born vita

my friends please come
to the pit with sand
in your hands bring your
children too and your parents
shed a tear or two
i am done with crying
the loss of heart
is suicide the end of
illusion time


understanding fellow
alas not what you
think he was
who are you
i am he but
he doesnt understand


i have returned from
the city of my childhood
left my cradle went back and
left again after having arrived
with arresting thoughts
on the nature of the returnee
the vacationer if you may
leaving relieved to find no shackles
cutting through the tendons
feeling freedom in the breadth
of the ocean like a crusoe
reconciled to his loneliness
objectively a shipwreck
struggling only
for a personal tale
of loss and renaissance
so desperately not
a story worth telling
forgetting is such a big part
of what i do


tired with mere
obsessing with the fallout
of petty crimes
moral and eventual
all recoverable
but what if they are
that is not the question
here despite the scorn
for jumping the signal
a fly by night
asleep on the journey
escaping as much
the punishment as the crime

only walls

between us
a panzer division
we on either side
of a fiery evil
the evil
of our times


ive kept myself from imagining
so many things imagining is
nonsense it is shit
imagine not dying a rebel
say at age twenty imagine
happy circumstances serendipity
and its place in history
imagine the imagined past
imagine the future
imagine being in the moment
a rebel there all imagination
ends imagine dying a rebel


younger much younger than i
there is all lyric lost and
i am horrified
in sacrifice and suffering longer
than is my lot ive forgot
that love is one buttons push
into the stream that washes
the universe and much before
me have been lost
triers unto secrets so deep
it insults my logic to think
that i hold onto a bar swimming
im learning only to just
stay afloat while those that
would fly have sunk a long time


look im blind
are you a believer
or am i lying
do you see
or am i shying
away from what
you know and what
im hiding do you
sleep past your
waking hour do you
dream before bedtime
you are in
love with me
but so am i
a scent for a pup
i feel a beautiful love
you can sniff out my
dismembered parts
scattered in your search
 maybe my eyes are blurred
because im tired of looking

hurled relieved on hurling

but why would i
talk about that
attraction unless
i was pimping it to you
as a secret so well-savoured
much better felt than spoken of
why would i make it
a crossword puzzle for myself
and be consumed in thinking up
words to fit for it is no mystery
to me but it is no great strength
neither for all that i still
chase after the mantle
of the uncrowned king of lovers
i seek words of a dark charm



not the devotee
id rather be darth vader
and control and summon
at will and summarily
undo the order of creation
i have no piety and
would rather pity than
be pitied instead of
a driver i would rather
be an engine with
a mind of its own
incoherent and never
expected to answer
where i go



the benchmark for hollow passages
is the smell of pigeonshit
in old country houses or
the few still fighting in the city
as birds go missing from the skies
the lament of hyenas and jackals
rends the air and the odd dirge
sung in the dead of the night
becomes a part of that chorus
and is like nothing in the morning

passage for a poet

you are not so forgettable more spirit than flesh but then im an emir of cairo suddenly caught in a reverie at court seeking pleasure is my duty with a cool sense of purpose i carry on but for the sudden moments when sweet molecules enter my body and and in my mind i am told it is something i shall find no more when called back to d'affaires du jardin i go back to pretending that all of it had made me happy then that even then thered been a stated purpose like in the rose for the thorn and that it is something ive always known in this story knowledge helps in better use of the seasons and certain memories are storms

sometimes she would
point it out to me
a heartbreaking sunset
or tell me on phone
of a sky drenched in blood
a fiery glow
she would know better
that someday
beauty my love will kill us
 i nod and inside me wells up
scorn that i do not know
anything its texture its taste
its form nor close my eyes
and i can see it
it is dark in beauty's shadow
i spend my time sleeping
and then i dream
that i have swallowed my tongue
and in that final moment of beauty
i am speechless

rushing back
i had promised
myself the earth
but denied that embrace
wendys mothers kiss
always i have ended
further than
i was at the start
and not ceasing
to wonder i have
sat up nights
eyes wide apart
oh lord you can
end this now
or you can
show me
the way to the heart



the ease
now is the unease
but i love you
no less
than your photographs
are a magical you
bewitching me
intensely in
my lonely hours
on the tops of hills
there apart you and i
there is love
i am not there
and you are not there
but there is love
that will kill us my love
i am not here
and you are not here
but ive seen it
for you my love
ive forgotten myself
in that cool sweat
there was a crucifix
on that hill
i never stood
in its shadow my love
but i did it for you
i scaled a mountain
but i was not with you
i was never there my love
unless you tell me when
for you my love



http://chloe328.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/doisneau1.jpg

some talk of us

i met s quite unexpectedly. not unexpectedly when it happened but curious that he should be there, in hyderabad. he has had roots sent down here by the mothers side of his family. so he has memories and my neighbourhood, he knew better than me. which was as it should be because i was only meeting him for an hour max and it didnt make sense for both of us to know nothing about where to hang.
a city very close to his heart, he said. and not just because it was where he was born and in which he became conscious of his surroundings. he liked the city now, all modern and forward looking and frenetic and founded on retail, growing on servicing. thats the best part he said, in the parking of some departmental store. a valet had just parked his car around, and by the time he'd done that, s came out to declare no shrooms, so no go. leaving now then. the valet pulls the car back out. s says that is the best part. there is always someone to take care of these things for you. cal would take ages to get up to that standard. anyhow, we carried on and went to this other dept store, famous erstwhile as trinetra. his family, right from childhood these memories were, would always pick up all their provisions from this shop. you just called them with the list and theyd have it sent home. the shop has been taken over by this retail grocery chain, and he didnt know where to look for what although they did have the said fungus. i asked s where them days had disappeared, rhetorically. he shrugged, said its all gone.
finally we had icecreams and discussed the travesty of law in mamata's bengal.



ginsberg's minds
they still howl and are dragged still
through the alleys and lanes
where stars fall dead
ash on streets paved with gold
sickly thick grimy yellow
screaming in a hunger
that died long ago
and resurrected the vampire
of a damned romance dead beat
rent not by the ecstasy of light
but cut up in anxiety
full-blooded into the battle rushing
to come back bleeding
it stains the whites of their eyes
and sleepless still they die fighting

counting

the ennui
styled
a journey since
between two ends
it must be seen
as the end of
the purpose itself
of end as
the purpose itself
fishing wishing cycles
why not be riddled
by doubt in the meaning
that is sufficient but
never enough
stare stare at the ceiling
on all sides
there are mirrors



oh you know that thing
when you are in a box
above a raging deep sea
worried only about
your breathing your heart
beating so loudly
oh suicide so proudly
distress of a prestige nightly
handcuffed on the shore
from where into the waters
the key was thrown
therein you drown
till you should pop
your head out
and all would hail
a miracle
bread and butter for you
that no one knows
when is the last time