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.

Sliver Lining!

The ceiling balloons with
tickles from a million
drops of passion giving
goose bumps on Her belly;
and then the let-out
in an impulse lasting
a couple of man-hours,
the moments of gold, worth.

In a thatched time machine,
near a tiny steam engine
huffing to keep me warm,
the spirited guard setting the tone,
fresh brew - his lady keeping me firm.
And those days under an open roof;
when kids played ship-builders
and dad played stone mason;
memoirs smiling from the mist
rising at the feet,
an hologram, coloured.
And I shiver in this sliver from yonder.

(South-western monsoon in Chennai, in June! Am happy with this unexpected splash of love. Aren't you?)

Cradle Chi

A drop, her warmth

running through my
tired spine - cracked from
the long, dry stand at work;
from the self-induced
burn for youth after work.

But a sip from the brew,
took me back to her womb.
The cradle where once I felt
the resonant 'chi' rise
from few good men and
those li'l ladies, the brides to be!

(There is something about that bottle of wine in my cellar at home. A sip from it and I am taken back in time to when life was simple - to my mother's womb. But why? Well the wine was made by my dear mom, the fermented spirit from grapes squeezed gently by the very hands which squeezed mine long back to reassure a teary-eyed boy that she will be back to pick me up in the evening after my first day in kindergarten)

Nature's Call

Waiting out the act
of eternity, which shook

the very bare forms of lives,
the flattened domes of
the socially downtown
and politically uptown
district of a fishing hamlet
turned culture capital.

Men in checquered flags
hide in the midnight shadows,
shying from the yellow fever
which grips them all
with the setting sun yonder.
They wait... for waves
to rush in and douse the spirit,
sweeping dreams under the dusty carpet.

Cleansing through genocide,
her ways so crude yet precise;
leaving scars only on the
half-nude proletarians
of a muscle driven democracy;
led by a poet with shades
to hide his shame; yeah, sun-glasses
to keep out the glaring truth...

(The tremors from the earthquake in the Nicobar Islands reached Chennai too, waking up the average city dweller from his slumber. Men came out of their warm beds to the roads to wait... For what? The fore-warned Tsunami or to see the falling dominoes. Intriguing, human nature is!)

Wrecked Smiles

Half filled immigration forms
and unfulfilled dreams
burn together in a mangled
pile of metal, plastic and
scattered pieces of His best
yet fragile toys so far.

Strapped in for the final surge of
G-forces before the first of
the many urges and splurges
of love and the li'l pleasures
of a small-town reunion;
lie in tatters now; a few metres
late and it was in smoke, the smiles;
gloom n shock and a wreck left for us all!

(The crash victims in Mangalore, may their souls rest in peace...)

Copulation Explosion!

When in doubt, copulate
with the first of the yellow
eyed ones in the dim
light of hubs where cubs n
funk and trance call the shots,
and red lights mark the spots.

Copulate, the art of need,
use and being used;
proving the theories, economic,
by market geeks for Sensex drives.
Useful for the Zen-sex jives,
this, the oldest of trades.

Copulate, indeed the need
of the hour;
Copulate, indeed the word
of the day;
Copulate, indeed the balm
for those sores;
Copulate, till you laugh
no more no less.

Copulate, the jaw-breaking joke,

in a night full of verbs,

in a room full of smoke,
under a roof tiled by friends,
to ease nerves and fly.
Copulate, don't forget yo mate.

The Drench Connection!

Why would I shy, aye fear?
There's life in your beats,
these drops softening
the wrinkles on a parched land
with something better than
the humid, salty trickle
its so used to from the
bare tillers of its skin.

Why read good old pain tonight
when ye feel the rain,
in a ride - slip n slide;
an enlightened sleepwalk
to a bed near the beach
where dreams await,
and visions of a dance as
angels above kiss my brow.

The connect made up there,
right where we belong;
in that spring of youth she loves,
while I can just sing 'em monsoon songs.

Sonshine on mama's day

This indeed my mother's gift
- from her days filled with
smiles adoring the might
of a man of love at his house.

The flickering candle a shy
witness to her passion;
no, she will never take no
for an answer; it's her womb praying.

And the baby gets the cheers
from the gathered lot at noon
to revel in the most glorified
sacrifice ever by a man.

Lord, the rebel gets the lauds,
his presence here as gift
for the dearest on her day,
rewarded with claps; wow!

Made possible by her hails
with beads to one virgin
and her smiling son in pain;
divine, blessed you are mama!

Cry n Dry!

Yeah, you glowed indeed as
waves of passion flowed towards
the naughty ones - boys and girls;
ah, the sensuous grace
during moonlit camps when you
gently flowed into their world,
a belly dancer from the heavens,
snaking to a divine tune.

Ageless beauty, why ye picked
the heartless of all to
bare your bosom; see
your cracked lips now and
the jaded mirror near your
navel where once the young
laughed at their reflected souls
before bathing in your depths.

You let them in each time they
knocked; giving them
treasures from your fertile womb,
gifts from the mighty warrior.
The nights when ye beauty
inspired all 'em poets who drank
wine and then raped thy beauty;
the damned who never loved you.

Barren, the dried springs
of life now as trucks from pimps
mined your virgin bounty
to build their bloody world
of false promises with concrete.
I cry, my tears not enough
to fill your dried veins with salt
to wash down the capitalist muck.

Where is your anger? The
monthly cycle when you swell
and flush the sins by tourists,
who keep their conscience and
passports safe at resort lockers,
right within the fake world built
by selling your divine flesh.
Yeah, I see death in your blue eyes!

A Box Seat

But it was my bed
for the greying part of
the night; when the birds
all of 'em flew from high
to still higher branches.

Foraging for meat,
fighting for cultures,
the truth and worth
unknown to the fools,
who sang first and swore later.

A front row, earth the couch,
for me after riding down
a glossy techno lane
to quench the thirsty hawks
- my friends at home.

Back to the airy nest - my bed;
the whistling longshoremen,
warmth from an oceanographer
and pegs from six tempered strings
soften me to a lull so brief.

Hound Sight

Loved by the sly
four-legged female,
would-be wife to a dog,
later mother to his sorry litter.

Nights, my wounds are licked
and they flare open. Her poison,
saliva and the salted Marina air,
burns right through to the bone.

Her family, the hungry pack of domesticated
wolves in a concrete jungle;
chase for my blood,
my legs saved me that night.

And this day, she
came home with love,
and left with a pound in her mouth,
severed right from my chest.

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.

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.

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)

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!

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.

Kokeshi!

A Fresh bloom-spread,
over a plush glow.
Her new dress?
No! The print
a darker tan of red;
he turns to look again.

Waves shallow n soft,
a morning spray as Sunday sets.
Her new mane?
No! The stream reflects,
sure a deeper twirl,
he had to look again.

Mist, white and light;
lukewarm - the breath.
The smoke in chains?
No! A whitish halo
from a fighting lung.
Kokeshi, the christened doll.

(Kokeshi, a Japanese doll... She caught my eye in the newsroom...)