His chef-d'oeuvre ..

>> Tuesday, December 13, 2011


She had an odd fascination; exclusively her own; it wasn’t really beauty, but a characteristic far more disturbing, something a man couldn’t resist. The garden was strewn with jasmine and pansies, among them bunches of Chrysanthemums, roses, marigolds, and other hues that impregnate the still violet air. A spring, flimsy and murky, seemed profusely placed in a corner to resemble the sacred Yamuna. There the nightingale sang the birth of her favorite rose while bewailing its short lived charm, the doves mourned steadily, and the peacock danced to enliven the creation. The unified melodies of birds and flowers imbued the painting amidst which Zebunissa, Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb’s daughter, reclined alone, on a bower of Bougainvillea, waiting and weary, bearing in her spirit, the regrets and waywardness of her heavy heart.

The apartment was small, on the fifth floor of a building, in a congested street. The painting occupied a yellowed wall of its solitary bedroom. Outside the windows the relentless concert of the city played on, the vehicles, the people, the ceaseless voices. Through the open shutters also came the fresh night air of December. Zebunissa stepped out of the canvas and peeped outside. She had often imbibed this dulcet Delhi air. Even the smoke and dust could not stifle the nip of a wild perfume akin to the bygone medieval era. She inhaled a mouthful, gazing out across the tangled cosmos of roofs and lamp-posts. She saw the headlights, she caught some stars, she saw a crescent moon, the lights from street falling in a shower of silver upon the floor, bed-posts, and a table stacked with sheets and brushes. And something inside her moved; something that had never stirred before.

After a long day, unlocking and stepping inside his living room, Kalakar, the sole occupant of that flat, turned with a dreadful spasm. A discomfort leaped within him like an animal. He sensed a presence. The chill air fanned his face. Beauty had often brushed the surface of his soul without penetrating in. He had passed them by often. He had troubled his fingers in drawing them not his brain. He did not scorn it, as an artist he glorified it on canvas, but it had not moved his life to consume his passion.

Zebunissa hastened in the other room. As she turned, warm glows melted in her eyes through tears, like stars in a lagoon. Her long hair rolled over her smooth oval forehead in dark curls, and outlining her exquisite curves, hung a long silken dress with colors of sumptuous hue and lace. She tore a piece of fabric from that rich garment, placed it on the table and stepped back into the painting. Kalakar entered the room and she stood before him, hanging on the wall, a vision from the old world, full of innate royalty, simple as an ordinary woman, at once shy and dominating, beautiful.

He faced her, peering over that immense painting, he had chanced upon in a derelict gallery, beauty beckoned, and smote between his eyes. She came headlong, with her train of stars mystery and perfumes. She was painted by an anonymous painter and since he had brought her home in an amber twilight, he had kept smiling. She was his masterpiece, whoever he was. An enchanting muse. Kalakar wished to claim her. The lonely table in the corner was heaped with sheets of his disjointed efforts. Consequently he had abandoned the hope of capturing her perfect delicacy. In the faint light, she looked flawless, real. So much so, that he had convinced himself she wasn’t painted, but sported those colors as a shelter against the approach of undesirables. He had no words to express that new sensation. His eyes lingered on her figure. He dropped his gaze with a sigh and saw the mysterious fabric on the table. He started. He understood.

If he could not comprehend her reason, he did not fail to appreciate that token of her presence. He held the fabric between his fingers, caressed the softness and perceived her thoughtful brow contradicting by that touch and his own soul drowning in the twin wells of her wide apart, entrapping, limpid eyes.

He hadn’t bothered to think about women’s legs more than the legs of the wooden stretchers that held his canvas. He had sketched many legs but none were as exquisite as those that peeked out from the flimsy material he grasped in his hand. It is the unpredictable that occurs, the kind of instances which we could never guess doing, engaging, or feeling. We fight against fancies but there blows a brazen wind from nowhere, similar to the impulse which had moved Zebunissa’s pre-historic garment and our life is like a kaleidoscope suddenly disturbed and it displays a novel pattern.

So it continued. Days months rolled by till Zebunissa was left with only a piece of clothing which barely covered her archaic modesty. And it paused. He had known that women had whims, his models had suffered from theirs. Devoted, they would sit for hours, patiently evolving under his brush. And then complainingly they disappeared without a promise. It had annoyed him then but it aroused him now. The awareness was like freshly savored wine, crimson, peachy, steaming through his veins, climbing to his head. However, his patience wore off.

