I was tricked and set on a blind date,
At first glance we began to spew hate.
Whilst praising each other for appearance
looked every reason for disappearance;
still mustered a poem without coherence.
With his buck teeth he looked a beaver,
for me was a teen, had break out all over.
Between us lay a dead shrimp martyred
especially for the occasion .
In the end we left the dead fish in the bin
shook hands, split the aching bill
promised a venue to meet again
for the thrill.
May be someday I’ll learn to
take a bow and kneel down,
but today is not the day.
Humility is not in town
and has gone astray.
****
And in my defiant defense
I wish to reign supreme, hence
it’s my aim is what I can say;
Word “sorry” is a pathetic misery,
it’s never my idea of luxury.
****
Humility is a humble virtue,
she preys on those innocent
most miserable kinds.
If you are in doubt she can sting
and really come at you.
****
Earth held me strong,
as the Sun opened it’s rays on me;
while the Winds stroked my hair,
a delicate Dewdrop kissed my cheeks.
A tear rolled down my eyes carrying
in its holy grail salts of the Seas.
Life’s worth is captured
in minuscule moments,
which one lives.
No existence is dignified
nor stands on a merit or meter.
The worth lies in
that humble feeling
of being Alive.
I wink at the half-truths with the kohl liner,
breath lies through blushes and mascara
click on those heels when the roads act rough.
Ensemble an armory of every feminine bluff,
and then put on that red lipstick to laugh
at the follies of this little world.
Happy Women’s Day ❤️
Joyful is a human heart
aware that sorrow and joy
are two strokes of life’s art.
For the heart neither groans
nor shows any frown.
It struggles but wrestles on,
the grief of friends who are forever gone.
Heart is a traveller which dwells
in the crowd but wanders alone.
This afternoon the judgment day arrived.
I stood on the weighing scale and sighed!
That limping broccoli chicken is no magic,
numbers on the silly machine was tragic.
Shoved a forbidden burger in bulging belly,
vowing to throw that sucker scale
down the high valley.
Sweet grief, come sit with me
relax, recline and rejoice.
I was aghast when you left me
at the dawn for the Sun to clasp
and the hope to flutter.
Sweet grief lie down with me
now don’t stomp or be in hurry
or if you attempt to leave
this time, I’ll hold you by
by your narrow neck and
show you what suffering
looks like, when the daylight
comes and the elusive hope flies by.
Why crave that random
love, when we have
this Self-Love.
Is there not a dignity, in
claiming the love which
is ours and belongs
to us.
I grew up beyond the grey walls….
Walls that changed hues under varied spells,
mama would strictly keep me inside.
The thick silver parapets adorned tiny holes,
black ashen specks from where I marveled
at the cruel oddity of the world.
A faded sepia of Papa hung at a crooked
angle-tilted towards outside,shadowing
other picture-frames.
The grim monsoons brought spree of life
stamping on foundations of boundless
hedge, spreading its tentacles…
Vile serpentine vines of bougainvillea invaded
sacred space, by keeping me in restraints
stealthily crawling into me.
I see scaly lizards licking the swollen damp
crusts of the walls, that now turned
purplish hue, squeaking hushly;
“papa zedes, papa zedes
papa zedes, papa zedes”
Terrified of clicking sounds,every monsoon
I meticulously filled up fissures with
Papa’s old black and whites.
Once smacked across the sugar face smiling,
I always beamed when I sobbed inside,
tongue at loss of words….
I covered the last fissure with the only picture
I had of Papa.
Forever barricading myself with-in walls, I
metamorphosed into silver, a mass of
cemented blood in concrete limbs.
Fortifying myself of the lingering echoes…
“papa zedes, papa zedes
papa zedes, papa zedes”
Misery can’t transform
curves of smiles into straight lines,
because I simply love being happy.
I’ve a thing in my life for myself.
There are occasional miserable
men but mostly, it’s the colourful women
and only women around.
Maryln, Rita, Greta all abound.
For Audrey and I know happy girls
are the prettiest girls.
Artificial catnap,
guess sleep-aid pills;
again did it’s wonder.
Neighbor’s black poodle,
Vanity lazing on mosaic porch
Lusting a blooming orchid
licking edges of master’s fingers…
Spray roses with no
fragrance hung neatly
in cheap Edwardian vase
on a yellowish marble mantle
Incoherent gibberish bla bla
of quirky Morning shows
incredulous laughter
delinquent sarcasms
Countdown begins
midst sips of sooty coffee.
