The loom of life

Now that the labyrinth has been made throughly numb,
all we have to do is follow
the malleability of ambition, risking of course,
the collapse of conviction

when we are on the edge push will come to shove
then we will find the abominable abyss we so dreaded
to be only an echo in the nightmare of history
inept and inconsistent with the waking propellants of desire

And those in the higher echelons shall beckon
And those in lower rungs shall be inspired
The trajectory of dreams will find congruence then,
And the threads of existence shall dance in the loom of life.

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Season's Greetings

Winter stumbles under the drunkard poet’s gratitude
The provenance of ten thousand trembling thoughts
Burning like the fireplace he can only dream of tonight

He’s smashed but the derelict has yet to disintegrate
Slouched, he thinks he’s aerodynamic for the gods who’re
Wondering if he’s hovering or merely levitating in delight

The threshold of pleasure retreating into the night
With promises of bitter strength injected at dawn-
Paracetamol greets him with the season's best

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Porn Star

Trashy porn star effortlessly slides
Around the well-oiled corners
Of my dirty mind

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In answer to her question

Your question will not make us wise
Some answers aren’t made for speech
But the truth is, eyes meet eyes
Souls find souls - there’s one for each

It’s not that the answer is any more clear-
Than the voices I hear - though they motivate
But who’s to debate over what fools hear?
And who may hear what fools debate?

You might be my long-sought twinkling star
Or maybe just a reminder of this romantic riot
You’ll be mine eventually- even if as a battle-scar
But for now, keep close and keep quiet.

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Autumn Migration

The flutter of autumn,
Birds in migratory excitement
Cedar twigs wave

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On Poetry

Poetry is for those with too much time,
To put aside
As remnants of our fleeting glory -
Words multiply and divide

But which word’s worth is more
Than the inscrutability of them all?
No, poetry is a mere amplification,
An exaggeration - however small

We are but an accursed lot
Us mathematicians of desire,
Though poetry gets us nowhere
But at least it gets us higher.

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Que Sera Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The best things in life are free

To run away.

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The Oracle's Employee

When the fecund loafer said the world was not enough
That he could not outweigh the lies with truth - the heavier stuff,
Did you not feel the urge to peek inside his radical mind?
And repent for what you had was not what you had left behind

Supposing it was destiny that paved the path beset
With assumptions that we'll never meet - let's pretend we never met
Would you then, my queen, be able to derail from ways of quest?
To prove that you're destined to bend all proofs at your behest

As you revel in new beginnings pray hear my silent plea
Be dutiful and diligent as the Oracle's new employee
But be not swooned by the sword-wielders for they're not really men
Their swashbuckling isn't as virile as the swiftness of his pen.

Even Angels Speculate

Even angels speculate at the edge of reason
Within the twilight of a sovereign mind
Shivering at the sight of
Logical fallacies

Madness, they say, is simply a label
“thud” goes the voice in my head
Could it be that it’s just what I’ve learnt-
playing tricks on what I did not learn?

Silly me. I want,
The planet annihilated!
No misery then, would trespass our hearts,
Nor happiness but those cursed angels-

Will continue to speculate
On the edge of reason.

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Catherine's Typewriter

Catherine, the gymnast of type-written lore
Yes she knew her hyphen from her underscore
But words were fleeting, shivering and pleating
Between sentences she always felt they were cheating

Depressing plastic maniacal keys she depressed
Arresting her attention was the soul she addressed
For you see, Catherine’s typewriter was alive
It captivated her with it’s cacophonous drive

Then she met a friend through some wicked lemon fingers,
Who told her it was lust in the machine that lingers
But whether it devours the words that she reels
Depended on her telling the machine how she feels

On a windowless morning sometime in the future
Past stilted on the slate she had sewn with some suture
She realized her friend's conclusion wasn't ripe
For all the machine told her was to “type, writer, type”.

Unwinding with the tide

Fate spoke in palindromes
Of the language in which the blind
Found paradoxes, like petty thieves-
For the mathematically inclined

Paralyzed with parasites
I paraglided over fear
For fate seemed so far away
Yet future seemed so near

Uncertainties, they followed me
Unwinding with the tide
My spirit may have trusted me
If I could in it confide

Untrusting, as I grew weary
She came crooning by
Singing to me why it’s important
To learn to trust the lie.

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When The Pillars Blow

My feet lead me to the ebb
Of one silent, somber night
The crunch of trampled foliage, thus,
Reciprocated in my delight

Lilacs whispered, lyres sang
To the music that with me shivered
Huddling stars that cuddled darkness
Silent as my soul delivered

Out there somewhere I heard you shout,
Qui vive!, Qui vive!, friend or foe?”
A mere traveler”, I retorted,
Friendly when the pillars blow


It’s not as if I’m moribund or chained to the ground
It’s not as if my pinions haven’t wrestled winds before
It’s just that I’m indebted to the soul I’ve in you found
Unabashedly unsubtle but yet delicate and demure

Psychologically, I am no rational expert
I barely ever make eye-contact with what’s true
Still when my mind wanders - my heart is all but inert
To the promised conclusions that the gods in us once drew

So let them know I’m on my way, let them hurriedly prepare
For exhaustion won’t mar victory as two bodies reunite,
Old ghosts are always welcome to where newer one’s don’t dare
To where I’m weighed down with a burgeoning stalagmite.

Gypsy Woman

Her face was a war-torn battlefield
Where I couldn’t tell the difference
Between the ushering cries of moles mounding up from flawed skin
Or the subdued sniffles of scars from the night before

I couldn’t tell the difference,
Between her areolas and irises
As they disappeared upwards, both folding between heavens
Oh! The battling eyelashes, shyly lashing me away

Clothed only in her shame
Now the lady sees the light!
She knows my name and beckons me
“Onwards”, “the hinterland awaits”

Another step as I move forward,
With a penchant to dream, perchance false,
Gypsy woman wriggles in ecstatic visions
I shudder at the very next thought of the very next sight

“Write!”, she said, “or writhe in agony”,
“as a cosmic loneliness descends upon you”
“from the clouds hanging low over these melancholy hills”
“as you spill desires over your expectations”

Crystal balls tingle my scrotum as it tightens
The fortune teller awakens the escapist dreamer in me
Onwards, to where destiny unites with fortune -
Ruined beyond repair, I’ve never been more resurgent.

