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.
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?
Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
