Holi

Mirages on faces 

Patina on colours


Dissembling, grace and sin fell from your digressing brows;


When a sanguine redolence instilled in the sentience

You asked my favoured hue,

Colourless with brightened thrusts,


An exposé of skin, breathing flames

Fed by your burning thoughts

Think, what was asked


A milky way of angst.

An azure constellation of ennui.

A murky, smothering smoke of love.

A chiaroscuro of entranced words.


My colours have been fervently ostracized

Drown, become, shed, to know.




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Rhythmic Retropection


​Come consume the silence within me,

Which makes as much noise as an incomplete task.

What doesn’t exist, exists in that

Presence of a world unknown.

Unfiltered love-

Raw and real;

Sleepless transgressions 

Devour

Cosmic sounds.

Stirrings,

Like a piano languorously 

symphonising.

A crinkled heart.

A cloth alive once on a  warm body,

lies on the

Floor… Silent, cold.

Memories rise like vapours; fragrant,

Mesmerising,

Melancholic.


Like a cessated beat 

Resuscitating.

 Notturno

Nocturnal promises: dripping shades of memories

Versions of untasted ambrosia

Serrated sounds 

Enjambment of quickened pulse.

Fading from a,

Singed heart.


Promises were kept, not in body or mind, but in luminous knives,

Still your kindred.


Diaspora of a lover’s face 

Belonging? A colossal demand.

Ashened arbors of stillborn

Touch.

Twining, in arms, it still burns

Here 

Here

Integrally.


Once when the streams merged with rivers and drained into abysses unfathomable

I heard your name, a whisper


The glint etched in memory,

Strings cut

Luna sings silver songs.

Entranced Memories

Silent night…nights

Can they be louder with their rushing

Phantoms?


Now when he comes

It seems,

Like a memory

Waving;

Smiling, benevolent, pathetic.


His words turn languorous,

Succumbing to a reality,

Which bothers him.

So he stays, to sing her a lullaby

Every night,

In images, art and bodies.


She gets tired,

So she weeps and slumber engulfs her being.

But she wakes up to memories again;

Poised like a Grecian sculpture in a pristine space,

Embracing her through soft scratches.


The night does to her what she asks:

Opening passages to silent hills,

Where he still recites his delicate poesy, 

Asking her to wake up.

Sylvia’s Girl-Friend

If Sylvia had had her,

A goddess she’d become,

Shakti would’ve said:

 Be with us.

He is not the source of power,

You’ve only one:

Yourself.

No one was valued because they sold themselves;

Mother was right-

“He was different.”

As well-known poets become:

Like fake flowers as decors,

Like lifeless words on a paper;

That’s how they live.


If only she would’ve called her and flooded her with her intimacies:

Through tearful deluges;

Broken sighs;

Consolation’s antics;

She would have gone to another
Fiesta.

Embellished with her identity: her mind and body

A stranger’s kiss on the neck

A draught, a delight

Courage wouldn’t have parted,

If only she had had her

She would’ve lived.

Pas De Nuis Ce Soir: No Night Tonight


​There’s no sleep still,

The morning is dreamy

The night’s awake;

Warm and melancholy,

The silence of the nocturne

Floods the vision.

Love opens its gates:

Warm and wet

The receptacle is burning

“Bonne nuit”

Words fade, with the first 

Feelings.

Cooling off, breathing unlaced:

If all birds could sing at night

What would they say?


“Benighted are the brightest

Pioneers of prodigy

Are pale.”


Heavy this boulder on the mind;

Sitting on the chest

Like a lazy lion

Growling in pity:

Bygone are the hunting days,

Let the birds sing at night

Let the miracle unfold

No day exists: only sounds and smell, touch and illusions

Of coruscating vanities, turning into

Hallowed pits, prey…


Prey on us- the birds say

Not today, for there is no day:

Nuit Nuit Nuit

Mais Oui

Nuit.

Come, My Friend

Today, I am also leaving
Like you had left.
But only for an erratic twist.

Unbeknownst to my days and emos 
It was those five words
Which diddered my world.
And I knew: they return 
Who don’t care
Or those who care too much.

You thought,
The universe had abandoned you,
And you were upset.
I tried my best.
Though you were never vanquished.
Your resilience hit the core.
Limping 
You said 
“I quit”.
Now no words are exchanged
No songs shared or sung
Friends disappeared, and friends Returned
each one was a special one.

