Saturday Qualifying

Sir Stewart smiled,

the knight's many chequered flags

spark the V8 that

powers his young eyes,

wrapped in a magic weave

of proud Scottish sunshine.
 

Schumi did part his lips too,

so did Vettel and the young-uns,
at posers with magic drumsticks

and jokers with rusty, septic swords.
 

... It gave them orgasms!
Hell yeah, it did...
 

While o'er the counter quotes
eased the pain in their lower gut from
paraphrasing the one-and-a-half minute long
lap dances, the misery and mystery of it all.
And the tycoon chose to eat while
they blew his trumpet.
 

Night, the city lit up with
headlamps rushing home.
The delivery boys readied
a rich spread on the dinner table.
A li'l more than four hundred
words got laid on the front page
for the pleasure of millions.
Out came whorish squeals on Facebook;
from the dark lanes

it made its way to the pit-lane

and the paddock behind.

Three days of timeout
from rum n coke in a tainted glass,
to champagne in a circus flute.
 

Then there were rumours

of multiple pleasure,

beside the pit-lane exit,

in sync with the downshifts

into the opening corner.

More a sigh than a cry,

from an Italian lady in red;

as she climbed towards newer
heights of ecstasy, beyond the second corner;

round n round, hips and laps.
 

They all qualified for

a Sunday party,

while I made the grid for a hike,
after a Saturday high!

(I was also present at the Buddh International Circuit in Greater Noida for the inaugural F1 Indian GP. Yeah, the ‘mystery and misery of it all’...)

Room for more!

Shipbuilders, ’em southerners
are busy with their hull...
It belongs not to them,
the Iron, nor the hammer
they use to bring percussion
to the fore in an orchestra
conducted by a very tall,
old man in Red tux.

Hey, I too can float,
an airtight skull sets sail;
a few shots down the vein
and I'm on my desk,
making a couple of pages,
before forgetting the stanzas of a 
good dream... I never take notes!
Visions never appear on paper either!

Slow n steady on two wheels
I come back to reality,
watching my beloved's concrete bosom glow,
revelling in the attention from the sun,
the naughty old westerner
trying to woo his favourite gal,
a white-skinned one on stilettos,
to spend the night with him.

He fixes the spotlight on her;
sad, so sad, he is setting,
a temporary death,
or is it just twilight sedation
for doctors to work on him
and he comes out again the morrow,
young and handsome to date her again,
the soap opera continues!

View from my sixth floor room east window at Medical Trust Hospital in Kochi

(Thoughts from my hospital bed in Kochi, on the view from my sixth floor room, my trip under sedation and the setting sun...) 

White coat, dark court!

Heal me doctor
for I've sinned,
but just in my deeds.
Yet “banished,” said he!

The hunched over professional,
bespectacled, white-coated
and smiling, walks out on me.
His evening busy; hands warmed
with soft leather gloves,
he strolls to a garden in bloom.
His bed is comfy too
while a cold hospital cot awaits me.

“Banished,” he said again,
for you dared to try singles.
Indians can only play doubles,
ask your Paes or Bhupathi!

Yeah, they've won Grand Slams,
but I have no choice
for I am forced to stick
to just serve and volley!

Thank you doctor,
I shall begin my day
in darkness now;
the floodlights are dead
at the fenced singles court
and they refuse to repair it.

Rain Check

"Yes, yes! Right here mama,
I ain't out in the rain!"

The skies opened
to re-christen the birthday boy,
cleansing his veins and lanes
off grime and some crimes;
flushing his soul and sewers
off original and some duplicate sins.

But all I heard, between the quick
baby steps on concrete, was her voice,
which once made sure I played by
the rules written in the mist, in bold italics,
by the waving index finger
I held walking to school.

But I can't lie, can I?
This grey carries my sin,
sprinkled in between
the fresh shoots you planted
while I waited by the window
for my paper boats to dock.

"Yes, yes! Right here mama,
never in the rain, I play with fire now!"

Rain!

And as I look out of my flat window here enjoying its sudden appearance, I hear my mother call. Many times!

Of course she is nowhere near me to call out my name and check whether I am inside the house or busy floating paper boats in the rain.