I hope you're here to stay

When the tide is high and anomie spreads wide
Stranger your consoling thoughts then do abide,
By all my wishes born out of all those distant dreams
To put a face behind all my romantic schemes

When all your lovers and all your allies decry
For they can’t hold a candle to someone such as I,
Then stranger, your hopes for this dreamt-up fairy tale
Shall yield themselves to a passion which won’t ever fail

With that very passion I shall stumble through the odds
I’ve more than what it takes to steal you from the gods,
And stranger, you have more than all I’ll ever need
You’re the catalyst of fruition, you bring me up to speed

I’d rather stare at your face but I stare at blinding words
I think of talking to you when I’m entertaining turds,
I miss you most at twilight as the moon smiles at the sun
Sadly enough, stranger, that’s when I miss having a gun

I debate with what’s possible, I argue with this fate
Though time enfeebles greatly yet it does not irate,
For thoughts of you surround me when the truest of friends leave,
Then I roll my cuffs to find another trick up my sleeve

I hope you sink lower than the depths of childish rhyme
I’m a prisoner of poetry, my words describe my crime,
Stranger you’re the talisman that shoos grey clouds away
You’re the sunshine of my heart and I hope you’re here to stay.

Automatic came home

Read another sign on my forehead,
Smell another sigh escaping

Force a twitter of a dream unpacked,
Un-plucked unintentionally

Automatic came home tonight,
Forgive and it was all a bit too foregone,

Suede skies pressed against the moonlit gradients
of mysteries - unfolding one at a time

Automatic came home tonight-
To a semi-automatic universe.

Everything was tattooed

Everything was tattooed on my taboo skin,
Ghosts from outside, ghosts within
Ghosts of color - paled, impaled
Ravishing grotesqueness, unleashed when veiled

Everything was tattooed with needles grinding-
Muscle and bone but never finding
No crimson shores to fill my pails
With rising crags and falling dales

Everything was tattooed as everything must
Be it colored with memory or rendered on dust
Everything must be tattooed or else-
Let’s all just shrink to be lonely cells.

Moonlight General Store

Like the sodomite's sneezing farts
Our septic and susurating hearts
Should stop this madness fore it starts
Our soapbox derby racing carts

Like those nights by moonlight general store,
Ablaze in miscellaneous galore,
These friendly mysteries so impure,
Bring neither frienship nor it's cure

Yet some columns do still resonate
Can't will our wills to love to hate
As we're prepared by this debate
Of Debunking love, debugging fate

All my evaporating, smoking loans,
Nightly whispers or daily moans
Like Replicating rondures in the rones
Dreams are dreams and stones are stones.

This Is Your Captain Speaking

Running low on inspiration these days, so going to push some of my favorite poetry (all written by fellow poets and friends) through this blog hoping that the occasional stumbler enjoys it.

This Is Your Captain Speaking / by Sarku
(All rights reserved with the author, published with permission)

From far off over the porcelain wing

I see another midnight atmospheric sojourner.

The blinking eyelights of both steel birds wink across the blank air between them;

Empty miles leap between us, I and some unknown compatriot borne aloft in that other dreaming sky-barque.

Gold geometries of noctilucent netting spangle across the distant lightless prairie floor

(We sojourn in the dark subterranean kingdoms of the satrap of the preterite dead,

Where the whisper of cabin pressure is the only utterance)

Just beyond the arc of vision there are stars, a chorus of pinbright crystal distants, muy tranquilo.

Below now, I note, the voidfloor with its jellyfish townglowings has fallen away;

Only a rural will-o'-the-wisp suggests the half-real planet below.

A voice breaks into the shadowed gallery of my steel bird;

An intercom interloper, he is a novitiate in night musings (though a hierophant of chill levers and dials)

He does not know the solemn vigil he trespasses on

(As the vulture, a little padre, black canon of the plains does not know the dream of repose that he plucks apart;

As the foolish Greek does not know the dream of Sebak he ripples with his hand at the still jade pond beyond Sais)

Nor should he, indeed.

What is such an aeronaut's place in the twilit canyons and blue kivas of dreams?

Let him keep his eyes on the skyroads;

For my part I rove astral-bodied-

The night is vast, broad, and empty as sable.

Bound and Tagged

I've been specifically asked by a fellow blogger to answer the following set of arbitrary questions. Writing about my personal shit is an exercise I don't usually indulge in on the internet, but I guess this calls for an exception. So here goes:

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.

Right Knee. Looks like the map of Italy. Broke a bathroom window at my grandparents place while dancing on the window frame (go, figure). Quite old though, I would've named it after Peter Parker but it's hardly even visible anymore.

And I think stretch-marks are a total turn off.

2. What is on the walls in your room?

Final Fantasy X poster. This one in particular (sans the DVD titling, of course).

Taking it off and replacing it with something mature has been a well procrastinated task for about a year now.

3. What does your phone look like?

Black. Bleak. Crass. Like soviet technology is making a comeback through it.

4. What music do you listen to?

I've been asking myself the same question for quite some time now. The closer I get to the answer, the longer the answer gets. But since I must say something, here's a somewhat statistically correct (yet very very concise) list: Scandinavian Nu-Jazz, Acid Jazz, Alt-Country, Avant-Garde American Folk, Acoustic, Shoegazer, Underground Hip hop, UK Garage, Belgian Punk, Everything Rock and Post Rock/Indie, Downtempo/Ambient/Trip-Hop, World music...this is not a pretentious list of eclectic genres, this is as close an anti-genre statement as I can make without arousing offense.

