Rephrase

>> Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Lets bury present in
malodorous muck -
that steaming bog of
vile licentiousness,
rest tongues in sheath
and use the pen -
to slash and parry.


Once we get started
these things are addictive -
we’ll sit in dark
everything out of focus
squatting in middle
playing with history.

All that vexes -
uneasy wheeling sky,
unsettling flecks of
three quarter moon
cresting the horizon -
resolving temporarily
as we turn scraps of
papers into stories.

My life that’d slid off
somewhere in the past
yours that’d kept
delaying its arrival -
in an empty space
they’d both converge
clinging transiently.

Aah the curse of
co-incidences –
surge the blood-lust
lure me again
on tricky streets,
point me out
and whittle me down
into kindling –


Then read and grieve.

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Apropos..

>> Thursday, March 13, 2008

Yesterday, you were a lighter smudge
in dingy sky, whereby shafts tinged
the soiled chunks of
my life, the muddy footpaths, and branches
not that I blame you entirely
for perpetual gray fog,
it being, the winter of memories.


Now that you’ve embraced the drab,
color looks out of place everywhere
tomorrow, like the February sun
you might emanate lucidity without warmth.
the world reveals itself
in tiny increments, integrated tangibly
when ingested over time,
in this distant year, the month of March
has offered, the foretaste of summer.

The slide of winter into spring
had been imperceptible,
frozen gray, to gutsy gray,
buds impaired, no color anywhere
today held, just briefly,
a touch of magic-
that cannabinolic splendor of
the morning after sleepless nights.

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Confabulation

>> Wednesday, March 5, 2008

You may not find me ..
In ruptured images once beheld,
tortuous outlines of setting sun,
subtle interplays of elegiac poetry
or in tangled discursive reminisces
when you and I melted indiscriminately.


I am afraid one day
you would step back in murky
faint hues of obliterated past,
as our conversation continues
in certain grim spareness of
your immure papered rooms
though neither of us spoke again.


Oblivious of precedence
my words might turn up where
you’d laid them aside in midsentences-
on the edge of the bathroom sink,
hanging between empty cocktail glasses
and disks of sodden lemon
or crumpled among bedsheets.

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