Red Riding

The drop of red

I was drawn to,

between your brows,

while in haste,

through the morning haze.

Ye play hide n seek,

while I just

ride n seek.

Right beside fields,

where dust from yesterday

barely get time to settle,

for they build, obsessed,

concrete storeys for women,

muscle stories for men!

The Green Signal

Let the creepers climb,

freely, up the walls,

and kill the gloss,

the made up beauty,

powdered light brown,

decked in rouge n blush,

and some fine talc,

the Taj Mahal white.

Damn the surreal estates,

cover it with moss,

till the signals turn green,

till we glow bright and right.

Then we will make love,

breathing hard

the fresh n scented

alien air.

credit: mydigitalfc.com

Office!

The fading,

smudged end of

a reality I found hanging

above me marks the

start of a reality check

that awaits me.

This hell is bright...

but tricky, sticky,

a quagmire of excel sheets;

where the morning dew mixes

with numbers and dust,

to brew the brown slashes

of bitter slush on my face...

they call it coffee here!

Photo copyright: www.freestockimages.org

Dying Young!

Falling young

for the wealth, immortality,

exuberance n arrogance

of dying young.

For I’d beat time,

freeze it at the moment

I bent will n Iron

–oh, I could mend bartenders too.

I’d outrun rejection,

and the cancer

that would kill the

killer of men I am.

I’d live on,

laughing at the giver of life

I could never become,

what have I become, WHAT?

Pic: bbc.co.uk

The Monsoon Tune

The drops,

transcends in haste through

the once great divide,

to form strings divine

from the Gods to men,

strummed by a southern breeze.

There you go,

a morning concert,

the great Indian guitar

plays a monsoon tune.

 

Pic: msn.com

Pain, Painter!

It shivers, the frame,

which locks within

its rigidity, a reality…

It once was a dream,

born out of a notion,

a hunch, a regret maybe,

just after the young painter

saw blood dripping

from the shaft

she pulled out

from his heart,

made of cold alloy,

forged in hell,

and aptly named love!

The Eyes

There isn’t a story

left to write...

But for those eyes,

and the lores

hiding behind those lashes.

Scores and scores of scrolls

unfurl as I loosen

your knot;

you let my trepid

lips doodle on your fret;

and notes rise high,

towards the creator’s bow.

I find my story there,

there in your eyes.

Dusty Portrait

These fine lines

on a black canvas:

Spaced by fate and summer,

by heartless strokes

from petrol-driven

blunt brushes made of rubber.

The sensuous, sexual curves

your lips smudge, erase and shift,

again n again,

through breaths from the inferno,

from the deserted soul

that lies beyond

this rude State

I visit to earn my bread.

Pic Source: indiatoday.intoday.in

Mother Eternity

There, far out there,

in the verse where

their eyes meet destiny,

at the edge of the known world.

There, where they walk gingerly,

cutting barriers,

to meet God,

deep inside the expanding

unknown... Their ether, eternity;

and they find bliss!

I, while I walk gently,

crossing a shifting hedge,

to meet mom,

deep into life’s only constant,

her love... My ether, eternity;

and I find bliss!

Cancer!

The beefy armoured

love from the infantry,

took on the sharp edged

mystery from a Samurai’s soul.

They all won, but chivalry died,

cursing with his last breath:

Let there be light,

mushrooms, and cancer.

Now we mortgage life,

for our lust,

for mobility,

for insecurity;

and try to burn away

the corrupt genes,

a war we all lose. 

Where the hell is chivalry?

 

Home Free!

He measures it all in miles,

the commutes,

the revolts,

the rebukes;

the mad rush

for affinity,

for love,

for creating music

for his muse,

for her amused lips.

A pilgrim now,

he finds his home tiny,

miles become mere metres,

but their smiles are
beyond ’em metres,

or ’em rules, grammar;

for their joy n spree are free, 

like the waves
on a lake infinite,
a song in free verse!

Pic by Sreetama Bagchi

The Inmate!

There isn’t much

left to munch now.

She cleaned up the

last morsels

of his boyhood,

onto a fresh tissue,

laced it with her breath,

sprayed it with gasoline,

and burnt it in hell.

He has a job now,

they call him a man,

he drives a car;
I call him an inmate.

Lager Than Love

Lightning, then thunder,

the cause n effect.

And the rain, later,

sprinkles its sarcastic will

and leaves in haste,

no time to waste on love.

But tonight,

love turned out stinky,

yellow water,

fermented in phosphates,

seasoned n reasoned 

in lager beer.

Drag Race to Heartbreak

Didn’t my bed this afternoon

remind you of Ujjain?

Or was it the parched,

dusty corridors

of that old college

where I slept with you?

Learning how heart breaks,

how to fix it, tune it,

set the ratios right,

and fuel it to the brim.