5. What is your current desktop picture?
The following one on this PC. Click to enlarge.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
Right now? erm. A cigarette!
A good job would be nice though.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Allowing same-sex couples to screw legally is perfectly alright as long as they don't make another religion (or anything that resembles one) out of it.

8. Are your parents still together?
Yes. And god bless them.

9. What are you listening to?
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen
James Morrison
Album: James Morrison: Gospel Collection Volume Two

Though my ears want some Geeta Dutt-esque bollywood shit now.

10. Do you get scared of the dark?
No. I like the dark. It presents more unrevealed opportunities .
But I do have a little (sporadically occurring) phobia of closing my eyes in the shower which lasts a few days whenever I have a nightmare.

11. The last person to make you cry?
The unenlightened self ;)

12. What kind of hair/eye type do you like on the opposite sex?
Err.. on the head?
Blonde and long. Simple.
If not blonde, maybe black but has to be long (>shoulder length).
Not that it really matters though.

13. Do you like pain killers?
Usually avoid popping pills. Uh.. which pain killers are you talking about?

14. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Depends on who I'm asking out. And whether I'm having a good/bad hair day.

15. Favourite pizza topping?

16. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
Pizza with Ice-Cream topping.

Thank you Ishita, that afforded me some positive introspection. I tag the first person who comments (other than Ishita, of course).

you're crazy too!

two feet without the ground and their footprints in the air,
to feel the fear around and to feed hope to despair,
sins we've all committed involve our hubris and our grit,
since all of our resolve is often termed as all our shit

to break the chain of our morose we're hung with hope alive
allay this madness with our prose and poems is what we strive
but madness travels with our words and ideas are it's crew
you've read this crazy bastard's poem and now you're crazy too!

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Oh Tarantula!

Orphaned by what I’ve become
Fragmented splinters of star-studded plateaus
Bejeweled yet ever bewildered, I am not becoming-
The me I’ve dreamt and I’m not coming home

What method prevails in your connive?
Oh tarantula! How you can decide,
Yet never get tangled in the net you weave,
Deceivingly invisible and visibly deceiving

Pray fortune favors your threaded fortress,
Your mattresses hanging mid-air for food
Shrewdly awaiting an unfortunate evening catch-
You try your best to inspire me

For what it’s worth I’ve learnt nothing so far,
For the webs I weave intend to devour me
For you’re no ordinary arachnid - oh tarantula!
For I’m no descendant of no Scottish king.

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Down in the valley of long lost days
He still swims alone with the hormone waves
Laminated in ecstasy, an oceanic glaze
Splicing up stories whetting his craze

The words etched on the typewriter keys
Have all but dissolved in his melancholy seas
He types and he types for the one he must please
The gibberish is absolvable but the hurt won't decrease

Rustic phrases parsed with asymmetric vision
Insensitive jabs at the symmetry of reason
His words, like raged prisoners out of prison
Missionaries set forth to find him a mission

Honestly, it's not the flair that he lacks
His words, perhaps like hidden jewels in the cracks
Are peering out in hopes of a time to relax
They're undiscovered yet but on discovery's tracks

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Two mirrors perplexed,
Gaping into one another-
Fixated, as if sedated,
wondering where reality-
shrank to accommodate,
their perception of truth

Closer, then as they approached-
Chasing the insufficiency of explanation
To realize, that to kill the recursion,
They had to lay, side by side
With nothing in between,
Not even nothing.

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Dear miserable protagonist,
Future has sketched a suspect drawing
It resembles you the most when
You reflect upon it

Yesterday you were born at the ocean
Resolving to sink now, swim later
You tasted its ebb and the neutral flow
Curious, as to what the tide may bring in

Delayed sojourner, latent mourner,
No heraldic laurels are ever bestowed
To those who question the authority of time
Solace for us is just in the battle

May your maiden voyage of a thousand years
Never find an anchor smooching the breeze
Blinded by digital watches, may us all then believe
That future follows what tomorrow brings today.

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When She Flies

"reason is a whore", she said
as faith took a leap in her
holding back all explanations
she jumped to fly
spiraling upwards and propelled hopefully
muting all of logic

the azure sky turned upside down
the pallid dust on the ground annoyed
seagulls when they sang out loud, indiscriminate
incandescent, my heart then heard
the gleeful melee and chirp within,
allowing reconciliation.

come on, Pynchon

there was a booming across the sky
that screwed metal into clouds
with percolating light hammering on our eardrums
with the thrust and torque of a thousand angry gods

come on, Pynchon, let's run out of town
let's become refugees in a distant land
where we'll take shelter from this abrasive rainfall
under leaky sheets of tarpaulin, we'll sip some free tea
as we watch the sunset from this side of a barb-wired horizon

come on, Pynchon, before it's too late
evacuate! evacuate!

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The guilded house of Samarkand

We entered the cinema hall
At three in the night
All the halls were empty
Every odd light on

We came upon a door
That hid jeering voices
He must've knocked octillion times
Poetry was the password

The curtains trapped the conspiracy
A gramophone hushed the silence
Smoke seductively rose from cigars half lit,
Half unlit, the theater sparkled with secrecy

Alcohol, ammunition patrolled around
Like waitresses with naked intentions,
Making each man in the room giggle-
Over the inanity of the next

They called me “the mending bug”
For I could bend their storms
Or fold them into typhoons
Polluting all their plans

I made my request then,
When badly-drawn weapons floated around my nose
“let my friend leave”, I said,
It made more sense than insanity

Head-honchos all spoke amongst
Elders of the protocol.
They agreed to release my friend
From the gilded house of Samarkand.

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The monsoon winds whispered their urgency.
Thunderous and yelling nimbi with their rhetorical exaggeration
Beckoned, nay, urged for the saxophone lullaby,
we played as if just to delay the deluge.

Then the very first droplet on my moisture forsaken wrist,
asked me when i planned to come back home,
almost taunting and in belittling phrases not nearly as moist,
as the memories it's question brought.

That night gods wept through cotton pajamas,
as they committed their mnemonics to our dreams
aware, that the morning shall snatch from us humans,
all lack of control away.

