Monday, April 12, 2010


My broken pieces
were glued by
your love

My torn soul
darned by words
I garnered in love

My life has
just mirrored
how well

fragments make
a whole

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Tit for Tat

In my sleep is your waking desire
that is tit for tat
my intuition counters your crafts,
these gender wars,
aren't they tit for tat?
My idols are shattered by your
my dreams by your nightmares and
they turn around
you call them tit for tat.

My world is round,
the rim of the well
you roll them up
like your cuff sleeves
and you call it tit for tat.

your world is the globe
in which you trot around
the difference is,
you say, tit for tat.

I live in books,
you, in mind's
conspiratorial alleys
you call it tit for tat

My woman's glance bites your stares,
when my heart bleeds your ego swells,
in my forgetting is your remembrance,
in my virtual is your real,
in my weakness is your strength
in my annihilation is your existence,
in my follies are your vengeance,
in my silence your eloquence
in my calm your turbulence
in your nights my days ....
would you still call them tits for tats?

Friday, April 09, 2010

Anaesthetic Limen

Before each surgery,
the catharsis of an
enemata rebirth,
between the ward and
the operation table,
one life to life,
between breath and
the oxygen mask, is the
euphoria of anesthesia.
I go for surgeries with
a touche of a subconscious
fear of ranting my past,
my future-present with
no tense attached to
the conscious tongue;
equating sedation
to hypnosis

The anesthetist is always
a kind man, asking if this
is the first incision,
or if my first born is a boy
even a cryptic observation
of the persistence of lipstick
on the patient's lips, traces
the nurses wipe away with
a quick disdain, I count
on my God's and blessings,
the convent litanies that
my rebellion has not erased;
with my Hail Marys, I wait for
the mask to descend with many
uniformed arms assisting
in diminishing my pain.

As a murky life plummets
into darkness, first I inhale easily ,
then with the dryness choking
to sense a weightlessness
lifts me up like a feather,
I can see my heavy self
laid flat on the surgeon's table.
I float about like a detached
soul, Ariel in flight to see
my Caliban chained to morphine
and various surgical tools,
gazed on by a scissor happy
surgeon and his bevvy of
nurses, an attender and the
kind anesthetist. I sink
after a brief flight,
wake up groaning in a pain
that hurts not just the body,
but my once-feather-weight soul
in the post-operative ward,
I am alive once again!


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