Sexual

Unpeeled oranges,
 in an overrun alley,
   Sewage as is seen
from the sky,unrelenting
  in its corruption

Visions out of romance
   have families stated,in them- 
the rope is tightest
   near the knot.
  
 From that point  

Back and fourth, if
   you were to walk,
 brow tipping the sunshine
    with a pint of shame,
 
unable to tell,two legs,apart
 for reason-
   momentary injustice

 "What do you do for oranges"
someone asked,and
    into the mouth of the wolf
  i howled

The missing tooth

On a not so common night,
searching for an aching
tooth in the backyard-
that new river sound
now,turned into loss,
I dreamt of pain
all night long,holding
one arm with the other.

Parapet after parapet
I keeled over,breaking
in and out of sleep
like concentric circles
I drew when i was five years
old,convinced with a sense
of incomprehensible gravity
that they were to be my
greatest attempt at art.

How playful can
asymmetry in life be-
unapologetically giving
me a mouthful of reasons
to smile each morning

Pete, the hearthrob

If his parsnip cemented breath does not
create his locale,the size of his car does.

People believe his mind is its own erection-
that in his own image he is the utmost

that can be achieved,by him.Guilty of such
self pleasuring,and uncommon support

Pete still dreams of having grit, like his teeth,
and the ambition that subtends it;

His history written by women,purporting
the one he writes himself-cross-bred vanity

The theatre of his general exposition,is often
conducted on muscle-either his,or of his machine,

a common place,where depth
is yet to be extended to.
 
He can be seen driving across the parking lot
with the speed of light-zero to something in some seconds,

before he brakes at the exit ,as if
the cracks in his glass frames,actually existed.

Yes

I have a freckled need for convolution.It is almost necessary to deny my defence
and at the same time provide to its selfless logic.How easy, is it to say NO? Easiest of all things.
I have found it the easiest thing to do in life.At times it shatters,every structure,underpinning a history of existence.But my mind,still urges the secretarial worship of paradigms.It is not astonishing,hence, to view
death and conscience on a collision course.It is probably the same as having the colon and consequence
in the same line:YES as a renomination for loss.Losses that are now impossible to recount.Life repeats itself,Yes,in real? NO.Perhaps,all revisits are negative,when condensed under a progressive lens.Positive thus,bears the negative-the negative being our only identity, in isolation.My repetition of ideas(thoughts i have about my thoughts) is defaming for the heart,because i like to speak freely and write attractively.I've not only perfected preoccupation,i own it.

Flight

Midway through the flight from Delhi to Pune,
an epileptic bulge seemed to push me deeper

and deeper into my seat.Figuring your maleficent value
in a coach full of two hundred people, at twenty thousand

feet above the ground is extremely challenging.It is
probably less challenging however,to do it wrong.

As I murmured to myself-never again,the coach
rumbled-emanating from both sides a sound of

debilitating horror.Animated gestures of bladder
activity can make you nervous:so can the darkness

beyond the little window with faint lights
visible in it,probably as some consolation,

for the vague point of reference.I vicariously
closed my eyes,blacking out the immediate

area of danger,and unfocussed I reveled
in the thoughts of being untouchable by past

misery at such a height.

Last in heaven

It has not been more than four months,and vital signs of life
can often be found affixed to the refrigerator door.
There will soon to be the delineation of spaces to
walk in-settings of a law-a new kind of law.
The decibel levels are set according to mutual
disagreements,a routine for the wind to follow-almost
as strictly as mine.The windows chosen out of invalid
discourse may eventually misshape our lives,but chances
of that happening are as vague as my concern for them
in the first place.There is no better way to stay in line,
than drawing it yourself-everything but that.The writing,in
an acute sense,is really never on the wall-rather a deafening
silence of incredulity,of refusal to doubt.The sun alone
tips the edges of this flower brown.Within,it is all red and bare.
There isn't another place I would rather be at, for
a million years,as replacement value becomes
a metrical injustice.In between addresses of the mind
and heart alike,postal and poetic threads intertwine.
Her lips pour,triumphant words like "forever",
when in her mind she travels as far as "now".

The summer bucket of love

Clouds
shepherd-
we are
    in thoughts;
hopefully not 
         outnumbered,
       by relaxations.
Along roads and windows
   we have rolled,
 some with broken
   glasses,broken skies
where to the
 wandering trees
         we were stars