“my love.. you give no more sign? “ he implored and tore his hair ..

But Zebunissa snugly composed in her own position could examine the darkness in his soul, taking a delight in observing the immeasurable pleasure she could impart with a little gesture. She did not marvel at her apparent power. All women relish the sway they possess over the mortals who submit to their altar of vanity.

It is a common understanding that we are less miserable when we have companions to share our tragedy. This is a natural human craving. Wretched ones are instinctively drawn toward gloomy persons. Sight of happiness is injurious in this mood but two dejected souls are like frail branches of a tree braving a storm, they mutually support each other.

So Kalakar sought out his friend of distress Ranganath. They had labored together in the mad world of art. They were talented but that one masterpiece which could win the approval of callous critics was still elusive in their armor. Ranganath had risen temporarily from his narcotic created chimera and was hot upon the scent of a new puzzle. The puzzle was whiskey. He was ruddy, the veins on his forehead were swollen, visible like cords. The whiskey on his table was strong and burned through his eyes. He greeted Kalakar with a toast, fondled his bottle, and exclaimed,

“I have heard people describe whiskey as unromantic! I am sure I can paint my masterpiece under the influence of one! Let us have a drink, it may not be effective tonight but this bottle is simply charming”

Kalakar was in no mood to gauge the whiskey’s potency. He gulped enough drinks to unbury his love for a woman buried centuries ago. The queer narrative ended and Ranganath broke forth into a devilish laugh.

“A mummy dropping her cerements? Haha.. get yourself laid by a living one... ”

“you do not believe me.. ! come along” screamed Kalakar.

Her still eyes were blatant, the red lips seemed pouted scornfully, and she was looking askance. She had the look of a woman upon whom a rare grace had fallen. Divested of the royal robe, her external appearance dazzled with spiritual dominance and splendor. To the coarse male nature the depth of female passion and caprice remains an enigma. Woman-like Zebunissa had teased her beau. That very night she had decided to reward Kalakar’s patience by tearing off a chunk of garment under her throat. The two men stood gaping in wonder mingled with admiration, at the sight of Zebunissa’s imperial bosom, which met them, when they rushed into Kalakar’s apartment. She seemed furious. Ranganath broke the voluminous silence.

“Why.. this semi-nude.. ? She is only covered waist down! She may not be Zebunissa after all..”

“Shoot me Ranga but she was covered from head to toes when I bought her. She is offended because you are here.. I can sense..” he ejaculated dejectedly.

-----

Kalakar longed to live the supernatural life of one who is captive of a secret passion. He was wiser than before and made no further attempt of parading his treasure. That exotic elixir, flower of happiness which enchanted in the dark, scorned him in the secluded recesses of his heart, how did he know that the prying heat of another’s eye might not shrink and burn her grand petals? He could not risk repeating that mistake.

Tardily the days lingered on. Jewels and moonlight, scent and incense, the tinkling of her anklets, Zebunissa clung to his mind though she remained unmoved in her painting. Her bare bosom mocked him. It was a bleak, forsaken world that engulfed him, a world of shadows, clinging fog that trailed along in his dingy apartment, a frowning humanity, terribly depressing. But there was a reverent spot on the wall, where hope was still clear, despite the growing impatience, love glowed there, so he walked, keeping his eyes on her.

He gently removed the painting from the wall and tenderly secured it on stretcher bars. He could sniff the haunting fragrance of painted flowers, their iridescent hues and melody of birds that conveyed deep shafts of brightness to pierce his sorrow, making Zebunissa even more mysterious. She had never loved! Locked in a harem, surrounded with beauty, she had pined for one soul who could claim her virgin heart. Just like Kalakar. She had reached out to him with her pre-historic youth and Kalkar had sullied her trust by bringing in an intruder. Could she forgive him?

He did not require a fresh canvas. The hopeless passion ran like a corrupting poison through his combustible system. To the impassive world it was nothing more than sheer moonshine, winter madness. That night he painted his masterpiece; another leafy bower, in the very same painting, just beside her. His own figure seated on it, facing Zebunissa. A masterpiece within masterpiece. It was a scene of riotous amorphousness, exotic poison, gurgling, simmering, scintillating, distorting, and menacingly bubbling, in cosmic and vague chiaroscuro.