Quality of life measured by
barrage of human folly…
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
“Makeupum Divina lipstickum
Hail Oh, scentum , perfumee lios
Goddess Stilettum que sara sara”
Madam Giselle woke up to one glorious afternoon,
and damn those long-long lashes stretching little
over than the river Nile. Sparkling stilettos towering
way above the heights of the leaning Towers of Pisa!
Having Insight 24 inches waist Madam stretched her back,
skillfully squeezed her belly to adorn golden Victorian
corset, but it wasn’t to be easy for Gods have conspired and
were hell bent to bring down the penniless heiress from the
25 floor Ivory Castle.
As madam painted her face white with crushed powders of
corals from the far-off Gulfs in the fashions of Japanese Geisha
Fluttered fake lashes, ostentatious snobbish smiles extending
little more than her chiseled jaws, heavily armored with
French powder and perfumes.
All the effort to slay any man who dare to passed by, hurriedly made
her way through the narrow allies of apartment suit in a
perpendicular fashion to avoid crushing her precious creases.
Oh so much pride, such high vanity, but she is indeed a beauty!
Tragedy fell upon! A loud thunder as heavens roared
heels cracked the sparkling Stilettos fell apart before her careful
gaze giving way to the bare ankles. It was to be the
first omen,
Acrimonious beings floating fluttering in air laughing,
giggling; a loud thunder & descended million unwelcome
tiny crystal droplets, soaking the kohl smudged eyes
cascading into pools of black waters….
“Why it had to happen to me” ,cried Madam Giselle
Was my crime to be in vain or was it just a naive disdain?
For tell me folks is
little pride bad for a woman of my type?
My little lippo lappy
has missed passwords
and emails again ,
I feel this computer business
is nothing but in vain.
Yearn those days of Camelot
when paper and pen were
still a thing…
Now the screen is all blink blink,
I guess my heart will sink.
Little lippo lappy hurts like a bee-sting.
Sorcerer he imagined days of virtuosity
those hours of maniac creativity.
Ladies and only ladies objected to his mighty chicken;
but never a ladies man, he was a bloke
Now as his mind became flat with hay
and ethered breaths as he lay.
Pancing back and forth in strange darkness,
gazed at the sky full of moons in naked starkness.
Mother stood in embellished wedding frock,
a chalky dream, it was never to be a cakewalk.
Midst cat droppings, and shattered dreams
he wished to defile a flower again.
But he was nothing but a Mad Man
Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
” And therefore I’ve sailed the seas and come
to the holy city of Byzantium’
-William Butler Yeats
Drifting towards las California
surfing coast to coast,
in a state of frenzied hysteria.
In the city of cock-tail
baby it’s gonna be all hearty and hail.
Now don’t you believe those blind poets;
who proclaim surrender and succumb,
and miserable kindness is all the worth.
Truth is in youth, tanned body is all the mirth.
Ember sun, droplets of sweet-sweet wine
that cerulean azure sky-line.
The low hanging palm palanquins,
and the glorious home coming queens.
Before the golden Aprils begins,
sun-city is the new Byzantium;
and beams of warmth my holy mausoleum.
Yesterday
we obeyed kings
and bent our necks
before emperors.
But today we kneel
only to truth, follow
only beauty and obey
only love.
-Khalil Gibran
I took sinful dips in vast seas of love embracing
you tightly, with a terror of drowning in the
deep waters of desires. Wines from your
lips did wonders, for I went and came back
from the hell fires, taking sinful dips
in the waters of love.
Shedding all vestiges of shame, clothed only
in translucent moon-light while holding
you tightly, trying to sooth the amber
of my flesh with your cigar breaths.
I performed holy ablutions to wash off any
lingering doubts of cravings, let raven
hair loose to sway in directions unknown,
only to clasp a caress in my nets in the
deepest pits of desires.
While softly twirling on the rubenesque flutes
of thirsts, closed my eyes and swam to the
farthest corners of desire to discover a
dated relic of yours resting in the
sea-beds of my whims.
Knowing that magical things might happen,
I allowed myself to completely penetrate
in the realms of darkest fantasies to,
accomplish once a flawless rapture of bodies.
