A song for you

Have I ,for you a song

Myth and reality meet
in the bubble of love
as some unformed life
keeps me on the highways
all night
searching for lids of empty
garbage cans gawking
like black envelopes
that i shall hold
along opposite sides of the planet

all night long,as you my love
lay hastily close to your destiny

a song,not this

have i,a song for you

As large as life...

Panting below the sea
In some dreadful,lost
shimmer from a broken treenail's
journey over fire
that serves our hunger


A heartache so tender
as the flower that dies
in the hands of earth
washed and amassed over steel gates
that fence troubled waters from the shore

Ashen,with the shoulders
of dusk to carry our bodies
forward,Life's faces change
like the insipid flickering
of a dark star in your head

behind your watchful eyes...

Nation/notion

There is no bad religion,
not a bad coin

Yet buddha dropped many
over bridges

to be engraved with republic faces

Floods come and go

Sexual Orchestra

The space between the sheets and the roof
is skied by red umbrellas,blowing away
in the wind that passes between your legs
My face shudders like a tin can
kept out in the rain,
in which i preserved myself
all this time,it took you to gather love
from underneath my tears
Your hands remind me of fresh autumn
slinking tepidly along my spine
kissing flowers that now grow out of me
In your eyes i find constant hate
for the morning,cut into pieces
as little white crystals that i
drink,mixed with your new found nubility
as i glide from one side to the other
with you as my vessel

Distances to the sky...every which way you look

The sky,a slow moving zebra
riding on the ripples
of water poured from
our oil laden oceans

A child,swims through them
looking for the last dying pomfret
everyday,

An animal's vanity is
chewed on,sometimes even worn
by desolation,hungry for
a ear to speak to

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)