Lingerie

At times, I detested you growing up.
As if my conscience had been nabbed
from remembering us, twined
in a corner of the yard, in summers -
tarrying sustenance of any kind -
in winters, the breakers of spring.
Your windows, once glazed
with poop pictures,
I drew for you-now with
spunky whites,laced with black and blue
unfit for scoping, through my hands.
Hands from whose shell, the oysters
have stepped out - as if toe to toe,
You still had bigger steps to take.
And now there is this void, of ineptitude-
You never talk. You only ask.
But I promise,
I will find something for us to do

Quietude,for Gaza

Room,
  cradled in whistling
silhouettes
      of men,women
and children,who were
    once there

away from the awful
       silence,
     unlike, my heart,

far from exploding

The infestation

At the table,opposite her
   peering through the window
 at a city,routinely unengaged.


    The photographs on the walls,often,
made
me sweat.Blown into a crevasse
   of reality,they were challenges
to it.
Carefully vacuumed,as always
          the plate tilted,
and the food tasteless,i saw 

 a rat scurry across
     the kitchen floor,and towards
her nonchalant face i stared,

the nerve of her-
   
    She knew poison could 
slow me down,but love,love
     would kill me

Dirty books

But what sparkling,
  little boats

the

pages
   of pornographic outrage,
           would make-

 by and by that
     happen to stick together

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.