We were only spreading caution over monsoon winds
for it was not the wrath of bed-wetting gods we wanted to incur
But we underestimated the fragility of monsoon dreams
for ashes to ashes and shit to shit, they all fall down,

Just like raindrops.

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The pious, the living

All that destruction,
That panicking around
Nothing have you glorified
But death

Sexy jihad aroused by pretty politics
Resurrected by the latent powers of hate
For the pious, the living-
Are nothing but a suicide apparatus

Violence manufacturers we beseech thee,
In the name of Allah, the almighty,
Never kill some of us again,
But please try to kill us all at once.

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It’s nothing, I think,
You’ll fade away
Not before long, I’m certain,
It’ll all be gray

I have no idea, or maybe I’ve forgotten
What gray looks like,
What sweet suffering it envelops
But I guess, I’ll be okay

It’s such a shame,
That everybody will be everybody, again
I’ll miss you, sure
But I’ll invent explanations

We can feed regrets to the future,
We can tumble blindly
We can survive through it all,
It’s just the romance that’s dead

Look at everything we’ve learnt through this,
Torrid chemistry of neurological protein sequences,
Isn’t that all love is?
Isn’t it as complicated as it gets?

So goodbye, sweet dream, goodnight and sweet dreams,
I’ve got leaping sheep to count,
I’ve got rhapsodies to illustrate with your memories,
I’m sure you’re busy as well.

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A hammered heart

A hammered heart is the perfect percussionist,
Beating to the rhythm of rhyming allusions
Illuminated illusions-
Thoughts of her

The warmest may passes in a motion blur,
A mirage stirred by my hopeful breathing,
An impatient sun is seething,
Resolutions burning proud

I feel the music is a bit too loud
Trapping hope alive
The jazz and the jive
All dying a bit too slowly

Lying to a love laying lowly
Sinking as I speak
With all feathers and beak
Droning as I’m drowning down

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Ode To Linux

Oh mighty penguin - copied to the left,
I'd embrace and kiss your tender insides,
Oh but not the average Joe.

Joe likes to peer out his windows,
Or peer into an acceptable predicament
Nevertheless, you're not his compromise

Fedora shaped shell painted by a gnome,
Feeding a delectable kernel - invisible yet omnipresent,
I feel I need taste buds on my eyes

Oh and then you're absolutely free!
Freedom redefined.
Free as in "free beer"!

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Shiny Happy Baloon

This shiny happy balloon
dancing to your tortures tune
might just burst or rupture soon
you better toss it out!

Let it float to the punctured moon,
with patches and packets sewn
invisible at high noon,
will it hear if you shout?

Sober, swaying in a saloon,
savoring Finland's finest rune
silent as it hears me croon,
knowing, I'm in doubt

If on the planet of the singing baboon
people think December comes before June,
can't an astronaut kill a cartoon?
with a scary shout.

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Irrigating Venus

Party music pouring out my cellular phone
smoke dried lips mumbling in a slippery prayer
skin kneaded in wreaths of crystalline paranoia
bead by sweaty bead at a time

I might just be hunting my miss fortune in hell
Is that her voice or my ringing knell?
God! I don't even believe in you.
For you were never really as necessary as her

I think she's trapped by countless concrete walls,
Waiting for some slave of voodoo dolls,
To rescue her from her contemporary prison
That only allows her a contemporary freedom

I guess there's a diminishing sense of lust involved
Libido evaporating into the summer mirages
Irritated, I wonder if I would ever be able-
To irrigate Venus with fluid fascination

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It's an incongruent testament
to our so called friendship
sparkled by silence
that's glittering over roads that separate me from you

It's an uneasy truce
that i share with desire.
It's a travesty on the flames of burning passion
to be soaked to their deaths with visions of a future alive

I’ll confess that I’m as terrified
as the firecracker traveling in a submarine
wondering if you're the lone torpedo
debating over it's reasons to explode

drives us both insane, in the same direction.

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From here on in

where does it go from here on in?
this twilight - but a nervous delay
wouldn't you like to stay another second, son?
before this silence gets in our way
watch consequence, draped in flowing irony
with suspense, in it's most brutual renditions-
murdering every passing second slowly

we all talk but it's all the same
us poster boys for caricatures of an ignorant sin
rescue us, for we have sinned a dream,
and it's devouring us from deep within
take no chances son, fate is deadly,
it orchestrates a dilemma in a mesmerizing medley
remember, for all it takes is memory
to forget that the future is frivoulous and fake

let all your fires sleep in peace inside
abandon all those who are better left alone
the pathological liar in you is an excellent guide,
when you're travelling through emotions obscure and unknown
the world is not worthy of your tears, my child,
but it's changed by your anguish, and pain however mild

pick your questions with effortless care,
dare, for all you can do is dare,
and when the night snatches all blankets of hope,
wrench your lungs dry and throw punches in the air
then relax, because from there on in,
it's all despair,
it's all despair.

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Closing Time

I was never good at writing about the truth in all it's explicit severity, which was probably the reason I started writing poetry in the first place. A sugary coat of vivid visions scatterred over scarred dreams and held together with some eloquence helped me swallow the hurt of a failed relationship at first, and then, it eased it's way into the possibly false notion of talent.

I really don't think of myself anything special, but I soon found a virtual audience that was kind enough to let me continue dreaming. I found that there wasn't much difference between courage and confidence, and I realized I had a bit of both. One thing led to another, and it was too late by the time I bechanced upon the conclusion that it was the art that held me hostage. So much so, infact, that I didn't even care about the generally accepted principles that governed this branch of art, I knew what I needed to know about Iambs, Trochees, Spondees, Dactyls, Double dactyls and what have you, but never adhered to any specific structures. I might even have created my own meterical foots for all I care. It was personal, although I seldom wrote merely for personal gain.

Although as I progressed, it seemed evident that my predilection for orotundity and grandiloquence will never feel the need to cover up or hide under any false pretence. Neither did I ever feel the need to justify the befuddling setups that I built most of my poems over. It was rather unfortunate that my brand of articulation earned me a reputation of being too "pretentious".