This used to be a regular call when I was a kid growing up in Kochi where rain is part of life just like the sun.

As a kid, though I was less naughty than I am now, one of my ideas of fun was rain and the inexpensive, low carbon-footprint activities surrounding it -- like sliding in the mud, making water skis with coconut tree branches, netting tadpoles and tiny fish in the small pond at our backyard, and of course miniature boats.

At times even my grown up aunts (mom's sisters) used to join me. Till my mama intervenes, calling out my name, asking me where I am and reminding me that I am not supposed to be outside.

The call stayed with me.

Later, even now as a 30-year-old, whenever I am left in peace to listen to the rain I hear my mother and her voice of concern and caution.

"Leslie, where are u my son, don't go out in the rain."

And I heard her voice today.

But rain is not my worry now mama. It is fire that I have to deal with every day.

I wish the days were as simple as the ones involving monsoon showers and paper boats. But at least I have my mama's voice with me and her beacon guides me to brief yet fulfilling visits to the simplicity of existence I once enjoyed.

Smiles apart

Hay fever kicks him
out of the rented bed
and into a world
of overcast faces.
None smiled, not even
the serene nun.

The smog has killed
their passion for fellow men,
or are they following
The Emperor's eldest son.
Even the sun just frowned today,
n walked, it's a selfish world.

Official Prison

Backs bent to submission
by the bulge of prosperity
surrounding a job in a room
with red-carpeted walls and
a white, life-less ceiling
that guillotines the dreams.

The windows won't let the
world in or the word out;
they are sealed tight by design,
to keep spirits at bay, allowed to dance
only in the rays that the
dusty glass panes let through.

And we look out,
to see purple mist rising from
the rains which give life for many,
while filling the moat around us
prisoners here;
it's official, the sentence.

(Ah! The cell called office cubicle)

Death tone

I dread this change,
the tones, from drum-rolls
announcing life in this city,
it's now a few night birds humming.

Darkness, I fear your smile too,
for you will sneak up on me
from behind to sever the
warm nerves to my heart.
I hate you too... wily, black n slimy,
how easily you got the same drummers
to play music at dawn
'morrow for my pallbearer.

Peek-a-boo life

Arms up, in full guard;
this the peek-a-boo way.
 
Looking through the gorge
between the two, the only
brothers you can depend on;
not to wait for that flinch,
or a twitch to land a jab,
or a hook in good taste.
 
It is just to save the
'kind eyes' from turning black;
only the relentless gloves I see,
already red from many a spots.
 
Pure plain peek-a-boo style,
sans the knock-out drills.

(A lesson for life from boxing: It worked well even for Iron Mike Tyson in the ring before he forgot his coach Cuz’s "fail-proof" tactic and was knocked out, in life! But Peek-a-boo style does keep one away from a lot of complications...)

THE UNCORRUPT

Hope in!

The missing links maketh your day,
filling your hours with hope.
And hope drives the universe.

Father figure
The going was tough, but,
the tough was falling around him,
and they Baptized him Father!

Vain blood
An old man at the frontier;
where are the young n brave?
Oh, they bled Blue to death in vain!

Armful Cancer!
Armed rebellion against cancer!
We can't let you amputate
our mother, ye modern sage...

Hold on
Intriguing, the air is still;
for the whole nation holds its breath,
Democracy is in labour tonight.

A nation built on hope, blood and sweat. The fluttering tri-colour -- a dream of the Father of the Nation and the thousands who laid down their lives and the millions who made sacrifices -- is in danger of becoming a nightmare.
A man from that long-lost “age of national pride” has come forward though, to keep the Indian dream alive. But the young are lost in their own little world of self importance, while the nation bleeds and rots. And another “Saviour” tries to cut our Mother to pieces – Armed rebellion!
I see my brothers and sister doubting Democracy and doubting our constitution, the backbone of our nation. These are dangerous times. It’s time we acted and acted boldly.
JAI HIND!

Morning Raga

She begins her worship

of the holy cradle, her hearth
and the source of manna,
in the only way she knows.