After the last stroke of his brush, weary from labor, he dropped on his bed, dreaming deathless dreams of long-dead artists, their muses, their romances. There were splashes of colors, soft music of rustling garments and voices that called him from the depth of their soul. Night intoxicated, her haunting shadows infested his heart. He never woke up. On the wall, Zebunissa smiled in her canvas. She tossed her lustrous hair in guileless coquetry gamboling with beguiling grace and there the Kalakar embraced her.



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Nirvana

>> Tuesday, December 6, 2011

blank noise, a pinprick
the blessed black-out --
world is forgotten here,
not the world merely,
also its memory ..

I’m done with holding back,
bubbles of pain surge
in turbulent maze--
a perfect asymmetry

dazed on shaky rim
in his orgasmic embrace
the monster is haunting

a manna in wilderness
living, mystifying, pearly; a power
deliciously confusing

he lays the naked spell
of wild perplexity
slips, squats
rises, follows, he isn’t shrouded
nor revealing

copulating with moonbeams
at the sepulcher of surrender
dropping his noxious arms
he grips my neck,
gathering in…

No.
he can not detain me
I acquired celestial legs
a syringe that injects
the beauty of stars
in my eager veins

I can see them fading
in numbed ether of dreams;
the human beasts -
their paws of
clobbered steels

and the vivacity
that rises
from this oblivious lethargy. .

there is no hint left
of monotonous melancholy ..
I can measure infinity

stretched over
a tranquil cosmos
behind the masque of death
am accumulating life
of psychedelic fancy

squirming in morbid hope
I catch my mind occasionally
an addict’s wavering hope is tenacious,
for it is her last
ironically ...

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A Journey... Incognito..

>> Thursday, October 13, 2011

Etymology

Look, this never happened to us
that is one reason for swallowing it
another body would devour it,
or at least give a seasoning to darken
the settings and semblance
lending an evanescent fidelity,
altering it in future to a sheer legend,
a romance divulged
out of hazy distance…

Fuckopath

in our bodies it obtrudes;
glares perpetually in infernal unforgetfulness,
devouring the seasoning,
invariably retrieving itself from legend
turning conjectures and speculations
into rationales,
Duh..

witnessed incognito
and in this fucking city, of all places,
unplane, unfanciful, unlove.

Orgyment

I can humbug with vocab
about as thoroughly
as you do with lovers .

I have my sex’s wizardry over phrases, ironies,
innuendos, half sarcasm, half whimsical,
an outlook on obscenity that delights to amaze
you have your’s –

the cajolery that, on literal diagnosis,
turns out really to be the reverse.

Crouche

Like a half rehearsed aria
that trips in head
dissolving the instant you try to hum it
these ideas accumulate
in the backdrop of reason,
behind my reason, as it were,
and decline to come forth.

They are crouching like an orgasm
waiting to spring,
the tangible consummation
never takes place.

Penultimatum

night has brought in the closing act--
of a choking hell-lust
crimson fires leap up
to whirl their strips of red shafts into
the wedges of bleakness..

they flicker erratically
upon squirming bodies,
paradoxically practicing
the calamity of the morrow -
languor and nerve-waste
by grim orgies and waltzes.

Conclusionary

first light of dawn has assailed
the stench of lechery
which had veiled our love,
while the dying fire festers
into silvery smoke, my throat
labors in stifling gasps of saliva,
you turn again..

the ungiven kiss burns our sensual lips
as our specters trail out silently
into the bush…
Incognito..

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renegade

>> Monday, September 26, 2011

Another death, a bottle,
and a cigarette
reposed like a squib
that has scorched itself out
whimpering with hisses,
an ebonized snippet of sheathing,
wordless, extinguished

shadows amalgamate, and yet
there’s left an acumen
to diagnose this dying-down
it had really been decreed;
my current conditional inebriation
has little or nothing
to do with it

Ergo, for the last time,
behold this carcass
a withering globule of blue,
wading in ether
here should I;
frail flakes of soot
quiver silently
across the hollow,
into domain of unknown..

do not cherish me,
in feigned warped ethics
of the world you inhabit
judge me secretly
from the heights of that pedestal
from which I’ve fallen, and
endeavor to accept me
in the coterie of derelicts...

