lines

but you want
a smaller space
a box an oyster a cage
not immortality but an age
no great lenghts but rest
no direction but ways
neither was
the beginning yours
nor the end
you wanted time
but not the wait
all things are endless
answers and questions

soberness and desperation
poles of my existence
helen and cleopatra
beckon from either end
and me in doldrums
there is no halfway
and attraction is
always dangerous
i seep in the drunkenness
that pervades creation
close my eyes
wish it was over soon


the idea as received and accepted was that there will be a lot of scribbling, but id never thought that it could also mean painting estella nude. estella who, you might ask. estella the heartbreaker id say. but thats too vague. because even if you knew who exactly it would be automatic to pretend you didnt. frankly although id thought of her much it was only in thoughts secret even to myself. and then i saw how she could just come in, doff her clothes and demand to be painted naked. of course what im saying seems to follow a script. it does. but who is acting it out. and, does the ocean know when it's raining on it. youd say to rein in estella cast don juan opposite her. look at the irony of the situation, two supremely suffering human beings brought together to make each other suffer. that is emabarrassing. no wonder we claim never to have met her estella.

eclipses of capricious fate/lottery ticket sunrise

yes! the terraces of cal
ive taken the name
ive shouted love from there
who dare tell me
it's all the same
this that these and them
so much ive loved
in so many forms
girl one city one home
and im not wearing no clothes
these arent my thoughts
my bare bones


alone is one
unity too
im conjoined
conned and joined
to what i dunno
that i feel so snatched
so severed so headless
so without torso
feather or fur
i love her
and here i am
now you see me
now you dont
a ghost
whod die for a furlough
wasnt it that
the nose held
its head high
and suffered
stinks untold
im living
mouth wide open
breathing eating and cold
rushing through
and pushing midway
i have red light
a green an yellow
where are the rest
of the colours
butterflies in the meadow



week no #yyyy, hyd 81

it is time i always feel. like a time bomb i tick. see timer has its periods its pauses its hyphens. descriptions that i deny because i refuse to look around the bend. walking from a bus stop short of my office i wonder why i didnt protest that i had to walk so much for a full ticket paid. or that i had to keep standing when the seat was mine, or that i was better off begging what if i am working. it is not my life, i know. my demands are simpler, my dreams, a swim naked and drowning. so easily afforded.

here's johnny

is it for love
that i wear these
so many disguises
and set out on
my expedition of faces
is it out of love
im driven to that
distant oasis
and pained to savagery
by the abandonment
of the emptiness
where im lost without light
not in trusting darkness
and my eyes
oh my eyes
they rob, suffer
so many graces
always at a few paces
in front of me races love
i behind in time
and always stumbling
like a blind man
my arms in front
with only feeling
for an answer


a love song from far

breathing has a parallel
when the moon is one
in the sky
it is one thing to be in love
quite another to be
lonely and high
one alien body
another body alien
friend of the soul
sleeps eyes open
so do the flowers
and the friend of ghost
first the saints gave up
their lives for love
then so many
sinners were lost
across the desert is mecca
across the desert
where the night has lowered
her bejewelled hair
is the mist of morning
for the thirsty skin
my thirst is quenched at daybreak


cranky gy[sy

this weather
this air
its birds their nests
couldn't keep me here a year
starting a leary
i will go to lear
dosed or desolate
kneeling by the bed in prayer
baby bayb take me away from here

this is the disneyland
castle and whatever
pirates, ghosts and alice
hang here
maybe are tiffin but
not my toast
the stepson came
and knew his father
his mother's breast
too he could tell
but slipping into
another region
he did not know her navel
though none knew better
how he felt the blade


hyderabad was won through police action. that was our first home office being charitable in its description of a fief snatched from a nabob. the rajah of hyd was all about leaving the union when he was as joined with it as joined can be. so hyd remained in india. although arriving here i have certainly hoped that i do not remain in hyd. why though don't ask. not me not to the city. we both don't know. so like children at their first meeting who were forced into that company by adults hyd and i do not know where to begin. we would become friends eventually but one never knows when its time to go home. so then the question is do i want to be friends. that is a question id rather the other person answered. in thomas hardy and the natives story id read how the egdon heath was actually a character. in a manner of speaking, the desperation with hyd is that it is characters. round, squat, squiggly letters that i do not read, steamboat tongue i do not understand. the fault is all mine that im more in love with the idea of being in love than in love itself.

mistake deliberate

the moment comes untried
a moment for to better
a line have prepared
but how is one
delivered of the burden
to fight the burden to escape
first looks are stolen
last glimpses exchanged
oh for one whole
line to have said
maybe a kiss
maybe a hug

im all ounces
do you hear
do you mind
if i swear
for you cut
like a knife
like love
on a hot evening
and i don't know
the roots of suicide
the tree of life
justice denied

on the platform, wait
from the station i left
koo jhik jhik
the bird of paradise
is decoupled in hell
into two halves
each miles apart
yearning burning
and lost

now im become jajabor, traveller without baggage

get on to the road
only when you can
cross it whole
don't hesitate
once on it don't dither
lonely by its side
wait if you need to
till you know
you wouldn't stop
in the middle stuck
till the moment
presents itself
for it is also
lonely in the middle
without help
let's complete a motion
without pause
for a rambling story
whistle at crossings
a song non-stop


don't want to be
aimless on the streets
and going nowhere
i want to have peace
when i have peace
want to have peace
when i don't


i was shot
today afternoon
in the chest
and i reflect
how i am not dead
but always dying
that for me
it is never
over yet
but continuing
but not
a death liberating
this is only
a kind of sinking
in a bog
more horrible
than the end
this stench
that won't
let me breathe

cocktail

for ages burying it
buried and rising
from the ground
like from the blood
of some mythological demon
sprang armies of dust
waving scimitars
nothing will end my fears
no angels appear
only a mirage
the sky snaps
at the horizon
and is a gaping hole
mocking my soul
with wonder that
i have my head
buried in the ground
my mind should have
really been a sparkler
burning down to the handle
in bright red
blue gold silver
orange flakes
over in a minute
and no further
joyous lights
in my fingers
waving dancing
wilder and wilder
till it burned down
and she lit another
i come from the ground
i of the sky
the air the water
i am mixed in this weather
i of the elements
i rise every morning



i wasnt drinking yet, that puja, nor smoking nor smoking. and yet there i was at the epicentre. but i had seen her that night and i remember. she, they, went off clubbing and pat brought down the door, they brought down the house, we thought pat was dying and tried calling a doctor. but all we got was an elder sister. and i had eyes only for you. my early love is by now an admission of guilt, what she hadnt known then and now only suspects. if i am forced i will recall her black linen trousers and her pinkish, sequined strappy number. oh i havent seen you in those clothes it has been such a long time, but i never think how much longer i have. i have already died and im not even suicidal. from my youngest years that has been the case. i have fought tears and have never been able to leave the fight

captainofmyskip#%^&*$%$&^

a part
now dismembered
now cast away
now swimming
against the tide
then it was
a late sun
late evening
late nights
the day was whole
and my eyes
took their time
days that began
in the morning
and waited
for me to come
to her that i
could shake
what moisture
was hidden
in the grass
where i was a mole
i surpassed
in what i was
good at
burrowing and
bringing up loam
but cut from my earth
with every high sun
i am impatient that
there will be
nothing to quench
my thirst not
an ocean not
rivers of lust
i should learn
the prayer song
of the crow
that sat on a jar