshine percolates through

Our veins.

The day’s honey seeps

Into the gold of

Your iris, as I watch (you).

We watch the blue sky

And hear it telling us

A story (of ours).

 

We are now somewhere

Hanging in between scenes

Of a timeless motion between

The thresholds of a

Slow and sweet slumber. And summer.

To piano keys and

seconds of cogwheels.

The evening has yet again

greeted us with

A fairweather smile.

Abiding into night,

abiding into something

We are going to lose.

Like this date.

 

So long as we dance again

In the music of

Each another’s

Wholesome silence,

Our brief interludes

In the twilight and

Waking hours of the other’s

Will and desire,

Time and space,

Will run the

Rest of our show here.

In the garden built

On the loose soil of

Our love.

salt of the earth

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A storm brewed in her heart

The one she arose to, was just the start.

The cold gnawed into her breastbone where

A lair of desires convulsed 

with the sorrow of a lost dream.

Suspended still in animation. 

 

Your wet mouth she felt deep within.

Teeth seeking her spine up the navel of birth. The primordial canal of her beginning.

Where it is? 

She couldn’t find 

her insanity. When it is now,  she

wanted to push you 

and your blighty madness in her matrix that was becoming. 

 

Words hanging there reachable, her arms paralysed.

Unable to pick them, as you lay absorbed, in between her, 

raving in the layers of your twilight. 

Within, beneath, above and through.

Feral tongue twisting in her softness and black.

Usurping the valley of sweetness and

fresh salt, 

hidden in the forest you always thought you had sought. 

 

A minute of you, is a lifetime of sin, 

she thought.

The thunder agreed with the gale and the branches swayed in unison and might,

All day long…

A lonely sparrow cooed meanwhile, all night long…

H is for Hamlet

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This gray day has bought with it

Some wizened thoughts

Of a past not long back

When the feet knew of stinging bites

And the heart found love in

Nothing old or known and

Thorns and stones

(and stupid idealism).

 

The hunger has died, but the burn remains.

The urge to purge the stillborn memories

Of many of our dreams we built callously,

(brick by brick)

Whetted by the stone of curiosity,

Licked by the blade of loneliness,

they have planted beautiful blooms

for the Gods in their slave’s garden.

To be enjoyed while taking a pinch of salt

With a drink to our sealed fate.

 

Grief comes to those who have the time to cry.

The rest of us keep on running until

we run dry.

And sometimes we remember to breathe,

As there is nothing any longer to feel.

While the gush of air in dissolves the body

Into the universe of our head rush,

And the clouds above roll out the drums and the show,

but no rains or tears from within,

I often question the distant rainbow,

I remember seeing while I walked a prayer for you, only to get

An endless reflection of vacuous colours,

in the mirrored room of illusions I built for myself. All over again.

Forget me never

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Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the music in your heart.

I am the soul of your art.

Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the faint whisper in the sweetest of your dream.

I am the wisp o’ air caressing your face, in the deepest of your sleep.

Forget me never

Forget me not.

I am the remnant of your love for tomorrow.

I am the remnant of all your bygone joys and sorrow.

Honeysuckles

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Hold me tender, hold me kind

My bones are as fragile as your promises.

Hold me tender, hold me kind

My skin is as brittle as your valour.

Hold me tender, hold me kind

My breath is as feeble as your presence in us.

Hold me tender, hold me kind

My heart’s flower is as delicate as your fiery words of love.

The forest sings…

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In the quiet hours of lassitude, between the waking and rising hours of dawn, the soul of this forest yearns to be clasped in the crush of your old wide palms, a visceral map of all the worlds you have touched and healed.

 

Skin at every arousable tip stretched tight upon these mountains and hillocks pine for the wetness oozing from the music only your mouth can sing.

 

The alluring darkness of her secret alcoves and explored caves awaits to be played upon by your nimble long calloused fingers that have caressed the softness of many a  lovers’ lips.

 

The feet of her earth ache to be entwined with your downtrodden ones, to infuse your roots with the vigour only her soil could give, even if you have to trample upon her, again and again.

 

And somewhere between the beginning, the middle and the end of her terrain, when you have trespassed all her rocks and marsh and pits and lakes, she lies wide open and awake, to have all of yours in her, in union and unison until eternity.

 

Letting the glaciers of all your unshed tears hitherto melt into the rivers that would make her deltas fertile, as she gives you life, while you sob into her earthly scent the undying throes of your passion.

 

 

 

Sunshine

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I touch not, the skin of God.

Soul of the child my womb bore.

Eyes doorways to heaven,

Laughter orchestrating the universe.

Thoughts, hand in hand, ours,

The heart that learned music from mine.

A thousand times over let me be ill

And deprived.

A thousand times over let me fake a smile or

Take one.

To give you the hope,

To give you a home.