Then drive down the aisle

to the local drag strip,

to burn some soul

break some will,

a few records,

and, yeah, some more hearts.

Pic: sfgate.com

Pedestrian Crossing

They scamper across,

blocking my way

on the busy road

leading to ye dream,

and my nightmare.

I sneer, I jeer, I curse...

But why should I?

Those poor creatures

are just scared,

keen to get home

and churn out milk

for greedy South Delhi bastards.

I let ’em live

in my nightmare,

while,

the cruel you,

killed ’em

in your dream.

The Climb

There, I never had time,

to think, or,

to look back at

what I just left behind:

The shade,

the safe confines of a

heart at rest, away from the

muscle and hustle of love,

on a recliner.

There, I took the

sharp left,

to begin my

erotic slither up

your contours,

your lips, and your

heaving, heavy breasts.

I was defining,

reiterating, like those milestones,

the stubborn life,

and, now,

a stubborn death,

in truth as well as lies.

So, judge me, will ya?

This day, for life...

Lest I die before

I return to your arms again.

But, I better not die this morn,

noon, or at the campfire,

chewing boneless fish,

relishing the formless bond

with boys old

and men young.

Back, on the incline...

I better not sleep,

I better not stop for Facebook,

for a frame in its video.

My movie is beyond you Mark,

just like the beauty

of the valley is to me now,

the taunt from a virgin,

while I scale the

mother of many.

In her beauty,

in the roundness of her being,

I burn, churn...

The turns, the ferns,

passing mites and mates,

gangsters, their families,

good Samaritans,

school scholars,

and finally Jesus,

His house I stayed, a minute;

for the Host, the pure mountain air,

laced with salt, lemon,

and a prayer.

After years I communed,

on my elbows, aged and wise,

hunched over the

drop handles,

as humble as I could ever be.

The final kick,

I searched,

the last three furlongs,

smiling at the amused boy,

the bemused man;

smirking at the

crowded market,

and swearing at the porch,

for it meant the end,

as I felt the rush

shiver through my body

and leave me,

to fly over a misty lake,

towards sunset,

and a brighter tomorrow,

for all of us, fingers crossed.

The lone man

I spent talking with,

hours up the path,

o’er smashed oranges,

past angry apes,

side-stepping haulers,

trawlers and tourists,

had already punched and killed him.

That insignificant

little bastard we call Limit.

(On the 52-km climb up to Kodaikanal, which I cycled last month, on the last day of KC500, the 500-km charity cycling ride from Chennai to Kodai)

The Dying Winter

The clearing fog...

The receding moisture

from your eyes;

the sun, occasional,

playing a heavenly hide n seek.

The small drops of passion...

Dew in the morn,

sweat at high noon,

whiskey at twilight,

and sleepless at midnight.

The Devilry!

I open the pressure hatch,
          let myself out,
into the murky, Sodium coloured world
          –their midnight,
my hour to trek back, I did time,
          to the beach,
finding warmth in the cold waves,
          and a colder moon.

I dread the darkness in sunlight,
          I must be him;
I see bright lights in darkness,
          I am him, the Devil.

Inhuman Love!

Introduce yourself,
the best of you,
I was asked,

Sure sir...
I'm a boy,
I love to play.

I am a man,
I love to watch
the boys play.

But beware,
I am inhuman,
and that's how I love.

The Fall

The season has a bit

more than the smog

that fills my lungs;

creeping through the
fickle filters I put up

to fight its advances.

It’s relentless, fast

and eases me into bed,

under layers of cotton;

and, a bit of lycra, of late;

as I make love, monitor and

chronicle the flame with a Google app.

Misty Lips!

Smudges, they shift
with each sigh from 
the old artist’s soul,
in between his freezing
brush strokes.
Pure bliss,
his heart creates
the lines which 
let life flow
in a sedate pace,
the perfect cadence
to feel heaven,
which plays hide n seek
in an unknown,
wet, yet misty cycle;
The right music 
to feel you, in the breeze;
to taste your lips in
the fresh green fern
I kissed...

Shhhhhhh!
Yeah, I kissed...
Ever so gently,
so, so softly;
lest I wake up the 
God from his dream.

Our Tomorrow!

This piece of time,

It’s broken;

no, it’s alive,

the Eagle lives;

and circles around

its latest prey, I.

For my time,

I wait!

The sign of life,

the tiny twitches

of my vein,

insults me, and my heart!

Where is my pulse?

Her voice.

Where is my will?

Her smile.

Where is my life?

There, beyond reach,

it’s chained onto the

long arm of the

cruel clock on my right,

in this dark room.

The right time...

Destiny’s hand it is;

now, hold me, my right arm;

it’s time,

it’s midnight,

and tomorrow is ours...

