Desolation

Here among columns of unseasonal rain
That hurtle through fields beneath kohl-stained clouds,
I've whispered our tales to leaves that are drenched
With moisture of tears unaddressed.
Plots that had seemed full of solace and shades
Have wound into debris of sharp, sullen rocks
That leave our soles black and red.
Back in the twilight of chrysanthemum days
With blossoms that had showered
And covered our ways,
Our eyes never measured these uncertain times
Where hyenas and foxes now hold their sway
With instincts of jungles as law.

Borne along waves full of dream-laden pearls,
We are stranded and lost amid seedless old rocks
That scorch our soles black and red.

Stranger

Stopped in my tracks, by the figure on the glass,

I wonder and stare with anatomic gaze

At a familiar shape but somewhat askew

That breeds within veins new coils of unease

Which wrecks all my networks of neurons in haste.

So I unleash my armory of old scales and tapes

And martial all photographic evidence of self

To puzzle me the name of the stranger in glass

Who gazes with fixated steel in its eyes

That drills all these holes on my sky.

Each time I measure, it shrinks another inch

And pukes a few balls of certificates slimed.

On a Cat

Arching its back beneath canopy of leaves,
It captures my eyes with the suppleness of silk
Just as was done by a squirrel and a dove
And fuel those dreams of an Ovidian change,
Here beneath asphalted clouds that'll cloak
Saplings in need of their sun.

Wiping my face with dog-tired paws,
I glance at the saucers of milk in my fridge
And musing on doctrines of karma and its breed
Sigh from the cells of my lobes.

London 2013

I flit through the cities as an embodied ghost,
Here in the shadows of spires kissing stars,
Or along mews still fragrant with fame,
An invisible shadow that sways along waves
And sings with the leaves of Notting Hill or Hyde
That chime with the footfalls of time's studded stars,
Here along banks of Thames and its nymphs
Who dapple my feet with uncertain beats
As I gaze into its depths, unsure and cross
Calculating fractions of ecstasy and loss.

Blown by the gusts that rush through my pores
I stand almost dazed on Westminster pier
And walk towards bridges with Arias in feet
Buoyed, yet conscious of memories of skin
That grope for their roots beyond towers or waves
And sunder my soul to a thousand new bits
Which gather on the wharfs of our time.

Puzzled though I am, I shore them in grace
And search for the patterns of faith which'll smell
Like cardamom and cloves along Bayswater Road
And frame me new constructs of culture and self
That spill beyond squares of immigration forms
And scatter into pixels of sense.

For Us

Borne in the attrition of steel-drilling rocks
As abrasive pebbles that are utterly askew
We clash in the doldrums of small dried air
And let flow of volcanic ash.

But what better bedrock than granite to sustain
A mansion with decades in its length?

So undaunted still amid sparks that'll fly,
We mine our depths for ores full of gems
And laughing at sugar-syrup blockbuster tales
Give all those dolls a big lie.

Evenings

I hop skip and leap
In traffic rush at six
And tackle a few shoulders
And chassis en route,
As I wobble to my unwelcome couch.

Drained off of dreams past expiration dates,
I mix up some soup,
Of old 'if's and 'but's
And slip into my answerless 'why's.

Ironed with stains that'll rather now grow,
I fiddle with the stitching that is surely unstuck
And popping a few pills for a stomach rather weak
Scrape for the passport of fate.

Apologia

The ministry of beauty is now off my hands
And foregone those wonders of sense.
Smeared by the oozings of unsealable wounds,
The air now is pungent with Hemoglobin smells
And smoke from the bonfire of skin.

Blackened to their core,
My words are on strike,
And locked out my workshop of hope.

Padlocked in times that are raped beyond rage
My sentences cringe amid funereal howls
And gather rather messed on my page.