"There's something quite wrong about what you write and how you write it, but I just can't seem to put my finger on it", said an online reviewer once. I knew exactly what he meant.

Something I wish I had known earlier on in my life is that you can't improvise imagination, it always screws things up when you try to squeeze a confession out of muse. But anyhow, poetry made it all seem worthwhile for a whole year, and now: one mental breakdown, two severe (writer's) blocks, and more than a hundred poems later, I bid thee adieu.

For the usual reasons, of course. I need a break, time for myself, to rethink about my life and get away from this glaring monstrosity that had me enslaved for most of my adolescence. That I shall return is an artist's promise, and I always keep my promises whenever I can. There will be those of you who will appreciate a tear drenched goodbye and a hug or maybe even a goodbye poem at this point, but I only have these lines that Rob Thomas sang to give to them:

"So gather up your jackets,
and move into the exits,
I hope you have found a friend,
Closing time,
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end".



Flashes of an invisible hope
Like sunlight peering in though eyelids shut
Sporadically sliced by each passing tree
Blessing eyelashes folded
(as if in a prayer)
I would like to drive away
From these seasons
Release all jokes tired of being laughed at
But I’m trapped!
In white light,
Pink noise,
And purple silence.
I wish she would never stop talking
I’m sick of hearing myself think.


The independence of this divine indecision
Bellows it’s way through conurbations dead
Mocking my heart with indiscriminate precision
Like a shamanic siren of the uncertain dread

She hid something deep in mental undercrofts
Apportioned her life in a milestone collection
I heard fate whisper through the arching lofts
Requesting preparation for an aching rejection

My imponderable intentions don’t mean to fiddle
With her impregnable mindset - undeniably astute
But the incorrigible indecision, that stands in the middle
Might never allow me to tell her that she’s really cute

Yet cute she is, all my inarticulacy aside,
She’s a welcome distortion to a dream unseen,
What fool wouldn’t want to make her his bride?
Who wouldn’t fall for the rhapsodizing queen?

I could get on all fours and roll in the muck,
But I realize she’s feeble and fleeting like a vision-
She belongs with the bearer of a better luck
My lovely creator of this divisive indecision.

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Under the sublime Tuscan sun,
With wafting whiffs of all that’s citrus -
(Pinot noirs and limestone distemper)
She’s reading Dante,
With precision or with partial purview

Fingertips resonate the call of olives
As I detonate all rhyming crescendos,
(Blow arpeggios in legatos to hell)
We transcend into two desperately living souls -
Prisoners of our heroic imagination

Then raindrops twinkle like shooting stars
Glasses brimming with chardonnay leave
She goes back to her solitary throne -
(Princess practicality in a polka-dotted frock)
I return to my lonely laboratory of dreams.


I’ve created you from scratches, love,
Built you up with a keyboard manic,
Have some fear of the one above,
For heaven’s sake, it’s time to panic!

I’m falling faster than you can calculate,
Hoping consequence will cushion my fall,
I’m running out of opulent cliché’s to relate-
I’m running out of escape tunnels to crawl

Every twilight bird chirps in your praise,
To the soldier homebound from a welcome retreat,
Then his thoughts belong in that haze -
Where shadows with shadows meet

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Fabulous Disaster

Would she be wearing a fuchsia hued sin?
Now that he's wearing out and thin -
All stretched out on a hopeful horizon,
Balancing the scales within

He'd rather confabulate a fabulous disaster-
Murder his imbecile yet celibate master-
For desires as delicate as gatling guns,
Were sinking his sanity and a heart cast in plaster

Therefore, his positively potential bride,
Obviously oblivious in her Bengali pride,
Lit his freedom's pyre and watched his soul escape,
Before deciding to let his fate decide.

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The Brownian Lark - Revisited

With the perfidy of a mildly charmed quark,
On a journey for answers I did not embark,
Nothing did the stars tell, nor the moon did hark,
Yet I gallantly gaited towards The Brownian lark

It wasn’t the clairvoyant that I sought to explain,
The explicit supernatural is lighter when it’s slain
But amongst somber skies, one crooked wind vane,
Was being a whirling dervish in excruciating pain

Coincidence was ever so gently humiliating,
When for the patient eleven-thirty I stood waiting,
A canine couple in distance shook facilitating -
Every pleasure afforded by their frivolous fornicating

The thunderous nimbi then moaned like a whore,
Our trio was soon caught in an orgasmic downpour,
Nature seemed hell-bent on revising the lore,
Of ill fate I could’ve asked but nothing more

For more than one dry reason I sought refuge,
From my unabashed audacity and from the deluge,
I pressed on for aridity with a saunter of a stooge,
Towards the only shelter of hope looming huge

I retraced my steps, never retrenched them back,
Though humidity before me was all drenched in black,
Though that time had lost me, I had found it’s track,
As I was awakened by an urge for a midnight snack.

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This is a spoof (sort of) on my trilogy of poems titled "The Brownian Lark". I have changed the pattern from AABB to AAAA just to make it a little more challenging. This is no way, however, related to the story of the trilogy, neither is it a sequel nor a prequel, it's just a spin off. The object of writing this poem was to ascertain the growth of my so called "skill" between the time that I wrote the other poems and now. In my personal opinion, I think I have decidedly shown some improvement, YMMV.

The Brownian Lark: Part One, Part Two, Parth Three


Me and my futile love affairs,
Unfruitful and damaging beyond all repairs

None conceived, and no one compares,
Though I cherish mine and envy theirs

Indeed these petulant love affairs,

Are like the stunts the stuntman dares,
For his insatiable addiction of shifting gears

They’re reminiscent adages that memory shares,
With reclining old men in rocking chairs

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Secondhand Karma

Twilight came knocking like the highwayman,
Fell over my shoulders like a sudden burden of freedom,
It must have been the struggles of the day,
That rendered me so

For in the day I struggled for night,
At night I stood listening,
The sounds of the approaching day,
The omnipresent danger of daylight,
Squeezing my guts out my mouth

All this for the worth of a few stars,
Sprinkled about my illuminated Luna,
On a palpating platter, caressing our skin and feeding us -
Secondhand karma at subsidized rates,
For the glory hidden in our denial of it’s true color

Modern times saw the retail chain of stores selling ignorance,
Mediocrity stood at the receiving end of our altars,
Masters became snow-smugglers in cowboy hats,
Disentangled, yet not absconding -
From the balance sheet of the universe.