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Ante Scriptum

>> Thursday, July 28, 2011


the world is grey like a vault of cathedral

frowning and ominous; am walking home
imagining that an eternity has slipped by
and you are finally there

haunting my nights with incantations
I suspect you’ve always had plots at hand
a head crammed with treason,
a grim incubus biding his time

do I hate you? you do not know me
I trust you never will
hate is an eclectic wine of exquisite nip
most provoking draught in the world,

no my dear, I’ll live on this vigorous dietary
I’m in the blessed state of an inhumed fossil
a perverse and obsolete ideal resuscitated;
nobody will excavate me

expunge my cerements, will you?
we know what an outdated castle love is
how time and ghosts have soiled it, raiment on
walls stripped off; dilapidated

the entire heap devoted to ruin
in the tawny cast of decay
living with whispers, speculation, and arsenic
to postpone the climax of fatal lust

already the eldritch smell of tombs
have infiltrated your kisses
the callous curl of voluptuous lip
performing burlesque of fabricated faith

I desire you simply that you delude me
into a fleeting limbo of my doom,
scorn me with a phantasm of life
that isn’t and can never be

In the nocturnal sky
when you look for meteors, tempests, ravens,
I’ll surge from the carcass
forsaken half devoured

clammy with dew as if with infinite tears;
unless death annihilates the closing act
there perpetually is a tomorrow
to be reckoned with..

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this summer ...

>> Monday, April 25, 2011


..for fuck’s sake, let us go through that,
the way we sipped hot tea on a sidewalk
in sweltering Delhi heat to cool off,
a paradox we can swear by;
witnessed at high noon beside me
your shadow casts a trivial shadow
baring the world ahead as a matter of fact
thus I can return zigzagging between
lurid darkness and nebulous nothingness
to the shell and husk of you
lying on my bed after I had watched
the love and the person walk out,
leaving only a stale periphery of
what had gone by to show off, and puff
a cigarette, sun filtering through curtains
as caressing fingers resting on eyelids
cerulean smoke diluting in golden haze
shrugging you off with a poem,
like everything in the brazen past,
which appeared rosy in remoteness..

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One Night Stand

>> Monday, April 11, 2011

Indeed. Behind hazy veil of moonbeams
draping your haunted lids,
glimmers an image
the beats of invisible spurs,
while my figure itself
maunders, partially clad, sucked back
into wavering shadows,
like tales which simmer around
warm excruciating autumn evenings

summoning fragrance from everything.

I am sinking
with every trivial throb of your throat.
And coloring too.
It isn’t blue.
Its red that changes hue
each instant with kisses upon mouth,
tint substituting tint
tone fusing into tone,
our bodies rubbing words of a melody
as I scribble verses on your chest.

Oh. In red blaze of warmth
your eyes bring splendor,
pouring forth vermouth and absinthe
over pearly expanse of
heights cloaked with perennial snow
thawing into
a consuming sea of radiance
that kindles dark labyrinths of brains,
imparting secrets lurking through

crimson shafts penetrate your arms
while perfumed breaths
swell and expand on lips,
until we appear bare,
terminal, and complete to conquer.
Unforgettable, unrepeatable
we keep it between us
lest the world slays singing buds.
A rhapsody of russet and unearthly
we leave a poem with the other.

poetry to lay down with in the night
and wake up beside ...

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Moon-Stricken

>> Wednesday, March 16, 2011

“Water..” He barely unclosed his eyes, pursed his lips, blinked and stared at her with an uncertainty which broke into a painful smile. He met her eyes for few seconds, a feeble but tranquil look that sunk deep into her soul which spilled a salve into every wound that destiny had inflicted there.

She got up gently to comply and then pulled aside the blind from the windows to peer outside. There lay an opalescent moonlight, the soft lucent affect on the trees and sky amalgamated together in one expectant silent mystery.

And the moon, pouring in from every opening within the staggering buildings and trees, turned the wide-open alley underneath into an anchorage, shimmering, undulating like another lagoon, the tangible one, which stretched out yonder where she had found him.

In one such breathless night under the full moon he had waited outside her palatial bungalow. He called himself Aladdin and she was the Princess Badroulbadour, full moon of full moons. Could the scene appear more brilliant if it wasn’t enacted under the moonlight? No. The wilderness in his eyes, pensive and solemn, the lonesome clumps in his throat, the ennobled hollow near his chest, and her misty distance from where he stood beneath the wintry illusory light completed the intensity of an adventure.

She needed love and only his love could manacle and contain her reckless will. She yielded to a penetrating rush of desire that was still pulsating, now, laboriously through her veins. His lips with the mark of hers upon them; sturdy nerves stung by illness, his form tense by fatigue, and the limbs paralyzed from running held her eyes, terror-stricken, between anguish and dread.