 

 

Tulips

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The sun shined a brilliant blaze through my

Glass doors today,

Shifting this mind numbing daze built in the column of my living,

With aeons of flying shed dust

That refuse to sediment in the murky waters of time.

 

As if God stood as a guest in guise outside our humble hearth.

Tears of brilliance and reverence in my eyes.

Maybe there is some one I could love

Far and close, near and away.

 

It is winter with no blooms to cheer you

In my withering gardens,Sweetheart.

They are as gray and sullen

As this season after feasts and bygone goodbyes.

As I gave the last of my mirths to

Strangers of blood and not.

But there are songs of robins and sparrows and whatever of them,

Still care to sweeten my

Ember of a soul.

Singing in gratitude of nature and time

And better days to come by

Because ’tis a beautiful one.

Today.

 

Last night I withered through the storms with

A wayward bough hitting the windows and door,

Like a petrified orphan.

And I thought of those obstinate kisses

I once wished for as much as the

Embrace that would not let go off my

Ill, rebel of a being.

Maybe, before I move to a better loved home?

 

For now, I have, however, some rainbow tulips

In a vase waiting for a Lover’s gaze

To unfurl every petal and drench his

Thirst for youth, colour and all that can be used up and ruminated.

Like an abuse you spew out of your mouth in terrible heat

Of your heart.

 

Come if you may, to sit by the fire.

Tell me some stories of yours, ours, what ifs and

Those that can never be heard.

Hold my hand, as fragile as the skin above my veins.

Dont let it go off,

Not even in an absent thought.

Because I can

With all that I have.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vanishing Acts

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I tremble at the thought of writing tonight,

As much as I trembled when I had to meet you

For the very first time.

Adorned by the night now,

Adorned with pearls then,

I hoped to see a queen in your eyes

Unmatched for the ones in all the heavens you sought for.

Or a simple lover forever, if not?

 

(For there is a sad ballad

I will carry with me to my grave tonight.)

 

You left me wordless,

And returned back like the escapist

You are.

Vanishing acts from the betrothed’s room

Into a one-time paramour’s heart.

You left me with the memory of a string of

Desirous notes,

I now have to comb and pluck out of falling fragments of reminisces

Frail as the dreams I once built.

Travelling through random air signals

Were the letters of our

Unmet lust.

 

And when your shadow almost slipped away again

From my vacant hearth,

I begged, I clung,

I loved, I stayed.

I whispered the voice of the woman you wanted,

Into your ears that were never there,

To taste.

Making love with that thin ghost of your

Sad, vapid voice,

While listening to the other ghost in my house

Chew.

Remaining sleepless through your sane remorses

And acidic hallucinations,

Like the faithful concubine

I hoped I would be.

For you, someday.

 

 

I dug into your tomb of decrepit again,

And there you are lying in the arms of yet another nymph

Time and time again.

With nothing to gain,

But the benefit of pain.

Oh what a joke of a rhyme

Your story has become, this time!

Rolling like a dog in the ecstasy of all that you thought would be yours.

And lulling back to sleep, with tears streaming from illusions of

Something called home.

An impossible dream, my love!

 

Oh constant inmate of wary pleasures!

If only you did not consider me worthy of

Ignorance marauded by your lifeless silence.

We could have lived in that cave between the rocks,

With only the ocean,

A third of our kind.

To know what it is to dismantle only in love

And all shapes of it,

Slowly,

Yet another perfect vanishing act,

To the ground that we fed our prayers to,

Once upon a time.

Like the shipwreck lying fathoms below us

Rusting and rotting with and into nothing

But the belly of the sea,

So sublime.

 

 

 

Divine Retribution

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What is ignorance

But another face of arrogance,

Wisely chosen to believe in

Bliss.

By her.

 

Cantankerous cackles of a misfit

Over air borne signals,

To the only blood minimally worthy

Of trustworthy.

 

Of pompous cries of valour in the battlefield, she spoke,

If the arrow of extra meat ever found her.

Her tired jowl and

Always sad scowl sighed,

She could endure

The poison her lover drank

And walk the darkness through blindness with

No sticks and pities required.

 

Will she be forgiven by the deities

Of her tribe?

Will she be laughed at by the children

Of tomorrow

With tales of jibe?

Forsaken by waves of mirthless merriment

Across the room,

She ruminates of all the galaxies to feast on

Had she loved a little more.

 

Will she have peace

In her silent thoughts

Of absolutely silent nothings.

Haunted by a heartburn of undigested concoctions

Of loss,remorse and musings now

So morose.

 

For life is a cycle of moments,

More so gray when living through them

But evermore greener when looking at them,

Had she held a palette of colours and a paintbrush of wit,

To imbue yellow into the stones of blue

And stroke a right red

As the mightiest of hues.