Monday, December 29, 2008

Searching 'god's particle'

I often dream of
longevity
words and
metaphors
are my aphrodisiacs
I need a retreat
where I can hear
you with my eyes
and see you
with my touch
where you are there
and not there
where I thirst
for words and you,
gazing at the river
from her silted edge
like a Narcissus.
Here in these shores
the phantom of
love allures
and beckons
from the depths
to devour, possess
and destroy.

I dream of
de-weeding me from
your terrains
laden with landmines
that explode
I may step or
step-over your body.

Mine has ammunitions too
those retakes of my pasts
embalmed on my skin
where lunacy is pleached
to rise a mushroom cloud;

I need excuses
to excuse myself
I need your madness
to warp and cleanse mine.
For a while, love,
let us barter our pasts,
let negatives
cancel themselves
in the large cauldron-
collider of our memories
and sadomasochisms
which rule to
destroy us to create
that 'god particle'
which can never be traced
even in our subatomic
existence, or our
inane complaints
of our histories
and childhoods...

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Moments of Absurdity

This moment of absurdity
you touched my arm holding a glass
half-filled with liquor, ice cubes
Tears rained down like deluge
There was absurdity, when I looked at you
and you stared back unsure of the hidden
vibes in the big-eyed, bovine stare,
startled yet not scared, more surprised
at the joy tomorrows held, or else how did
love curdle to hate within split seconds?
Won't there be a truckload of smiles
tomorrow, preluded by today's sighs?

Then
when I counted those yellow tiles,
the wallpaper, interspersed with white,
I lost count always at ten in my inebriated
gaze, when you sat near me, didn't I miss
your camaraderie by a whisker, ruled
by runes of delusion and self pity??
In another moment of absurdity I drained
the scotch sieving ice with my teeth and
saw my breath mist the rims
I tried to spell 'v-a-c-u-u-m', then
walk in a straight line,
each toes touching the other, measuring
my steps and I knew that vacuum
could be like the vapor left by
the sighs of the bereaved, in this heat
even a tear drop turns to air in a jiffy.

Then
I emptied ice into the sink, washed
my glass and trundled upstairs,
hardly able to contain the beauty
of words I wove to etch
out the pain conjured from life!

In the final moment of absurdity
I hit my pillow with my verses
and felt happy how I could transform
tears to words, and words to verses,
in my drunken trance, I slept with
my Machiavellian manoevres to script
the triumphant saga of survival.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Physical travails: Geographies of love

After Tom C. Hunley


I do not feel guilty about
Remembering the day when
I was a virgin in a clumsy dress
And you sat me on the soft
Sofa and sealed my lips with
Yours and told me it was a kiss
I wondered why you laid
Your arms limp on my waist
Not sure of its next move
As the music crept up
In tune with the unsure
Decrescendo of our innocent love
Like the faltering heartbeats
Of a man yearning to live

Today, when not innocent in love
You kiss me against the mesh
Of my resisting teeth, like them,
My bones also bear the trace
of my upbringing as they melt
down my shoulders with your touch
I “mmmed” not knowing how to
Translate love, lust and fear
All bundled into one
It is like a journey to the
Unknown, the excitement of
The geographic travails
Engraved on my body, as
even my entrails belched with
The knowledge of an impending
quest. I could just close my eyes ,
explore you and feel powerful
at the same time when explored.
When not lost in those games,
while kissing you for instance, you
probably didn’t know that in my
“mmm” or my lack of articulation,
or the flutter of my eyes,
I bury my truth that I desire
not to live, love and die alone

Saturday, December 13, 2008

It wasnt long ago
I started forgetting
names, dates and faces,
I started writing verses
left them forgotten
on windowsills, tables
piled with papers, ah!
the garbage of my mind,
never to find them back

I have this strange dementia
you see, I repeated to doctors,
they said its memory loss,or
amnesia when i lost currency
and wandered penniless in the
well-crowded streets, stacked
and resourceful, brimming with
movement and practical life.
I sank in the crowd, with my
lonely thoughts. i wander my
house alone like a ghost with
vague memories like years of
soot in an ancient chimney

It so happened that I tried to
cleanse the sea, the streets
and the dusty leaves, sucked in
all the muck till they sank
deep into my quagmire self.
sessions that give a tantalizing
glimpse of madness never help.
the madness that never stays
but comes and goes, like a lover,
or the music that stays, enthralls
and leaves. probably this music is
madness too, like the cosmic dance
that looks still to human eyes
or the pack of cards neatly piled
or the algebraic illusions
of measuring the world
the madnesses that come and leave
amidst chaos
that rattle like rain at night
that shine on my nape till it burns.

You silhouette my skin,
pull me into the sensual world
senses that I own and disown
that sanity which dissolves
like ice candy, only when you
whisper love in my eager ears...

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

The Impotent War song of Saleem's Children

A Requiem for the 70s Generation

Lost in snores and palliatives
my generation seek solace in an
illicit touch. Companions, found
for life, tire us as we down vials
full and sob at the embarrassment
of our matrimonial disasters.
Shunned by gods and demons alike
we live our pre-lapserian dreams
with noose-tightened-napes.

Born cursed in the seventies, caught
in the smouldering streets of slogans
and spiritual peregrinations, nation
building and the hippie deluge
were lost on us, the Beats looked
angels without a cause when cynics in us
sprouted wings. We saw those revolutions
of bloodless daring drench our dreams,
in a new era, we stood helpless as
posterity surged with a violent speed.

They were a few, we were awed
by our own mavericks who dreamt
of the moon and scaled the poles.
Tubular railways to electronic
chips won our wide-eyed applause as
we used them with unease, till the
world urged us to expand to its pace.

For us, the children of Emergency,
jittery to the core, guns or blasts in a
distance and the sickly sweet shell of
relations scare our wits off. A frigid
generation caught by the virility of our
pasts and future, we sob at our plight,
break down when jobs whisk pass us
into the hands of a confident future.

We, the Sinais, children of surrogate
paternities, break all Commandments
and Sermons of the Mount, covet our
neighbours spouses, woo them clandestine in
virtual and real, even in the thick of cynicism,
we search for that illusive paradise that once
denied entries to our illegitimate selves.

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