Lullaby for tomorrow's children

The asphalt sticks like
powdered gum to bottles
that roll down avenues,
with fire scarfing
pavements flushed with
vomit and electric fog,
There are weak men
holding batons with
ribbons dipped in
the blood of those who
couldn't be born,

Their voices spill like
cheap liquor over a prostitute's bed,
Old men,who can hardly stand
carry infants of their vengeful sons
shouting and singing in one breath
that may be the only freedom left..

Through a cardboard camera

Sundown,Hyderabad(India)

through some faint observations

All alleys of the world
are pinned to the wall
like old calendars with
windows to better days,
Pages fly off them
like wooden houses
kept on the walls
of cemeteries visited
by gloomy meadows,
The rain pours down
like wrath from a gun,
the pastures outside
seem like my morning bread
invaded by an army of insects,us

Dust

By the seaside
from a ageing tree
hangs a purple light
under which the dead
suture the sea with the sky
when the earth sleeps,
They walk along the ocean
talking about saloons where
these lights are sold
with poisonous tails
for nothing more than
this poem's price...

Fall

Hope has survived
wiping wires from outside

on my chest

It beats on the inside

like swollen feathers

of a crow who waits

under blinking lamps

for the last drops
to trickle to my feet..

The changing sounds

of the rain slipping over the piano

make faces,standing in the doorway

where i burnt candles

to the floor

last night,searching

for pieces of glass

you dragged outside

with your eyes....

From the underground

What do you know about loneliness?

No more than the widow who walks down aisle's
with men she doesn't know
About as much as the ocean
hungers for calm

As much as the man
who makes paper towels
out of the morning news.
I live with loneliness
as if the corners were my arms
They cut me into identical pieces
over metal boards that make roofs
for you to drown in whatever you do under them
Everytime you walk over my spine
the sound of my bones breaking
is like the words my mother fumbles
singing lullabies in unused phone booths..

Shut,picture and brown

The opus of a poet
circles dead trees
far from which clouds
weep above the ocean
his lasting words,
Birds of day sing all night
after parachuting with fresh wombs
of his love,
They shudder when windows light up
in the middle of the night
on the street,called home