Her limited access-key to the
vocal chambers is enough for her
fresh soul to render flawless emotions
in a flowing, free-versed Raga
that tickles a mother
- smiling with pride and joy.

She leans on her plush throne,
while morning glows in her sunshine song.

(My neighbour’s baby's song I wake up to these days...)

Evening Show

The pixels on the giant screen

dim with each passing frame,
the flick is ending, time for a fare
through black & white lanes, again.

Evening show tickets with me;
I burned the extra cals,
to reach the box seat
reserved for veterans and
the local political analysts.
This neighbourhood theatre is crowded,
screenings round the clock;
action and a few stunts in the morn,
love stories follow post noon and
hope n family flicks at primetime.

The show goes on even as the
actors fade before the horizon.
White dots appear on the dark screen,
a sign of life, but ushering death for a change.
This cue to leave and the white paint
from government lights mark my return route.

Fort Bastard

The fortress crumbles,

under her own fat, neglected bling.

I see her green, black n red
veins protrude out in an evil twirl,
varicose has gripped the pillars
which once held up the lofty
buyers-world in a spell, the seller's market.
They now crumble as rust eats into
the downed shutters of the courts
which once inspired awe, then lust.

Now a haunt where old men sit
and smoke away dreams;
the rush, only from pyre fumes
climbing up the decayed escalators,
to the sunroof that splashes an eerie Neon
onto the alleys of a dying bastard.

Spencer Plaza in Chennai is fighting a losing battle, it’s obvious. A fight for survival as its world slowly shifts to the road across.

The plaza's oval central sun-lit lobby, where one side reminds us of the first Spencer building, which was built during the time of the Britishers

Armour of God

His armour, forged with the

wisdom of God, written by man,
bestseller down the years,
a gift from a mother.
Battle ready, his power, the will
to trample snakes and lions,
the moment he covers his prone
flesh and soul with a
promise, a Psalm for the
mortal warrior, but unlike Achilles.

Carrying a buckler, made in love
by his woman back home;
shield from an ore from the mines of Luke,
the voice, his holy guide
lighting a right path across
Edom and many more of 'em battle fields.

Heat Healthy

The warmth from the lap
of an unknown mother,
kept me awake as
stories flashed by in colour.
 
She, known for feeding
her sons with resolve
from the full, burning breasts;
I met her this day,
after four long years of
hide and no seek!
 
The game which I started,
with the morning gust,
that hit me with all its might,
uprooting my veins, for months at times.
 
But today... I orphaned myself inside an
AC cab waiting outside a train station!

The day-time train trip through Tamil Nadu in a non AC compartment: A burning experience, but no time to complain because I was alive amongst the "real" people of this country. Check out my observations during the journey - 

http://les-bicyclediaries.blogspot.com/2011/05/trained-observer.html 

Chrome Plated Dreams

The tips of my fingers resonate

this morn, with the music
from her silence, which keeps
me in a cell with no windows.
Only small peepholes,
the eight bright ones offered
by Chrome; they ain't sport
today though, no painkillers.

My eyes follow the plot still,
pipe dreams a few open;
while my shackles are loosened
enough to let me scroll
from one vision to another,
in search of that glare from reality.

Sweat Equity

The meat of the moment;

reality, the heat of life,
was lost among the humming
birds of a concrete tree,
who huff and puff
to vent their cold frustrations
on the prone men
hunched o'er tragic mirrors...

Women too! Forced to
do justice to a devil's contract.

I would rather sweat, shovelling
love near that familiar tree
whose mangoes once trained
me to aim high and higher, sigh!

Good Mourning!

The knock on the door

from a surrogate,
paid a lower wage
for her act of pity
on the man who eats less
and tweets more, lately.

Wake up call answered
with a smile, an apology,
and a promise for amends follows;
the employees are happy...

... I rush back to my
bed of nails, mails waiting.

Blue Fever

Blue, the pools are
full to the brim.
Hangover from four days of
binge on home-made sweet brews
strains the valves;
the plumbing squeaks and bulges.
 
But optical illusions and
a seven-hour old chart
forces me into a train;
while unshed tears,
a rusted, hard and cold bed
ensured I felt every single
beat of my self till the auto ride
to reality. Back to fever!

