Traditional

 

I like my women long - eyes and bodies,
and I like my
days short like
dolls that
pillow against your bust, and
I like my days cut short by a
sudden,
bloody euphoria, I
like my days dead,
haughty
and hungry, somehow the
swollen, frozen heads of
reclining
sculpture like so many
hollow women, cut and dried
like
virgin forests, like the
disturbing rustle of fall, like
wasted memories 

 

Across

 

You never happen to miss me
anywhere, around
your lips while licking the
froth of quite empty
eventides alone in some winter
woods or crying
and rising and falling like
we were the waves once
breaking against the
endlessness of passions, in
the swell and flood of
our desires perched
like birds
and lusty beaks
you never miss me when in love
or wistfully alone 

 

Another Winter

 

If you think you can speak to me
I can speak to you
speechless and dumb:
speak to me, my
love, my silly fancy, do speak to
me like soundless
waters breaking on the rocks of
yesteryears like
whispers, like fragrances
like nonchalance - don’t
you know and can’t you see
and won’t you care what
ever happens to my folly
my images, my inanity?
Still you paint you honey faces across
bitter and acrid
tea cups as I start collecting my
soul around, the bits
and pieces of shrieks and laughter,
from the myriad
bedrooms of my dark and doubtful sins…
O! I say, don't bla bla around our frozen
pastures, my
naked, bleeding ecstasy - don't let's
bleat around again
in pain, don't let's lock horns in
mutual, horny memories 

 

Bon Voyage

 

Delhi and the four seasons were not well these two
years, the sonajharia trees are dying and all the auburn
flowers are no more serene along
the
highways
You may wonder what went wrong, posed like a thinker
or even reclining like sculpture, you may cry your eyes
out: your crimson, crimson eyes like the sunsets we remember

 

* * * 

 

We were lips tongue saline teeth, we were remembering Delhi
we were raining, we were the sonajharias, we were the laughter
evermore crying for the moon and reaching out to the stars like
our eclipsing eyes, mademoiselle, you are no more making love,
you no more wear your passion flowers, you
are no more your broken wings 

 

January

 

Can it be said we had known our names once
we were known to grow together
to walk, to weep  and to be afraid…
t o g e t h e r
Can it be said we were playing the fool
we were our eyes
we were the nights
the rocks and the winds
chocolates, cigarettes
the fragrance of fragrant wines together
Can it be said we were
once
twice together

 

Calcutta

 

To a man and his resolution
a woman is someone steadfast
to be decided in the early morning
sun surrounded by the aroma
of a coffee drizzle
as the skies and the gods above
smile down bereaved and jovially
bearded
not benign but somewhat clumsy
in and out the Central Avenue traffic
lights smothering the blossoms of
all your soul's passion flowers
as if in life as if in frenzy 

 

Women

 

You are the evening threshold and you
are the smog and the hungry people
passing by
you are the haggling,
the snug pigeon hole and the likenesses
of all the gods above hanging
her tongue red and hanging loose
as if she were yourself, woman
as Guntar Gras had once stayed
and wondered
the people streaming by the cobbled ways
that cannot be considered familiar
as if in a dream
for we are the men to be herded together
flooding your wilderness
offering nothing
for we are the powers that be 

 

Lovemaking

 

a rushing musk collared our
lovemaking and was hoarse
and wild in cherry brandy, drink in,
she said and were it her
anger and her anger, her graces
like alone again alone
in  the cold, wild valley of the gods,
the twitching grey men,
and milk and honey, sucking?
darkness, wailing, gnashing
of teeth, bloody lovely,
lonely animals rolling, roaring
in waste
wine glasses and skewered
memories . . . your ribs were soft
and your arms like
Agincourt crossing swords
with memories
your glasses taken off and
your eyeless stares and smiles and
you are the rocks and
the rains to be prized open,
savoured like
sardines as I lick my whiskers,
wet my eyelashes,
basking in nine lives

Melange

 

The seasons cross our bodies
the years drawing the Venetian blinds
as we are so limp and dense like the smog
since mornings till the sloth, winter
eventides
our groins hard and moaning
as crashes happen as the breakers resist
the whiteness of our beaches
surging toward the serenity of shrieks
and silences of lush summer fruits
and the succour scooped out
and ravished
from our jewelry, our grapes purple and
rusting as the winter birds cry back home
wistfully as if we are making love,
showing off our spasms to our worlds
and to one another
gasping our bemoaning tides
riding tigers
as if the birds are flying
our enraptured flights

Iniquities

 

Fears are snowballs gathering fears
if we forsake and hunch our shrugs,
cannot caring less to the sun and
the seasons we are made and no more
belong to our eyes and tears and bondage
we are no more fears
these are sadly times
we walk across the Strand and
the lights are winter, in a haze of pastness
of being just the two of  us alone
on wild seas twisting and belching
the pastness and passions
of so many empty hours
blabbering together
finding lost horizons and temple saris
Chamba hankies
lost on us, our memories
traditionally yours, forever