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This is my keyboard - formatting electrons,
Like a barber sweeping the shop floor,
Collecting all black strands of discarded meaning -
Both earning their livelihood,
With clicks here,
Hair clips there.

Over pages that don’t curl like they used to,
Behind a smooth glass window,
Words waving at me,
With a childlike demeanor,
They parade forwards,
Then disappear into a back-spaced nothingness,

Deleted from existence.

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Softly triggered the dial-tone,
Told me why I was alone,
Beeping grains of sadness static,
Electronic erotica being erratic

Before the skeletons of athletes,
The martyr rinses and repeats,
As her voice like a tsunami breaks,
Breaking mine into gasping flakes

That heaven dweller must be a clown,
His blue umbrella held upside down,
Drown with me so I’m never alone -
Give me death or dial-tone.

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Between my precocious impromptus,
Improper prioritizations,
Pretentious farces and a smoke mirrored intuition -
Lies your mournful recognition of your blithe yet crass self

I am not unaware that I am unaware,
Still, I am awake and sure that I am -
Ready for the war-mongering intelligentsia’s designs,
Wicked! Cruel, and without a sense of humor or humility

Their stupidity travels sans an entourage of witnesses,
People scavenge off of their carcasses and the illusion thereof,
Epiphytical tendencies are evident in the blatant show-off -
Of the televised fingerprints over their glass brain

But it’s fickle and in the hopes to crack it -
The pretentious witchdoctor chants his mantras,
Perhaps to rid them of their ghosts -
Perhaps to scare his own phantoms away

Momentarily then, the music dies - only to emerge
With remigial vertices attached to angular chords,
Coercing me to shed my narcotic baggage,
Letting the mathematics of my expectations dwindle into chaos

That’s all there is to it then,
Murdering the ego isn’t recommended for the faint, or quaint,
All shrink-wrapped promulgations are incomplete,
As are all self-obsessed archaic dementias.

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The Rhapsodizing Queen

So the rhapsodizing queen of the soul-peering conglomerate,
Rechristened me as the unloved frog,
As I sat deliberating over lotus leaves and algae,
Quietly observing the February fog

The moon colored me in a darker shade of green,
The wind carried me to an undisclosed tomorrow,
With the chloroform hanging low above my marshes,
Sedating me as it dissipated in my evanescent sorrow

My sad croaks were heard by none but the croc,
The helicopter wielding periscope of god never saw,
That I could chew myself through this watery grave,
My diabolical plan was never with a flaw

But this deliverance I owe to the queen,
For I never would have managed to repay the cess,
I never unlearnt the allegiance of being a true royal subject,
And that I shall be and nothing less.

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For a new friend.

A Musical Fulcrum

I might be sentenced to a lifetime of gathering dust,
This ancient headache might stick to my head like ancient rust,
I may never act again, but I know that the show must

Go on

The unsteady and unwell musical fulcrum tilted,
The titling tatter of totalitarian senses jilted,
Miserly over me their residual river silted

Then went on

Darkness punch-holed it’s way through the light,
Powdering the visible over the pondering bright,
Yet I let my day dream continue despite

The dream was gone

In an unsteady dilemma in the malodorous telephone booth,
Or maybe over the melodramatic fountain of almost eternal youth,
I bechanced upon the almost bearable truth

That I didn‘t live anymore.

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There was still a little brain left in my tumor,
Which shouted out the words to the forbidden rumor,
The meek shall inherit the automatic earth,
With metallic mendicants of immutable girth

A veneering illusion induced by this maze,
An invisible placebo peering through tobacco haze,
Slowly disappearing footsteps in shoals of silvery sand,
Like nylon stocking lassos in a lipstick lesbian land

The factual broadcast was inaudibly loud,
Yet unable to distinguish the crowd from the crowd,
My fascination with the demivierge’s repulsive caricature,
Reflected upon reflection, the perversity of my nature

In another epilogue to the never ending story,
I stood upon my knees in a heartbroken glory,
For which perverseness is not a blessing in disguise?
Which human role did I not reprise?

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P.S. : I hope the new blog template isn't too pretentious.


I tried hard to memorize the code,
In which lay mnemonics to the secret thought
Tracing the truth to it’s final abode,
What faith beginning did faith begot?

Beacons of light broke through from my rind,
The appetite of darkness devoured in it’s fault
Life is just another casino for the blind,
Where truth plays poker in an unlit vault

I measured time with memory alone,
The pendulum swings as it takes us forward
I’d have killed my torturous telephone,
If only I wasn’t such a fucking coward.

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Sacred crime

It has been long since this cigarette was lit,
Centuries we’ve spent in counting stars,
Infinity has fallen through the bottomless pit,
Though we haven’t found the liquid mars

Our resilience - ever redesigned,
Society layered in thick skin and thin,
Ubiquitous anomalies of free will confined -
Preventing us to peer within

The lunar glare down a suspicious zenith,
Inspecting our glasses half-saturated with sorrow,
Like the priest blessing a prisoner of faith,
Who awaits the gallows on the morrow

Tis’ a sacred crime to follow,
A necessary enigma to illustrate the tune,
That serenades the sensory prison to swallow -
Inexplicable crypt of a lifeless rune

As we feel our way out an umbral haze,
Recognizing the footsteps we find on the snow,
With catalytic obedience awaiting end of days,
Blind to the cigarette, and the truth aglow.

