Sunday, February 28, 2010

Digital Henge!

Different mixes, yet colour's
the same old light red,
golden even; as we climbed
separately to a higher plane.
Me, at an open-air lounge,
pocketing chips with strikes.
While they, my friends, hit
the highway for half-cooked protein.

Minds meet, levelled after sharing sips,
waking up to the truth, slowly;
at the back seat of the car,
brought during the good old days.

And the young tramp, the monster
with fire even in his yawns;
gets a mirror, the mature gent
pointing out the open gash
from an angry burst there,
a false sense of superiority here,
and a fading sense of humility,
but still with that fool's gold - ethics...

... Or so he thought,
it ain't gold, but only
men posses it; good men
like the two drunkards tonight.

A circle is drawn, blueprints
for a Digital Henge to replace stone.
Where honour forms the pillars;
one, two, the count should grow
and mortals will carry light,
flowers and idealist offerings
- simple words with love,
a virtual space to celebrate life.

Then the legacy from pioneering
a medium which stops
the greedy man from landscaping
a backyard desert in the tropics...

... Which also stops the snarling
editor from cutting trees, talent

and the cub's well-written stories.
Making world perfect or so
the vision - the duo, drowned in
whisky, amour on beanbags;
holding arms and fading off...

... With technicolor dreams
'bout waking up to a new world,
right where we were born,
among familiar shades of blue.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Dry Spell

Once, now so long;
when you, in many

of 'em sepia frames,
just answered to the
silent wail. That psychic
bond, strengthened
by a platonic chord of
blood and cells.

The dream, nourished by

nitrates from a son and
phosphates from a mother.
Creating a fertile plain
to sow and reap, the reward
- a peaceful night,
after fighting demons
on a prison island.

Now, the eternally long days,
when even tantrums,
bush-fires and tears
fail to awaken your breasts,
to the needs of the
crying orphan.
The well is deep but dry,
drought's hit the promise land.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Divine Click

Us! The touch etched
in our hearts, and captured
in shining silver.
That moment,
not virtual, can't be digital,
as it is we; romantics!

A wish - coming together,
just us again in sync;
just two, the pulse
searching, craving love,
in a warm hug;
followed by the click.

Camera and our hearts,
make the divine choir;
as you held me firm
with a smile.
Shy, very happy and...

Very much home in your arms.
(A birthday gift for a real 'loved' one)

Thursday, February 04, 2010

Plain Rotten

Worse, a recess and back to worse;
six months, three and last week;
now the pointer shows rot, a lot;
seems stunted the growth.

Waves from hell, less frequent, still swell
to burn and force answers.
The swine, a double agent, breaks;
giving out a creative cry,
while crawling through
the slimy grey within
a thinning curly prison.
Don't you glorify this silly chore...

... To paint a scape,
cute, sweet this day,
depressing in a week.
Knock knock! Those grand illusions

at noon with high fever.
A victim; beguiled by the
women in red, men in whites
and his psyche, a regal black!

Monday, February 01, 2010

Vice Visor

Morning and a broken mask,
the agonist in pain.
Yet the persona stays,
ready for sin
- of the flesh and
that modern man's
Achilles heel
- the extended night n life;
and welcome prayers when
the red skies get lighter,
while the bile gets darker
in anger; then hangover.

The organised recluse,
goes by the book -
a worn out heap
of newsprint, held together
by poetry, ego, phone sex...
And incarnated siblings,
variables ranging from
the foxy and cruel
to the proxy and novel;
a sweet 'un and the real
- a mirror image - the blood bonds!
The visor's repaired; time to swipe.