Ride and Seek!

Gentle twists, a schoolboy’s will
to ease the miniature motor
through the chicane from yesteryears.
A right and a left, in slow motion
the bike was urged as an old
family fortress coughed on the left
while the watch tower loomed,
it still keeps an eye on the
blue-and-white teens mugging up
theorems to cut short their heaven.

An open ground and a palace
left in the dust, yellow memoirs zip past.
Ahoy! The market where dreams
were made, pumped with Iron,
oiled and then dumped,
the end of innocence.

(Yesterday evening’s bike ride from Santa Cruz school to Pattalam ground through the road beside the unused water tank, my old school Britto and the Bishop’s Palace, was indeed part of a normal commute home after an evening stroll at Fort Kochi beach. A 500-metre or so long trip which lasted around 30 seconds; but a life-time of memories this road carries for me and some flashed by, in the same pace as the eight or so Sodium vapour street lamps I left behind during the ride.)

Pain Old Will

The humid presence I felt,

of the man inside,
with a will to stand his ground,
for "lies" - truth for me,
maybe not so for the shepherds
of the flock, lost up
the mount of no return.
Touché! I'm your man...

For I felt my guts today,
though the revelation was painful,
it shook me... minutes,
the dull burn from
the weight of expectations
I carry ever since I was born.

Holi Sift!

Behold! A corridor of certainty,
between two human indiscretion,
called home by a few hundreds;
while others name them
indulgence of men, whose will
rise higher than the dreams of
even those upper-middleclass gent
in the morning trains to VT.

Blue with shifting silver streaks,
the young sun makes his point,
bringing out the real colours
within the Canyon.
It's Holi indeed for the
specs on the garage floor;
it’s their festival. I slept,
searching for the missing links...

... Two drunk friends, infant summer;
and sounds of childhood
- the thump of waves with
spray reaching my home.

Terrier Terrain

Whole of heart; wiry,
busy 'em little ones.

Yours truly, these Terriers,
ready to jump n fetch, heel n roll;
spotted fur-heads - yellow n black;
they sprint for you, a whistle it takes.

Those mushy glides in love,
the slow crawls to work;
flight or fight or the higher life;
barking their way round
the charmed maze here called life.
Loyalty metered to the mile,
deep Italian grunt to match,
it's their world, a busy one.

- Mumbai Fiat Taxis: Now, they are something!

Tearaway!

The drop trickling down

an old rut, hidden under
a thick brush and worn-out
leather; a man at large.
Oh, you've grown up;
ready to sin, ready to win.
 
And this water,
yeah; it's his heart weeping,
for he was still taking a
noon nap after mama's lunch,
when the world did many a Mach. 
The sonic boom afterthought,
shook him back to reality;
tears ain't virtual anymore.

Edit Cage!

Dog days are here to stay;
bones, less marrow, are thrown
into their cracked shot glasses
by masters of a trade, younger than
the oldest profession this biz,
but filthy more it sure is.

Whores ’em are noble,
for they barter flesh, dignity;
while these whip wielders
deal in souls and breed zombies
to edit the bones - snarling, biting
in greed, caged near the source!

The Peace Pat

Bliss patted his palm,
in a pink frock with flowered smiles,
from an island beyond a lacquered
picket fence of many.

The arched brow above her jewels
questioned his will to play,
while around they all pray.
Man, he chose to wave and woo
her into those naughty,
tiny steps up the sunny aisle,
for a gentle pat; receive he did,
that sign of peace with meaning.

(I was kept busy during last Sunday's service at Santhome, for the little girl two rows ahead of me found me amusing...)

Love Ethic-uette!

That wasn't pure nor amour;
oh, the one from the east!
For if love had ethics
and you were in love,
you will never elope with
that stranger I showed you once!

Stranger is life still,
capital bliss for you;
in neatly trimmed winter days,
and on a warmed bed made out
of fallen branches from the
tree of life they once named honour;
in real haste it's down to a stump,
But all's fair, indeed it is!

The Write Key!

Baby Steps in happy Garten!
Firm, her gentle grip led
me up the magic stairs
to where rivers silver stream
amidst lush green life;
the Eden of Words.