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Forgetting the Future

I am not the professor of a miserly profession,
Merely the processor of a motley depression,
I did not create my recreational obsession,
Nothing‘s mine but a sense of possession

I am the cage that went in search of the bird,
My every step is my every word,
I conform to the nonconforming herd,
What you find rational - I deem absurd

I’m forgetting the future of the skirmish of old,
Fighting the past to escape from it’s hold,
I’m a golden llama but I’m not made of gold,
I’ll melt before I’ll ever be sold

The tripwire treading urchin who did not realize,
Nothing did he see that he did not surmise,
I am his pleasantly confusing surprise,
He’ll never learn truth till he unlearns the lies

Nature’s retarded plan I defy,
I refuse to be draped in this denim sky,
If I never laugh I may never cry,
If I was never born -then how may I die?

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side is
just as
dirty as
the other

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(written on the back of a bus ticket)

November or May

Heavy hung the air above,
Prowling came the afternoon,
Knocking on the planks of wooden ideas,
What uncanny temerity of gloom!

Stealthily lay the channel across,
Water like silk in a charnel walled with suede,
Nifty crafting of sunlight on it’s brim -
Reflective of my pensive mood

A condor-driven barouche taking me across,
To Peru where I marry many maidens of muscle,
Penetrating the hollow of their harrowing deep,
As I Fly O’er the drover’s humorous hustle

Reducing it’s hush to an untraced murmur,
Was the whistling wind that never subsides,
Raindrops fell like chiseled silver splinters,
To much dislike of my faintly bribed brides,

Asphyxiated for want of a constant celebration,
I floated and gloated right through the dreary day,
I celebrated life through the gamut of it’s gestures,
Remembering not if it were November or May.

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note to self

Keep shining, dear poet.
Loose naught thy false-sight,
Which measures reflections that measure shadows
But over these haunted cobblestone streets -
Shadows are soldiers of an undying war

Keep shining, dear poet,
There are still words waiting to be impregnated,
With your off-springing meaning -
With your colossal nothingness colliding with itself
Haven’t brochures persuaded the innards of you yet?

Keep shining, dear poet,
Lonely milestone digits still await your impatient glance,
The gentle sweepings of your headlight lamps -
Are their only hope in this ravenous night,
For it embodies no whispering soul

Keep shining, dear poet,
Even if you know you’re sinker-tied,
The syntactic and the synthetic won’t attain your desperation,
For they’re the finest scientists of the underwater reflection-
Gazing into the depths of a bewildering ravine

Keep shining, dear poet,
Think about what you were thinking,
Then utter the ghastly gasp and gossip given over a garbagy garb,
Resonate in silence and peddle to the beat -
Of rusting locks and damnable wall clocks

Keep shining, dear poet,
You’re worth much more than your worth is worth you,
Stop counting the blemishes on your daguerreotype,
There’s not a single reflection of the truth -
In this submerged house of crazy mirrors.

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The gentle spin of the primary colors,
Counterclockwise gyrations of nuts,
Clockwise turning of the bolts,
And the melting away of rivets in my mind,

All reminded me of when it was cold outside,
But lukewarm in your embrace,
As if the peaceful threads of my being -
Were twisted in your Viking braid,

Strewn over the thoughts you had at the secret beach,
Were my confessions for not being an adult,
Now they’re embroidered over my spine,
In the dialect of melancholy.

I can not afford to pay this ransom,
Demanded by a self-kidnapped consciousness,
The markets of all my interest have collapsed,
Now every second is bankrupt.

I’m on parole of a sensory prison,
A defective piece and a failed experiment,
I’m Prepared for a total annihilation -
Of parallel universes between my shoes and my feet

I know I used to be really strange,
But now I’m really just a stranger,
Digging dust on a golden highway,
Singing aloud in monologues.

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Jeopardizing the riddle

When Cleopatra was kissing the Helen of troy,
With all her intentions locked on seek-and-destroy,
Did she dawdle to think of Caesar or David,
Or what was his name? Do you know that boy?

I floated down with a bloke named James,
Over the waters of a blameless Thames,
He said he had a license to kill,
But I had no time for his fun and games

That was not my favorite song of the band,
Historical percussions I could not understand,
Under the rhythmic pulsations of the northern lights,
I stood naked, but I stood grand.

Far from all the eclectic and electric noise,
The lieutenant deployed a thousand sepoys,
He commissioned a mass voluntary suicide,
Their children now play with nothing but toys

I feel like a perplexed jeopardy contender,
My fears running down a reptilian meander,
Searching a question that answers the riddle:
Which one’s the goose and which is the gander?

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We’re champions of the suburban undergrounds,
A 12-inch subwoofer system declares our independence,
As we cruise our way through fortune forsaken streets ,
The earth still shivering from the blasted Ice.

We’re injured but we’ve never been happier,
We’ve evaded the inevitable.
Outside we’re victoriously escaped soldiers galloping their way to the alehouse,
Inside we’re the most astutely ignored dark corner of their souls,
But we learn to struggle. And we learn to struggle for ignorance.

The high priests of our tribal social-behavior,
We’re Mystically confused but eternally rescued,
As if by some force of nature that levitated in vacuum,
We’re now assisting our smoke-choked windows to breathe

“Look, 9’O clock”, he said, “she’s hot”,
“Come and ride on our dicks you slut!”
“Steven, this is no way to approach the situation”
“Fuck your situation mom, I’m so fucking horny ”

We’re the princely by-products of an elaborate joke,
We like to suck cocks and guns,
We wish we could suck in -
Our 12-inch subwoofer systems

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Just like the man who never cried,
I floated much like a sinking feather,
Downwards and onwards to a greater genteel,
Through the atmosphere, and it’s weather

Their irreconcilable differences,
Like a dogma flowing through the police blotter,
A dichotomy of affairs in decomposing nervous systems,
Ink jumping out of a floating wall of water

The redeeming signs were gift-wrapped in apology,
And a deserted alibi at the pivotal square,
Truth, wants the man who never cried,
Not this silent night gift-wrapped in nightmare

He’s shaped like a boomerang that didn’t return,
Or an alarm clock that sounds like a didgeridoo,
The man who never cried would know what it looked like,
If only had he ever been to a zoo.