 

The Mirrors

In another train,

not so long back,

I never had the need

to turn and watch the

shaky mirrors behind,

which hid my virtual image

beneath the many faces

commuting to work,

to play, to love.

Then, I could only look ahead,

or to the left,

through the iron bars,

and watch the stallion,

with me on its saddle,

gallop alongside the

diesel-powered coaches,

beside the endocrine-driven

life and its dreams;

jumping over small brooks,

crossing meadows, little fences,

and concrete roads;

trails I never took in my life;

the lanes,

now forgotten...

See, now I travel

many a metres

under the precise,

geometrically symmetric

maxims of a teacher

in pristine white coat,

in a lab where

muscle fibres are,

first torn apart,

then stitched back,

to make Kevlar out of

human flesh...

I am forced to look back now,

onto the mirrors

behind me,

they shudder in fear,

are rickety in dread,

for my eyes are cold,

angry, in fire...

As I can’t heal my world,

nor can I stop

them all from dying,

nor can I stop the livingfrom crying!

The Unwritten Word!

The Christmas I feel here,
rising from the bushes,
where they walk,
Eden is far, a mirage;
but they walk... Towards home,
towards nothing!

And they all take that trail,
thank their God,
and they shop in joy
for they've mastered
the written word
in their holy book.
But it's too dark to read
the unwritten word,
their constitution,
in their daily lives.

It's Christmas but,
in Zimbabwe...

Bible sale on a pavement in Harare



Ode to Bulawayo

There goes another wicket,
in haste they walk!

I stroll in taste,
Bulawayo’s Queen in my arms,
the soft whisper from
the swaying ol' timers,
the masters,
the witnesses,
the faithfuls beyond the 
east frame of a green canvas,
an oval mirror for men;
their leaves speak of old glory,
of war and peace,
revolutions and blood,
of solutions and dread,
and of love… 

… How will I forget love?
In the promised land
a few Safaris away,
I hunt and shunt
in a game I always lose;
like my dear hosts
who’re lost at home… 
home bitter home!

The Crumpled Dollar

It's winter,
in Rhodesia, in my life
where summer was short
and well rehearsed
to last till that second,
the stage-time,
set by you, your calculus,
and its variables.

You,
ye, only you,
the conductor at my opera;
the director of my dreams;
the dictator;
an autocrat,
who crushed my will,
the murderer I slept with.

I search,
find hope in the smiles
of the hard-worker,
who gives receipts for the
crumpled dollars I pay him.
Oh Zimbabwe,
look... my crumpled heart;
laugh now, please laugh!

That Boy in the Rain

Those three storeys,
shadowless today,
project the layers in the
story of that boy in the rain...

A man walks into the
square reserved for morning prayers,
midday chaos and evening jest;
to splash water on his soul,
to forget love,
to tear open his shirt, feel love...

From the heavens;
from the girl of yore; from you;
from the blonde across the table;
over candle-lit dinners;
or at a beach empty.
But, man he can't love!

He can only kneel,
in pain now,
his will slashed in war.
He watches, in dread,
as the boy fades into the mist
rising from a basketball court.

With that, poof, his memories mix,
into a dull grey Molotov cocktail,
then flow into the polluted gut
of a city of rushed dreams.

While two boys live, swinging, 
their moment drenched in lust,
a thirst for life, yes lust;
their clocks tick-toeing towards truth,
towards the end of innocence,
where they’ll begin to die!

Instagram: Pixeles_

It's forgotten!

Oh I forgot,

just like I forget to sleep,

these days of spring...

When the birds sing, make love.

See, I don't read life,

or its books;

when I find a paperback,

I tear its cover,

build a wobbly ship,

and float it down the drain

that takes out the sins

of my commute,

to the depths of this

city I call home.

Then, my heart betrays me,

halfway through that peeled

bestseller...

Yes, I forgot how to write.

The Steps

In that cramped space

I call my living room,

the fridge in the blue corner,

she stares at my sidekick,

and grins, mocks me

when I pull it short;

to avoid the charges

she will press,

taking me to court,

for domestic violence!

But, that kick was not

for your cold heart,

I was just tracing the steps,

they named it,

you call it, Bassai Sho.

The steps I took,

when I was toddling

my way to school, to life,

to lies, and the many flings

that made me a man.

The Empty Room

The deep, long breaths,
signs of a life, its chords
resonate with those beats
I can never drown in wine.
I grew used to the music
rising from the anteroom,
my only room, yes,
no room or heart for more love...

That rear guard up front
is long gone.... home.
But, in my numb starts,
I still see him,
as I wake up for another
day in the cold realities of
the stale and empty man I see,
in the shaving mirror I never use.

The Christian

I looked down,

so did they;

and saw this lone Christian,

bearing a cross,

in the broken line

under the pillars

that support families

in the NCR.

He got a winter break,

while his master,

a man of faith,

was having his free breakfast.