While you played your wicked games
I let lose more shames just to capture a
whiff of your perfume, to break an ancient
spell of absence while taking sinful
dips in vast seas of love.
I’ve filled the voids of my soul with
slants of words, the curvatures of
alphabets to gratify the endless
nights of effervescent
passions.
In the deepest abyss of malevolent
nights, I’ve implored the meanings
of your desertion through the
arches of letters.
The denied kisses through the
strokes of symbols, the dearth
of touch with caresses of
half-formed letters on crisp
blank papers.
At times I am riding on scripts
while others overwhelmed
under their weighty connotations,
you see my love words
never fail!
For they can fill up empty papers,
hinge together differing
borders, like the elastic
ropes you can stretch
them to suit bleak
realities of life.
In your light, I learn how to love.
In your beauty how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest where no one sees you,
but I do, and that sight becomes
this art.
_Jalal Ud din Rumi
“Mac-Donaldus Tacum,
Infurnus Divina Steakum
Panem nostrum daily
coffeum withum summum
donoughtus”
At every turn a Mac-Donald’s
at every curve a Wendy’s,
there across the road lay
a live breathing hot-dog
under the careful gaze of
cozy Connecticut Sun.
The lush garden free flows
with aroma of Dunkin
-Doughnut’s coffee, all I need
is a fabled pitcher of Greeks to
gulp it all down in one go,
such an aphrodisiac for my
fragile senses…
Now that I’m in land of free
I must uphold and behold
in my sight almost the mythical
Popeye’s Fried Chicken at the
corners of which rests the
pleasures of many virgins
That legendary Roadhouse
steak 🥩 the valor of which
echoes in my ears and the
glistening fat that will linger
in my veins for many years
to come…
The proud French can always
proclaim their victories when
it comes to their luxurious wines
from the regions of Normandy,
but the Californian vineyards
are always a step ahead for their
perennial sun-shine and the
voluptuous grape-vines.
May be it was not the vision
Martin Luther had in mind
or was never to be Lincoln’s
dream in hindsight but as
I smell the rich flavors of
decadent fries somewhere
I can tell you for sure, this
land is every food lovers
paradise !
As for me humble folks, some
say I’m a traveler while some
a migrant, but I know I am only
here to take few bites more &
will return to my land carrying
some flavors more, as I still have
to taste one last morsel from my
aging mom’s hands…
Let us leave the hand of misery,
and pledge to never gloat in self-pity.
Life is tough, its hard,
but lets just never judge.
We all are victims of both hate and lust.
And this is life nothing more that that,
it is stiff for those who always doubt.
Whatever happens, happens….
So why fret let us love and hold
hands of those who are left behind.
Smile and for once just be kind.
I miss that girl who,
would run wild, and
was always ready to
smile without breaks.
She loved without care
When the things
got tougher simply
cried her heart out.
and life would get
straight again, ideals
were lofty , heels
higher and memories
ran sharper, food
was always warm
and drinks forever
bubbling…
Now many springs
later that girl
seek reasons to
laugh, tears don’t
descend to heart’s
desire, lovers have
gone senile, running
requires plastic knee-
caps and heels are
trimmed to two inches
mark ,forgetfulness is
the way of busy life,
while food requires
a careful watch, the
bubbling drinks be
better left off…
Life might never be
straight again ….
I miss that girl!
I know not…
Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?
As I stood on a tortured sea-shore
and cast my eye on the swollen waves
passionately kissing my naked feet
making love to me with a brutish force
taking me in its azure vinyl embrace
slowly grasping my flaming flesh with
a fiery I’ve never known before,
an uproar a stir in my fragile body
exhausted since centuries of decay
the foamy saline waters entering in me
through all nook and corners, fissures and holes
mixing in all the violent blues with the
crimson reds, crawling stealthily like million
serpents, wriggling gushing upwards
Oh! a sensation a loud roar within
a rapture somewhere, an euphoric elation
an electric jolt worth thousands bolts!
My enslaved body in an act of consummation
so strong, my heart-ached, soul-shuddered
at the violation so brutal, like a hapless bird
caught in a nib of a savage Falcon from the
far-east, I let it happen without any contest
Why? Because I possessed it too and let loose
the cinders of ancient fire burning in me
for I didn’t surrender, and let it go on without
a single doubt or shame nor did I curse
the gods above, knowing that no desire is
mightier than the other, for yearnings
have the same frenzy everywhere.