Through the extravagance of that miasma which clouded over her senses due to his nearness, she could perceive him again, and herself, more distinctly than when she’d left her life of comfort for him. Her memory had retained a shade of his erstwhile beauty, his profound smile of color and outline, their unhampered freedom, opportunities as vast as their dreams of forests brooding in the sun and rain. She exploded into a convulsion of crying and laughing at the same time as she walked toward his supine form on the cot.

She observed him sinking deeper each minute into the quicksand of time. Everything within her was merged into one singeing, clasping horror; Death. Thirteen months lay behind them, stormy scroll of time, with an unbroken stretch of labor, stress, and struggle. And now it seemed almost over, when she could be at liberty. An indescribable invigoration surrounded her and through all her withered self ran an animated fire that shaped one thought in her brain – “I should flee”, and four words on her lips – “I can save him!”

He clung to life because instincts were stronger than reason, harder than any of the dismaying realities they had met together and knew they must go on confronting. They had to live, with a past which had a distant comfort, tumbling to the future which they attempted not to see, because when they did envision it they were afflicted with a similar terror as now immersed her.

There were families hoping and waiting, longing and starving, in every street she knew. She wondered listlessly if she’d ever get remunerated for the toil of keeping him alive, whether she should live to get out of the frozen recess of cosmos, where he could no longer protect her, or whether she should die and decompose alongside him, in that open grave, where her living love was buried.

Multitudinous tiny specks entered through the open window, twirling and whirling like the pillar of dust in a desert simoom. She strained a tip-toeing outside which emanated from the staircase. She wondered who was there. She had ordered everyone out. He was dying. She wished to be the only living soul beside him when he slipped into the comfort of death, free from running, free from disease, free from her. And yet.. and yet.. there was someone.

In the omnipresent gloom that floated over them, under the drapery of dusk, deprivation and starvation, fright and malady haggled clamorously, while Death strolled silently and persistently about their darkened streets. Had death also arrived at their doors? Can she recognize death if they were standing face to face? Can she wrangle and defeat that faceless, formless enemy? Or was He a friend? He’d come to rescue her from uncertainty? Better death. If he couldn’t live he should die. That settled it. Or did it?

She pressed her ear against his chest, caressing the livid patches and the ghastly hollows where once his cheeks had been, smooth and polished. His heart was beating in response to the cleaving, checkering sound outside which affronted the silence within, like a lacework of agony. what music could ever compare with that great duet from two varied sources? A capital concert of the inanimate things that sing within soul? It became a terrific combat, between life and death, in which the defeat of one was to be recognized in a sublimated form, beautiful in different, monstrous way.

She rushed to her trunks and rummaged through the contents, feeling for the loaded pistol, their sole treasure. She’d practiced shooting in the same moonlit alley in broad daylight. They lived enveloped in danger. About the present, it was better to be stolid, about the future, a future as theirs, to be dead. And in stupor of a dead trance, she meditatively held the agility of her nature. In the havoc of new crisis she knew that the actual moment of dissolution had arrived.

As she looked at him again a sense of appalling loneliness lacerated her heart, and then suddenly she knew that in the chill of that moonlight she was alone with Death. He had come for him at last. The flaming figure in the cot began to grow dim and pale, gradually his feverish luster diminished, till at last his face vanished altogether, leaving no trace of its former suffering but a small crystal flame which slowly took the shape of another man who sparkled through the murk like a suspended ruby. For an instant the room was completely dark, filled with the fragrance of jasmine and she could scarcely discern anything else as a haunting impression of the supernatural diffused the inscrutable hush and abysmal shadow.

She pointed her gun and fixed her smoldering eyes on that grotesque new figure, looking straight into his wicked eyes, as if to mark the altering contours, the heightening lines, the droop of the lineaments, which communicated the mild advance of death. The moon, icicled and ashen, through the unveiled window, tossed a turquoise ray, like the extended arm of a specter, against the opposite wall, a ghostly effect which was deepened by the contradicting garish glitter of the rubicund face. Though she moved her lips in an attempt to break the spell, she could find no language worthy to the moment.

Like a repulsive and grim chariot of death the eyes of the unknown puffed and expanded until they were right above her, enormous, terrible, and she felt his gelid moist breath of automated congruity against her face, encompassing her in a noisome fog. She reckoned that the wraith reeked of tombs as it made a moaning sound. She was numb with horror as she held his gaze. He was unarmed and she was assured by the power of the pistol.