Morn, I knocked for a voice!
It rhymed with the artist's hold
on my sword, the one I swish
at will for bread, love, for sleep;
in awe I froze and
she stepped down, an altar!

It indeed was one, a temple!
Lambs tiny, soft and naughty;
given candy and songs
to nourish 'em into 'solid men'.
Wait; easy she saw through the
smile of a Christmas kid.

You little one of many?
I leaned to my name,
for a kiss, wine and a high.
These jingles for her ears;
a gift for the key
I used to unlock my world.

(An Ode to Yvonne, my first teacher! She used to put me on her lap and hold my hand to guide me through the contours in the copy book. She taught me the alphabets and the many words I use now so liberally to make a living... Yvonne and Uncle Willy live in Canada now and were in Kochi this year to celebrate Christmas with family. The lines were written just after my visit to her place, the old family house in Fort Kochi where I used to run about singing rhymes as a three-year-old...)

Evening Count

My life remains coloured,
this season by the tired Sun,
who smiles on party mammals
warming up, merry indeed.

But the gold plated evenings
are not for me, never any more!

I was dragged out of this feast
a fine day, when my uncles
were not watching my back;
for I had a beard, and gloves
to fight, but I never could
punch the thug down and
now I sit in pain as
evenings turn to night and boys,
they laugh for they have
a new morn coming.

Alas, I have only tales of loss,
of those numbered pics in paradise!

Scent Percent Christmas!

The wise ones float and get swept
into a cone by the shallow winter,
letting the old watchdogs of
this Colonial Fort light
a bonfire to keep the native stings
away from their cubs, near the bay;
but the smoke signals usher in
a time for love…

Glossy ones on the beach path
get eclipsed by late noon;
for the humid Queen glitters
in a mat-finish; her powdered cheeks,
a gift with kisses from the Highland Lord,
whose songs let the bells chime
for the Anglo Choir and their Hallelujah;
it's time to rejoice…

And find joy in the blend from
Desi chefs with foreign rum,
the grains fermented with plum;
sweet enough to make you plump,
but kids, we swarm the baker's pride.
A slow jog and it's hard to miss
the dancers burning Santa, they're high;
a new life! From the ashes it's born.

A time for life with all its charm;
Christmas is here; ah, the infant's scent.

Bass Choir

Singing with pride, hear ye;
'em gay lot, fresh out of their
flooded flats near that
National Park where deer
cross roads to meet sleepy kids
walking their talk on strings,
stretched to its limits by silly calculus;
while men rush to get warm.

Their choir, led by fat ones a million,
the Bass, who can wait hours for food
and dive deep to stay alive,
then jump up to breathe and make love.

Tonight they hog the lights,
with extra spark from Sopranos,
who we never catch on TV;
the playback singers, feared
for they hum for the ghosts.
The Composer's proud - look
at Her streaks of joy shimmer;
the very tears that made them sing.

Child's Play

See! Led into this flower gorge,
afar I hear the falls and smiles forge,
from the fresh clatter of drops
on seasoned, polished rocks.
The spray tweaked my lips,
and the mist rolled my hips.
Lights! At a middle-school ground,
trees in uniform, a church West bound;
the papal's man rests in the South aisle,
while kids play ball, their tones a Nile.
A granted gift for they're loved,
it came back this noon, I'm wowed.

She! Her voice binds hearts in its charm,
and pulls 'em into a flow so warm.
To the window down the aisle,
where coloured frames bend for a smile.
The portal glues worlds four to one,
as I take that plunge and I won.
Innocence! The trip in speed of light,
through her pitch, on His glory and might.
I sob, then smile and run out wild,
into the field where glory is mild,
and comes packed in a vanilla cone,
laced in soccer n salt in an evergreen zone.

(It was Children’s Day and the service at Santhome last Sunday had a surprise - an innocent voice that took me back… to a playground near the Arabian Sea)

Shallow low...

I wish I was lost, playing
in that field way below;
breaking shackles, and the
rut from dreams of proletarians
and their bald-headed run
to office each morning.

The dark depressed pitch,
a gift, in a silver platter
by daddy dear to the
bastard, brought up
by pay-roll husbands,
canned milk and man toys.