But I know not…
Was it a dream or a drowsy opiate slumber?
The mind is it’s own place,
and itself
Can make a heaven of hell,
a hell of heaven.
_John Milton, Paradise Lost
In cheap bars,
few words are exchanged.
Men and women are
lip-locked, desiring
a quickie and
some cheap booze.
Few roadside poets
aroused and induced
by blue gin and tonic,
pretend to dabble in
classical sonnets.
There are no
masterpieces here,
nor heroic tales.
Words are concieved
on the rough edges of
burnt joints.
Midst rivers of woes
and poetic verses
lingers a stench
of dead fish.
Everyone comes
here….
Poets have homes ,
Men and women
have homes but
nothing is going on
in those empty walls.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-
dome decree: Where Alph, the
sacred river, ran Through caverns
measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
–Samuel Taylor Coleridge
As, I count my hours
with the endless jars’s
of poor man’s coffee,
I hallucinated about
Coleridge’s Xanadu.
May be it’s just
one meal a day or
is the opium that
Keats snorted.
As I lay bare
in grim winter
afternoon,
I see around me
a wasteland,
but I am dreaming of
Khan’s Xanadu.
I would do anything for love,
but I won’t pick trash,
or cook anything tonight.
( A Narrative Poem based on a true encounter in the Himalayan Mountains)
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
-William Blake
As it happened one cold winter night,
I bleakly remember the air was of fright.
I trudged on a road tired and weary,
watching my steps turn heavy and dreary.
The air transformed into grim and cold,
trilling’s and chirpings came to an end.
Everything was clasped, by an eerie hold; .
A strange rustling, was it a fiend to slay?
Did I see a ghost in sight?
It pounced and perched from a shadowy bark,
as it tapped , I glanced at its speckled back;
A beastly creature, it has no match.
What are thou? I shivered at it’s types,
with speckled yellow and black stripes.
A terror took over my heart, which was beating fast.
As it fixated the gaze with ember eyes,
I knew, the ghostly spell has been cast.
These slanted lines of
the decayed love,
make one final cry
before the final death.
As these crooked lines,
move backwards;
they first wriggle,
and then die a slow death.
Leaving no pain, but mouldy
ashes of unspoken words.
Greenish speckled spots,
imposed on the last
love lines.
.
I made my way to the temple,
more to set a perfect example.
I looked and turned to the left,
feeling myself quiet adept ;
entered a dirty squalor.
It was old Lucy’s, little bar,
midst neon and fluorescent greens;
I realized after the few sips,
God dwells here in the broken hearts.
I lay dreaming of an Indian Summer,
while greedily gulping last sips;
of my dying martini. An ecstasy
took over, with a stranger’s kiss.
As hemlock faded, here was an
Indian Summer once again.
Ms. Matilda woke past the noon,
swooning to the Beethoven’s sad tune.
A mysterious ailment swipes,
over the modern women of her types.
These curious cases of daddys’ princesses,
of colossal estates and multiple mates.
Are inflicted with malady of swinging moods,
making them shudder at matchless boots.
Ms. Matilda sitting still in her bedclothes,
howled remembering how at,
the party last night, enemy women clapped
secretly when her golden heels zapped,
and as her crimson lipstick chapped;
she knew her teddy heart is in for a snap.
I am eclipsing,
and the humour;
is all but missing.
I’ll never call any,
place a home again.
Houses are delusions,
it breeds a menacing familiarity.
Furniture is lined up in solidarity.
Hearth is warm yet,
the air is unfriendly. Glances
and few whispers, it’s the,
same old nuisances.
I know I don’t belong,
anyhow I trudge along.
“Connecticum Dunkum,
Walmartum Eta Sigma”
Oh! Sweet Connecticut, tell me what,
implore others to inquire where I dwell?
To which I proudly declare, well
it’s the greater hemisphere that rests,
between New York and the Massachusetts.
Touted as the deep south of New England, ‘
often in desperate times, it is the Walmart which
is our Hyde park, where spectacles are
staged and a tongue is lashed at every Isle.
A brow is twictched, a lash fluttering;
in a pursuit of that fairest toilet paper.
In the frigid colds locals turn inwards,
snugging their priveldge and old charms.
And when odious winter hours become unbearable,
journeys are embarked on the pilgrimage;
to the nearest station, to maintain a visage.