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The Immigrant's Dilemma

With my brain enveloped in a headphone silence,
I was thinking about my discussion with Pauline,
And contemplating crying,
Over the ashes of an unexplored future,

She told me she was bisexual,
And the whole room morphed into a huge whirligig,
This was like being in the fifth dimension,
A psychedelic incarnation of the truth

Was I evolving in slow motion?
I had suddenly discovered a tribe of humans,
On a different branch of reality,
I wished I had read more about the subject

And there was this kind of passive aggression,
Which never rose up to the bottom,
Because I had dreamt of the huntress’s society,
And my heart felt like a pencil sharpener

So who exactly was I fighting here,
Everybody and myself?
An incomplete thread of philosophy?
Aliens from a highly debatable outer space?

I simply did not have the information.

But it was not the idea of her making love to other women,
It was the idea of her loving anyone else,
anyone else,
but myself.

The poor man can only measure his love,
On the scales of jealousy of the color of her eyes
Oh! love is the immigrant's greatest dilemma,
And resilience his only ironical weapon.

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A little bit of vodka

I swear I didn’t drink much, mother.
It was just a bit of truth,
With a little bit of vodka,
Called “African sabretooth”.
Now you must leave this inequity, ma
You can
For we’re not selling peanuts here,
We’re the diamond thugs!
We’re smugglers of afternoon’s direction
And we’re sleeping under rugs
Where the lopsided tavern awaits us,
And we like to stand when we yell out -
(and we like the old man who pisses with both hands in the air)
And we like a lot of things,
But a lot of things don’t like us,
People of the world should listen,
For I’m Machiavelli himself,
And I’m speaking on the behalf of,
All the coconuts on the shelf,
And “oh”, she said, “you’re such an artist”,
As I slowly slit her neck,
With fifty-two cards up my shameless sleeve,
And the fifty third on the deck,
I swear I didn’t drink much, mother,
It was just a bit of her,
Mixed in some chronic tonic,
And a centrifugal blur.

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Halfway on my journey to an underground heaven,
I stood upon the incisive indecision,
Of letting her stay or letting her go
With my pockets full of nepenthean memories,
Held between an intuition and a déjà vu,
Like the little sapling that never grew no more,
And the parakeet that flew south but ran east

And a madness shared between the two of us,
Like the silence jaded on Medusa’s tongue,
But I knew not of that madness for all I knew of,
Was the regret I shared with Midas
I talked until she could listen no more,
As she listened until I ran out of words,
And now we share this crazy silence again

We were like two incestuous Siamese twins,
With no idea of what to do with the other,
So I cut myself in half with a lone lying chainsaw
Which still whirrs about on a cold metal floor,
Splattering my innocent blood on the steely walls,
And all I do is hope it runs out of it’s fuel,
Before she realizes that she has her freedom now

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Rapunzel and the barber

Rapunzel awaits, in the witch’s tower
Captured by her beauty’s dower
In a prison where she doesn’t belong
Awaiting the prince to come galloping along

It’s nighttime and now the moon radiates
And in all her gullible glory stimulates
The night and it’s creatures who occupy
The woods that echo a donkey’s neigh

Surely such a sound couldn’t belong to a stallion
Who’s master is awarded with every gallant medallion
Brave knights ride nobler steeds
And not some creature who feeds on weeds

Slowly she hears tapping of a pair of shoeless hoofs
Random and irrational as the wretched animal goofs
Now below the witch’s tower the creature firmly stands
Along with it’s master with scissors in both hands

His glance as evil as the glaring of his blades
'Tween the sound of their clanking our damsel's heart wades
Of his ulterior motives she was perfectly aware
But Rapunzel's bald now for she just did not care

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With the perseverance of a procrastinator,
I spilled out diasporas of dysfunctional poetry,
It used to be as easy as pulling strings of hay,
From the scarecrow’s slender acumen

A nubile lexicographer with one eyebrow raised,
Wondered when she was last nostalgic,
When her days were sewn together with a hammock thread,
And her nights pierced with wind-chime echoes

But alas! Now she reads my words,
With subtle tolerations of caffeine and morphine,
My roadkill diction she scrapes off the highways,
Picking up dried feelings and flakes of a pastel ambition

Tipping over the topography of her accentuating curves,
I cart-wheeled across her naked eloquence,
Kissing exhaust pipes for centuries left me deflated,
I wanted to breathe in her jealousy again

The dispassionate lexicographer with one eyebrow raised,
Sighed the sigh of a reluctant hope,
And inflated my carcass with a kiss from her lips,
“Shoo!”, she said patting my back, “run away now”.

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One-Eyed Juggler

The one-eyed juggler entertained the clown,
With the dexterous display of his plastic affection
When “what” went up and “must” came down,
The onlookers applauded with a prowling infection

Hark! The break-beat violence in their veins,
The shimmering nervousness on their faces clear
Piloted by the fossils of their digital remains -
Were cobles of their story the narrator didn’t steer

So what was to become of these fiends immoral?
The yawning divides in their values un-chinked,
Were they to pass apathy’s heraldic laurel -
Every time the one-eyed juggler blinked?

I threw away everything and everything else,
Took my insatiability to the sly partings of clouds,
Parted with my troubling paraphernalia and knells,
And Godspeed to the zombies donning their shrouds.

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Little Explosions

History books were written with sand-dipped javelins,
In the hubristic monotony of the anarchist’s tone,
Over the contrasting interlards of presidential debates,
By world wars waged over the telephone

But when jubilantly recreational little explosions smirked,
Encasing time’s profusely bleeding hinges,
With all our hearts pounding in their bodily prisons,
And with all our souls trapped in metallic syringes

Our bodies jostled between the much heated borders,
Of a future untraveled and a past deserted -
And beads of propitious perspiration on our faces,
The tear-drenched history books then squirted.

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