First I am not and  then I am not again.

And the things spin out.

and questions old and musty

come tumbling out of that closet.

she crept along that once yellow road
and one by one her bread crumbs flew away
she became her own leftover
she stopped for a song, never walked again.

Every night,

The Idol in my head

and I

fight.

9 yellow moons

die

and resurrect themselves

and smile

Bud like Bruises

Open up

shop on my chin.

Blood vessels burst,

paint

a van Gogh

in the canvas

of the whites of my eye.

I crack a rib

I crack two

Alright

I crack quite a few.

It hides

making tents

of my bed clothes.

I wander from

pillow to post

pillar and bed

itching

for the next round of hurt.

I bed hopped last week

lost my earrings and sleep,

and all your pillows and sheets,

reeked of treachery and me.

The demon caught me knee-deep

in other women's desperate dreams

In vain I tried to feel dirty

even as the cross singed me.

As winged hordes danced and leaped

and counted last night's bruises on me

I shook with laughter as I pretended to weep

(as I sat on my favourite god's knee)

and still god's favourite child I continued to be.

incorrigible

My swollen wrists

fingermarked by you

bruised thighs

black and blued by you

images of last night

hijacked by you.

Yet

I woke up alone

starved naked befuddled

once again by you.

among strewn clothes and remnants of last night,
lies tiny bits of my heart.
my knees hurt from the hardness of the floor,
my chest from the missing part.

Nighttime in the Lighttime

Toes skim the floor of the jungle

Fingers grope thick darknesses

Sudden Light hits my eyebrow,

Instantly leaks out like the salt.

Nails blue from the last attempt

Heart shaped hurts shine through

Quite black and blue by midnight

By day, pretend to be orange anew.

Rosh Posh

Pearls (‘o wisdom)

Drop

From your palms (rough)

From your lips (strangely white)

Your skin smell of melons (bodyshop)

Your hair smooth and curling (dove)

Pearls (aforementioned)

You drop carelessly (as careless s you are with money and..tax)

I pretend not to notice (cos you loved more those who loved you less)

I have a wooden box (mahogany)

Filled with your mouth, your brain, your heart and soul (as for your body.....)

Along with your pearls.

My wooden box is heavy and aches with posthumous love ( you know I am just kidding myself)

Your pearls (of love, caresses and unconditional affection)

Pink and grey (like the salt water ones you loved)

Rest within my melancholic box.

Heaven

May be I am about to die.

I am getting these flashes of cherry blossom trees. Lakeside in the evening. Cloudy skies. Empty streets. Warm breeze. Roadside tea. And mirchibhajji.

I hoped it was the future and heaven.

But now I know.

it’s only Yercaud.

And I feel like falling in love again now but only with the impossible ones and so that it doesn’t really matter. And I want to purge and keep myself tied to some unknown but ever-punishing altar of penance. And all that was green, if ever there was has dried and its winter within me. And even love is forced. I had not known that 26 is this withered.

Nothing touches me now. If I died tomorrow I wouldn’t fear or care. For we all know that death is all-encompassing and no memory exists thereafter. But it’s not only this, but also my life. I can’t get excited about anything now. I do get numb and more defeated. And I cry easy. Easier than earlier. And I am more on the verge all the time, on the verge of rage, extreme emotion, sainthood. And I exist only in this un-feeling superior detached self which can see all and teach all but feel nothing. Its cynicism of course, but it’s even beyond that. I have never lived life, life has lived me and where before there was some direction, some guidance, some will, some philosophies, now there is a null. And incompetence makes me cringe and cringe and cringe. And I see as if from very far and I expect nothing and get nothing and if I died tomorrow I wouldn’t fear or care. Nothing touches me now.

Just 2 roads to my blue kitchen

Surrounded by falling autumn leaves

Wallpapers peeling to reveal my innards

Fine veins of fortitude burst open

And bleeds on the lace white tablewear

Patterns of death form indelible stains

twilight

Greener Grass on the other side

Mowed down by dirty kids

Heavy clouds have moved over

My house glows of the evil within.

noone

every night 
just beyond twilight,
i change shape
and soul
with my other 
and inspite of a promising day,
go to dream
holding noone's hand
noone's heart.

Like a dust ball in the windy corner

my feelings flit in circles

you look down disapprovingly

hands itching to sweep me away

and I dissolve like sugar on your tongue

just not that sweet and not that welcome.

The first day it rained in my city and I made my way to work.

I took only 80 bucks and a yellow-black auto and I traveled the miles between heaven and the ordinary. My city woke up today to mauve clouds and glorious grey rain. And I woke up to my personal heaven. My orange room was at last defeated and n light entered my haven. Alas, my red curtains kept away the pitter patter of raindrops on my window A.C. Or perhaps I mistook them for the usual pigeons of everyday. And I began waking from 6:30 this morning and left my mile long bed at 8. This 1 and a half hours it rained in my borrowed homeland but my ears stayed covered to it. When at long last I went to my cocooning balcony, I saw the straight rain and the lone limp black dog running the whole stretch of the road. Once. Twice. I wished she would find a shelter like I had unknowingly done that morning. As the dog returned the third time, she and I enjoyed the city’s first rain that morning.

I UNWRAP

MY PLASTIC AFTERNOON

WASTED WITHIN ITS BLUE CELLOPHANE COVER,

PLASTERED WITH CONCRETE

MY HANDS,

MOVE SLOWLY

OVER THE SYNTHETIC FOLDS.

CHIPPED GRAY NAILS

OF THE DEAD,

ME

PICK AT THE

TAPE.

A SMALL BIRTH BEGINS,

WITHIN ME.

WHICH WILL DIE A PLASTIC DEATH

AT THIS PLASTIC GIFT

THIS PLASTIC AFTERNOON,

WITHIN THE CONCRETE WALLS,

THAT IS ME.

There are times,
When,
Alone in me
I see so much.

My own shadow and I meet,
And I am loving,
And I am hurting
But only within me.

My silence talks back to me,
And promises are made,
And spring blossoming,
And I am a woman again.

Till I open my eyes,
And see that I am still stuck in the gray.

The happy girl,
Bounces up and down.
The word is a blue ball.
The world is a red balloon.
The happy girl clowns around.
The world is a stage,
And the happy happy girl is a clown.

Happy girl has scars,
Old and new.
When she fell of her little clown bike,
When someone pulled her little clown nose.
But she doesn’t seem to mind.
And she bounces up and down.
Wearing her heart on her sleeve.
Picking herself up every time.
Saying, “That dint hurt”.

of old buildings and me

and slowly bitterness seeps with

like salt water within the walls of an old building,

its in shambles

so am i.

and bitterness seeps in

into my soul,

and contaminates everything,

and now all sweet memories

are mixed with whats not,

and i sit with pencil in hand

trying to get some of the salt water

spill

away away away away

from me.