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.
****
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