Lord is the witness, for the stock exchange
farmers toil hard, to extract wine out of the;
unripe blueberries and gaze with snobbery,
and the exalted pride.
Every big man, you once encountered has moved,
while earthly nymphs in their fair bosoms;
are secretly hatching a conspiracy to fly out.
For humble folks, rising tempers and taxation
has turned friends into foes. But don’t
get me wrong, when the springs abound;
everything once again turns into mirth and merry.
Highest praise is due to our well-bred dame,
lady Martha Stewart whose mansion is not that
far away, and now you know why;
everyone’s future look so down and trodden.
But behold, don’t fret or fume, both beer
and bear has been on a steady incline.
A matchless diversity we often look with disdain
at those, who are neither old nor affluent and
frown upon those whose appearances
don’t match with our very own.
Despite the hardships abead, both
natives and the migrants bask in it’s glory alike,
while secretly dreaming about the
sun-shine city of Florida.
For all you lovely folks out there,
I intend no harm here,
so repair your charms,
and after reading simply move on!
My mom told me,
dad was a first born.
First born and lovers
always go away…
I travelled to far-flung
lands, never staying
more than a year or so.
It gutted me to explain
everything; the father…
the lover and everything
in between, but then
I remember, I’m a first-born,
and moved away.
A wonderful ballad,
once written with the
crimson hues, all in
middle of a raven night.
The most perfect composition
ever. A-sorcery of words,
forever sealed, in the
beats of my youthful heart.
Tune ebbs and flows,
echoing the magical words
“ I would do anything for
love but I won’t do that….”
( R.I.P Meatloaf, this poem is a tribute to most beautiful song ever written by a very special artist)
Why do I feel?
I’m trying to catch,
But I’m left far-far behind?
It’s not a step but ,
a thousand miles
apart.
But some days I don’t
even try, I can’t make
up for the untrodden
paths or stride fast
to reach where I
shouldn’t.
Don’t know why I’m
not up for tomorrow.
I’m not cut for
the world of all that
techno and global.
May be I am a just
1950s gal caught up
in this future’s ride.
So many words are not spoken,
some promises are not kept, but
sans complaints or regrets.
When all is done, we will
simply move on. You brought
a grim hue but it still formed
a rainbow in a clear sky.
Dead are only gone when
we forget to remember their;
lives .
When we say our precious little
prayers but forget to ;
carry the gratitude for
being alive.
When you expect others
to be douchebags,
a sudden jolt of
kindness is indeed
a miracle.
“Nature does not hurry
yet everything is accomplished.”
-Lao Tzu
Pulsating beats,
again a trigger,
although smiling
Inside I know,
It is again out
to get me.
Mr. Fly I know you have a story too,
but forgive I’ve some things to pursue.
For once raven nights are no time my
friend to buzz and tell me why?
So Mr. Fly flutter , flap and fly away
go suck the nectar of a flower,
request you to never hover;
mistaking whiff of attar, for a floret.
I can’t tolerate and ignore it anymore.
Reminds of the Nash who spoke the
truth ,“ God in his wisdom made the
fly and then forgot to tell us why.”
In the morning
When I began to wake,
It happened again-
That feeling
That you, beloved,
Had stood over me all night
Keeping watch,
That as soon as I begin to stir,
You put lips on my forehead
and lit a holy lamp
inside a heart.
-Hafiz
Silence a shrine,
where unfolds
myriad tiny miracles;
obscure to that
naked eye.
Whispers of souls are
forever captured in the
turquoise mosaics
of stillness.
A sudden shrill,
the prayer and the
pilgrim dries up.
It is wise to be foolish
at times,
but so foolish to be intelligent
always.
In all things of nature,
there is something
of the marvelous.
-Aristotle
Having feasted past-midnight, Persian Laila got up lazily at the stroke of twelve. Wearing her sparkling tiara, she rose with a numbing headache resultant of a hangover,
Caused by the left-over French champagne that she drank greedily from the China glass of her Benevolent master.
Her master’s darling she occupied a special place in his cozy lap and abhorred the site of her pot-bellied mistress,
For Laila considered her as a staunch-competitor and purred when ever she dared come near especially at long intervals of midnight drinks .
She would adorn herself on the left thigh of master and lick heavenly nectar only from the corner his pinkish wrinkled hands.