Next moment the drama ceased; the wind roared outside, flinging gusty dashes of moonmist against the one window of the room. The footsteps on the staircase were retreating and the pale form on cot was breathing rhythmically. She could still hear the intermittent rumbling of the terrific movements on stairs, the faint tremors under her feet from the shock of the nabbed avalanche.

In that moment of victory she ran to him and held him tighter while he groaned..
“my Ba-droul-badour..”

She showered hot kisses on his sentient lips and he fell into a musical slumber, smiling. She rose and leaned towards the window, giving herself up to the dolcefar niente of imaginations, blinded by a flood of sapphire moonlight. It poured in through great skies, peaceful and diaphanous, like a cerulean mist turning the huge alley into a submarine grotto, surfaced with moonbeams, full of glimmers. The sky was aglow like a brilliant aurora but the light was cold, blue, vaporous, funereal.

Some dark points rapidly emerged from the prismatic mist resembling the figure which had appeared few moments ago near the cot. There was uncertainty in his features as if he was pondering his next course, as she watched. If she had been smashed in body and mind, her vitality drained like the man she loved she could stand passively and let him go by, and she would have been at peace.

The figure in the alley vibrated and quivered like the stars that are scattered in the profundity of heaven. The voices in her head wound and unwound in distant, ebbing phrases, fretted with scales, halting now and then and swaying as if panting in languorous agony. Something was subjugating her into gradual paralysis. She felt dead outwardly. Only if she could reclaim her consciousness, they were safe. Could she fight that madness of silence, the thickening darkness, and creeping numbness? She felt as if her body was dissolving, that she too was turning fluid and vaporous to unify with that figure yonder as the moonbeams merge with the dew.


She lifted the pistol and pressed it against her throbbing head as if under some necromantic spell. She had lost it, killed within by a great sorrow. Tired. The vitality, the resilience of her arms, her beaming eyes was physical, in the heart and soul there was a chill and dismal bitterness, the drab stretches of deserted age.


The phantom in the moonlight beckoned her and she descried a sinister smile on his face. The smog of her thoughts cleared, she fought that indifferent unsighted stupor. She combated that agony until at last she was sure she was going to die. Drifting into that last delicious sleep of receding sensibility she was zapped again. A flash of lightning danced vividly before her eyes, accompanied by a crashing peal of thunder, she saw to what end of a wild journey she had reached! She had to overcome that phantasm or she would lose. She had to keep that lonesome vigil and subdue the enemy. So she aimed.

.. ..

The sleepers outside the room were roused by the noise of a fired shot. When they broke inside they found a woman standing beside the window, expressionless, holding a gun, and staring the man who was shot dead on the cot.

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C'est l'amour

>> Saturday, February 5, 2011

may be it was Love
in crystal February atmosphere,
beneath golden electric lamps
suspended in lucent air,

when you gave your right hand
wine obliterated those blazing rays
reflecting glimmering stars
like sequins in dark gauze

all was turbulence; without
within, a tranquility prevailed,
adorned with grave murmurs of
harp caressed in zephyr

we were monarchs reigning a scepter
a kingdom was ours
a kingdom of roseate ether,

in an ensuing pause
as though our empyrean awaited
an unraveled splendor
you smiled, your Dionysiac smile

making it all at once
so far off yet so near

virile and effete
angelic or demonic
we stood on our feet
in an apathetic nakedness
watching our world fade,

afterward we wondered, was that Love
which vanished like gossamer,
that antediluvian force of nature
was it pain,
or pleasure?



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the old and new year..

>> Saturday, January 1, 2011

its that time of the year
when am tempted to recline
staring into
the vacant spaces of
my room
reviewing the fluttering panorama
of my fucking existence
for the past one year

there’s nothing
that doesn’t choke me with
regret, and there’s nothing which
by any credible effort
I could’ve altered

I could not have escaped
one of those barbs –
the men, booze, filth
the breakdowns, boredom
morning terrors
or leaking faucets

I could not have undone
any single act
or the depressing fact

there’s an implacable continuity
in this chaos –
the infatuations, exhilarations
self-pity, tears, pills -
an orgasmic perfection

there had been an intense game
and I –
merely one of it’s pawns

in the new year
I’d lounge
under the blue moon
with my frigid muse
that highly cultivated,
muscular hypochondriac
with wicked instincts

get drunk on
melancholy and rum
then make love to
the goddamned traffic lights
which are stuck at red

say hello to
excruciating aversions,
weary by leisure,
yet inept of action,
I’d remain
inconsistent in every aspiration
except my incessant love for
grotesque fuck-ups ….

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