Still I pray, for you to come
Again.
In your ebullient
Energy, to give my introversion
Some colours.
I know we will meet again
Till then I wish 
you’d stay, joyous, loved
And laughing like the day.

A Feminine Forest

Brainstorming for gender norms

Imbues a conflict within the 

Uncultured, undernourished mind.

The red is unsegregated from black,

Wide open: exposure, thighs, breasts, hair, hormones.

Not mouth, not words.

Desire comes with a penis,

Cunt is muted.

Lipsticks are sucked by

Preachers of colours.

Lighters are for cigarettes and femmes,

Love becomes perversion if its all female or male.

From lumberyard to kitchen

The designation fades into 

A pink and blue.

Oriental or Occidental its the age old blame:

Divide her legs, 

Her words, 

Her labour, 

Her biological order, 

Her thoughts.

To empower “mankind”, to reign.

Freya or Kali fuming with apocryphal anecdotes,

Montaging the territory in thunders of red, 

Riling to faceless descriptions,

Of red red red.

No! not red, for god’s sake!

It’s the scarlet, unchaste letter!

Make synonyms, prudent and proper.

Elemental daughters are aliens of yore,

Indoor and outdoor

Justice and equality 

Must have a fair score.

Coloured Cosmos

She was raised on white, all pervasive, predominant, disciplined white. If she made a mess, clumsy as she was, it exposed itself outrageously on her ablescent backdrop. What a pity ! She used to muse on the whites of her kins, was it impeccable? It seemed to her that it was; Or was it that theirs was of a distinct hue? She was burdened with guilt, a dark shade of grey was ingrained in her morassy white life. Bullied and betrayed by the so-called connoisseurs or bigots of whites, mocked her defiled life, her lowered spirits, her internal monologues. Brown, grey, mixed in the pool of white. 


Blue was her fortunate discovery, it empowered her, her absolute love and support was Blue ! Dark, regal, calm, composed, powerful blue. How it coloured her white, turning the grey and brown to Blue, Blue, Blue. Never leaving her side, her constant stronghold, her profound Azure! Ah ! She was ecstatic with joy and imbued with peace, no judgements, or bullying hurt her, she loved herself, she loved her Azure, and a vow of eternal kinship was made. She was free of the colourful society, living and enjoying it’s colours, but never letting it emblazon her. 

It was a certain pink in the air, with a tinge of yellow, gold, breezy blue, when Red became her secret colour, seeping deep and thick through her, pleasurable, exciting, throbbing, murderous, monumental, life changing, ambiguous Red. She lost her days and her nights, her body and her mind, and Blue was witnessing a sinful sight. Alas! It was a bewitching plight. Only blue had known, the whites of her childhood disciplinarians would at times catch a reflection of the Scarlet, the Threatening carmine, on their whites, fearing a rebellion, which was taking shape, revolution and revolt. Hers was an elusive one, satiating her, and in turn, making the fascistic autocrats fear anarchy. She laughed a drunken laugh, drunk on red, hot, sultry, smothering, seductive red. She was colourful for Red. Blue was in the backdrop, protecting the white that was left, for her well-being. She had ridden Black. Dark . Darker. Darkest. She was far away from pastel shades. Red had given her black, red took it away, it turned into a pastel pink. She was anxious, hysterical, it cannot be! Red was gradually fading, turning pink for her, although only through her vision; red was the same. 

She realised that pink is her weakness, she coloured pink so dark, that it became red again. Red was always her secret. It still lingered around her, on uncertain occasions, in dark alleyways, on revolutionary roads, in anarchy, in love, in outcasts, in Bohemians, in carnality, in secrecy, in writings, in poetry, in physicality and in depths of amour. 

She had epiphanies, she was tired, it was a wild ride, and blue was her refuge, all through this, her mentor, her pristine love.

Today, growing through all these colours and with them, she lies, envisioning the hues, that will colourise her life so unfathomably in the future, that these constant companions, white of her upbringing and red of her heart might fade into a crystalline rainbow, but blue was, is and shall be with her forever.

Awakened answers



Story of the obsessed-

Burn this altar, wherein your soul resides!

Let’s summon that fervent height.

Still in life, the mind captures transience,

Assassinate these overtures, wistfully.

The past is equally delightful and equally non existent

The colourless decorations of life are often, brighter at heart

The mirror stained with brine, now refuses to shine

Every tool to brighten it, resigns

All the monotony on one table

“Decorated with freedom.”

One of the conflicts being a human- the dependence on independence

Hold it, it’s precious,

Hope, faith, miracles.