A site to behold midst bubblingchampagne and the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars. Her blue eyes drunk with envy and rage, she fought hard and with everyone for her master’s attention.
On rare occasions of evening strolls, she would walk with snobbish air and displeased countenance on the cobbled streets of rustic New York.
Looking down with disdain on all other pussies in the town, as she deemed them to be too causal and boring in the appearance,
For Laila came from the Persian peninsula from the house of the grand pasha of Azerbaijan, her great-grandmother the dark-eyed Hoorie was a favorite of the sultan-Suleiman.
And what a cherished presence on all matters important of every concern but was slain on one moonless night by the jealous ladies of Sultan’s Harem.
All were fine, till troubles started to brew, for master was a man of excess and one Persian damsel was not enough and yearned for another beauty to occupy the vacant right thigh!
So brought a petite French this time, Annabella who had a legacy of her own, for she came-from the family of Master pastry chef, Monsuier Jean Paul employed in the house of King Louis XII.
Both pussycats couldn’t look each other in the eye for both was endowed with looks and style to charm any.
One fine day while the master was away, in a brawl with each other both got their tails entangled, the mistress had enough and decided to sail one of them away…
And who better than the Persian Laila, for she was never in her good books. Hence a plan was hatched and poor Laila was swiftly hurried off to live with an old woman in quite a corner
Of the town and master was told a tale of how she eloped with neighbor’s Valentino who had-no history to boast of.
Annabella now the reigning queen while Laila spent her time remembering the days of glory gone by.
Your ruby blood in mine,
a pure ecstasy,
melting of skins.
As I sighed, the breath took a curve
and emerged in two,
leaving behind zillion dew drops;
settling at the corners
of my parched mouth.
Crystalizing the moment in time.
On the broadway called Life ,
actors were many;
but the spectacle
was missing.
Some kisses were,
hurled but the
warmth was missing.
In the dark corner of the house adorned a crimson hued Tabrizi rug,
gifted to me as the wedding present, imported from the mountains;
of Hindu-Kush, embellished with poppy flowers and lovers’ passionate hugs
Violet borders bejeweled with a fine needlework of embroidered springs.
Especially handcrafted from the hands of a virgin maid with lofty desires
Intricately woven with the woolly knits and exquisite twisted golden wires
So how it became a constant companion in my otherwise blissful nuptial voyage
taking the shape and creases of my body in its crimson folds, so clairvoyant
We both grew to confide and embrace each other on moonless nights
During the dark nights I would hear vague cries and faint sighs
And would awoke by the silent sobbing and consistent choking sounds
The tormenting shrills one makes when inflicted with a fresh wound
After long desperate searches in the eerie neighborhoods in vain
I decided to hunt down the sniveling offender on a night when it rain
As I searched and rifled, discovered it came from the joints of the rug
Deep with in the sews of silverfish anklets and bangles, felt as if on high drug
Veiled and shackled a gaunt silhouette appeared in the woolen cracks
Thickened clots of cherry blood from bruised hands left its tracks
The sobbing sounds grew louder and a known voice pierced through
“My virgin hands intricately weaved the wires of gold and silver to woe
I dared to dance with my heart’s desire with men of different tribe
A misconduct for which I was to be buried-alive in sews and imbibe
Frozen embalmed in the embroidered joints I came back from death
When your warm saline tear cascaded in my mouth I finally took a breath”
We became lovers of sorts, embracing on moonless nights,
Fasted and prayed on our Tabrizi rug, shed tears, took gentle sighs
It became a seminary a refuge when her or mine master was around!
Until the inauspicious day of a long lunar month when we both were found
Castrated for our naked sins, she was burnt while I was forever hound!
Time has witnessed the many trials
of your life, you often felt a little more than what you saw. It’s about time you kneel down to your self, give yourself a little pat on the back, smile and move on. When you find yourself lost in the raven hours, remember the Tolstoyian words often rings true; God watches everything but waits for his turn.
Some exist a wise clown,
dwelling peacefully in
the grim garbs of a jester.
Sprouting often exquisite pearls,
of wisdom here and there;
somewhere in between the
words that men consider banal.
While few exist intellectual
suffering peevishly in the
golden robe of a wise man.
Shackled enslaved by their
pretentiousness, declined and despised
by their intellect. Banished and
forever cursed to measure each word
with someone’s rhyme and meter.