I could only touch, just;
the manicured grass
and skim a few lines out
of it to feed my manhood.
For I have to leave, to scavenge.
Aye aye, boss I'm hungry!

Marilyn and I!

The Caress! I felt her dreamy eyes,
a twinkle in the blue wash
at the French window near my heart.
She the one, a Norma Jeane,
framed in her virgin flight,
smiling behind the gloss of
stainless glass. Goodnight,
her whisper a lavender whiff.

Norma! I hushed onto the
mist from her breath on the pane,
before I touched her finger
for a fleeting pulse; life's brewing dear.
Yeah, she let me blot wine
from her parted lips,
naughty; red from love,
black-and-white by birth.

Twelve! her soul opened
in my dream, in a skewed
sequence, one each through
the dozen ports of bliss my
host, the rolling stone,
gifted beside a warm bed
in his penthouse world
of cars, books and pals.

Marilyn! Indeed I cried;
for she faded as the shallow
quick sighs of Cupid turned deep;
a slumber near the queen, whose
knights left her squinting at the
selective lights of a silver world;
and prone to the sedative pains
of that mansion between dunes.

(An Ode to Norma Jeane; a tribute to Marilyn Monroe! Special thanks to my pal Sid for letting me peek into those twelve, strategically placed, time portals.)

Mist call

The pistons jest past
the rustic walls and
the old gate which
leads the hungry beyond the
red stones of the Mughals,
and to the red meat and chefs.

The drive turns the
vultures of the hot day
into vampires, who mix
blood with water, before
the chilled gulps, thinning
the flayed nerves further...

... Till that sleepy merchant on the
east wall start shedding light
into the happy hours; the soles stutter,
a slip here and a sway there,
and a surprise! A glide
through mist, an early winter call.

(A typical night out in Delhi after the rigours and figures of Commonwealth reporting)

Voluntary Flicker!

Ever-crescent her smile,
with a voice which quenches
thirst in measured drops.
She, the gentle one, lighting
the busy alley with a candle;
the voluntary flicker, a couple of yards
from the pigeon holes
where just numbers roost.

(Her smile was what caught my eye - a wary one, this volunteer, stuck in between work and pushy journalists at a Commonwealth Games venue . She manages both though, in her own pace, her own world - a world I only watched from afar...)

Holy Water

Sealed with a red band
of love, yeah the same
colour of life which once
nourished me into this world.

Wrapped in a glowing mantle
of white, yeah the same
warmth from the heart which
let me dream, let me fly.

Filled with care to the brim
with dew from that
unbridled river which once
steadied me with kisses million.

Holy indeed these drops
I've kept tight, saved for
the day the desert heat
burns a hole in my soul.

Hell Bound!

They were here, right
beyond those septic walls.

Chained to hunger and
to the bloated greed
of 'em dream raiders.
Hunters, with cellular whips,
and silver pieces wrapped
in contract right from hell,
written by the darkest one.
Oh... They were here.

Our conscience slimed from
the blood-stained modernist stokes
as the "slaves" knelt down to
pick a morsel from the
sweat drenched sand grains
of this "free" land - their mother land.

Yeah, the democratic irony;
they were here, right here.

(Slavery, bonded labour, it seems we are still in the middle ages...)

Come rain or shine

The trip, to iron out
the crumpled, peeled skins kept
hidden behind doors near a bed;
took me down those school lanes,
towards the beach.
A detour - drooling, then dreaming
o'er a common-man's car
at a rich-man's porch,
before a refreshing li'l shower
during the hasty retreat...


... From the jest of a romantic who dared
to challenge the flair and flares
of the smiling, late-afternoon lover;
best of 'em both for this pedalling fool!

Bile You Were Sleeping!

Few fermented paper cups,
emptied in stolen gulps,
and left to rot in a soggy pile
within a junkyard for verbs.

Sideshows of the miserables,
governed by demigods in war
across an ocean, for gold;
men are men, so says the idiot-box.

... Dying for bets while sleep-walking
through fixed matches of life,
laughing in arrogance while failing to
contain the bile from a whithered liver.