Those who like to wallow,
in the noise of their
voices, can’t float in the;
stillness of silence.
Having feasted past-midnight, Persian Laila got up lazily at the stroke of twelve. Wearing her sparkling tiara, she rose with a numbing headache resultant of a hangover,
Caused by the left-over French champagne that she drank greedily from the China glass of her Benevolent master.
Her master’s darling she occupied a special place in his cozy lap and abhorred the site of her pot-bellied mistress,
For Laila considered her as a staunch-competitor and purred when ever she dared come near especially at long intervals of midnight drinks .
She would adorn herself on the left thigh of master and lick heavenly nectar only from the corner his pinkish wrinkled hands.
A site to behold midst bubblingchampagne and the smoke of expensive Cuban cigars. Her blue eyes drunk with envy and rage, she fought hard and with everyone for her master’s attention.
On rare occasions of evening strolls, she would walk with snobbish air and displeased countenance on the cobbled streets of rustic New York.
Looking down with disdain on all other pussies in the town, as she deemed them to be too causal and boring in the appearance,
For Laila came from the Persian peninsula from the house of the grand pasha of Azerbaijan, her great-grandmother the dark-eyed Hoorie was a favorite of the sultan-Suleiman.
And what a cherished presence on all matters important of every concern but was slain on one moonless night by the jealous ladies of Sultan’s Harem.
All were fine, till troubles started to brew, for master was a man of excess and one Persian damsel was not enough and yearned for another beauty to occupy the vacant right thigh!
So brought a petite French this time, Annabella who had a legacy of her own, for she came-from the family of Master pastry chef, Monsuier Jean Paul employed in the house of King Louis XII.
Both pussycats couldn’t look each other in the eye for both was endowed with looks and style to charm any.
One fine day while the master was away, in a brawl with each other both got their tails entangled, the mistress had enough and decided to sail one of them away…
And who better than the Persian Laila, for she was never in her good books. Hence a plan was hatched and poor Laila was swiftly hurried off to live with an old woman in quite a corner
Of the town and master was told a tale of how she eloped with neighbor’s Valentino who had-no history to boast of.
Annabella now the reigning queen while Laila spent her time remembering the days of glory gone by.
Stretching apart her thin toothpick legs
Sat robustly on his stunted arthritis legs
Suckling chocolate lolly-pop euphorically
Careless licking melted cocoa from corners of lips
Droplets of sweat accumulated on the forehead
A raw beauty in the care, guardian of
Venus two steps behind womanhood
Could feel the-hard bony rib cage against
His sagging rotten flesh, pulse palpating swift
Impoverished bosoms like two sand dunes,
adorning emaciated slender waist, yet
not evolved into any shape, resting on a thin frame
Could sense a ruffle beneath trousers
Serpents crawling underneath, slowly gradually
Raising heads out of Ecdysis, sloughing old skin
Squishy, velvety pulsating reddish fleece
Held his tremoring hands back, a young passion
Taking birth in his heart, an urgent yearning to
Explode with rapture at this rare rendezvous
Odorless Scent of a young body filled his nostrils
Like on opiate he fell into an ecstasy unparalleled
ready to burst like a volcanic rapture, dormant for
Seventy years, a malady damping elated spirits
Frightened maybe he has forgotten the tricks
Nervous fisted his hands with a fractured ego
Mustering courage extends forth sweaty palms
Trying to feel the touch of virgin demoiselle
Heart missing a beat gushed into million stars.
Little snake-lings crawled back to the hood.
With war came the throngs of men
frowning in their military uniforms.
A putrid stench fills the air
whispers and some silent prayers.
Wise village men tittle-tattle
mothers snuggle their calves,
preparing for their next battle.
Haughty men split themselves halves
to usurp the honor that is left.
You my dear love, like a sceptic shock
entered my limbs and gave me a
a wasted kiss.
A lazy embrace which lay stretched
like hollow streets, hyper, hypnotic I ran
towards those sepia streets.
Time didn’t freeze, as it never does,
Yes! Sun will be the Moon tomorrow;
never doubt what the blind women say.
Wind withers on letting her raven hairs
down, making way for that barefooted
dreary dawn.
To descend coyly in the wedding gown
and embrace the Sun and the Sewage;
You and me in it’s sandy shroud.