 

Whitsuntide

 

The lights were dying down and we
were in silence
across the fruits and the wines
there was to be a celebration
but now it was all over
and so we were nearly disconsolate
and fumbling
the dew drops on the now frosted sills
were bits and pieces
of expressive grandeur and
I could not be restrained anymore
and let go
my reins: you shrieked and fretted
and fumed but it was winter and soon
new centuries would tumble and fall
from the honest, worthy closets
before you could say Gee!
before it was to wildly be profane
and celebrate the lost cause of lost times

 

Anomie

 

So far as the ragged crumpling
of sack dolls arrive
on the bald and bleak shores of tomorrows
calling out as in a desperate fancy
Hey Nonny Nonny Hey
as if everything would be resolved simply enough
resting upon the windows
and letting you peer down shelves
and crannies for spider art
let us for once this year
be closed in amity and dew bodies,
our nipples brushing and creating a symphony
out of ghastly cymbals
let our eyes rub off the mascara
of blue yesterdays and pale todays
magazines piled high upon shelves
that you do not reach with your tits
books not opened
at the sunrise spasms of your cleavages
let us for once forsake
the frosted years
and watch the flowering of body blossoms,
violets white and serene
cherry blossoms that are women tending graves
and devastation
and managing stately mourns
with simpers,
tenderly smiles

Ants

 

Seething in ignominy
teething through honeycombed cells
like years of blessed, prison virginity
tonight was so much like a tangent
to the great aura of life
and so acutely, actually poignant
you would say my dolls are no more,
my teddy bears have all thumped out
and left a great slump to wonder at,
to stare serenely past at the whiteness shrouds
of all our aged miseries,
widows seeking together places
to enter one another,
to stare at the vast and vivid stretches
of our vacant shores
to delve down the mysteries and
the walking shadows of our nothingness
to draw a finger cracking across
our dragging lips,
our stretches of heartbreaking,
remote nonsense

 

Resolutions

 

Slapdashed to rear windows like fat rats
belching in gutter spaces and
backwater animosities searching for
spellbound rooms, to call my own my own,
and revel in the caustic sense
of fine rebuttals that are but vicious
and native to your insular worlds,
pink to crimson daffodils
as the summer suns go naked and blue,
haywire at the nuances of the lazy, fey
writhing eventides that we were holding
our spasms together to go on merrily,
bursting upon the seas and
the seven heavens of crystal sorrows
ruptured nightfalls
and hazy, sloth
collapsing memories

 

Carnation

 

You walked so viciously away
like a bad dream
like a sculpture
and a wreck of all our days
as I moaned like the sinking stars
that are white against your ample skies
you left me gaping like a goldfish
so dumb and alone
you made me go sand blind
in my storms and young,
exploring ways

 

Anti-Poetry

 

Time and again you are running away
from all the warehouses and the waterfront, 
scum cascades, reading September on the Jessore Road
lolling as we admire our cocoon and swear
at our Indian mess rap, ragga
and a whiff of salient namastes
along the turf and the racing green
but ah! let’s forget things and just do it
let you be a meadow of silent, wet
kisses and sloppy hugs the  French and
the Swedish Erotica made us learn
as if in a dream, we were walking away
from the warehouses, holding pagers and
stammering, stuttering away into nothingness
like holding you, sticky,
sweaty palms and wasted blackberries
and the years and us, silently

 

Jasmine

 

You are a pee that must needs be
like hostile erections
in clumsy nightfalls
you are a tit that should be admired
like the Taj Mahal we never ever
visited  during our years
up and down north
your tits are the peaks
of crescent waterfalls
the water rising as if in a
you know what
yeah! crescendo, and falling!
splotch
to make wet
your skimpy blouse
and paint your large,
throbbing areola
the hammerheads standing up
from a bleak oblivion of
mediocrity and
offering suckles
seas, splash! and
the ants go
running
rushing by

 

Remembering

 

These years were sunsetting
horsehoofing since the stone age
died in cascades of nothingness
and flurries of sorrows
that were cherry blossoms
across our missionary selves
these years we went places against
the lonely, cold evenings
locking horns and
making out on the rocks
as a desperate fancy
as an ulterior sculpture of lovemaking
these years we were lost
and hidden
searching ourselves in our sweat,
scents and tears between our bloody long
and slender legs and explosions
these years we explored the passions
of storms on the high seas
necking your creases,
your dense, sweet women like flowers
and chocolates against darkening skies
these years we marveled at the shrieks
and all the yelling shipwrecks

December

 

You walked away from the years
we leeringly decided once to call
our remote, distant youth
You ran away without favoring me
with a lodge
or a board atop your clean,
fragrant mound
your fearful canyon that trembles
even at the sight of exploding canons,
blizzards that were our ejaculations
You walked away and
it is winter now
winter severe and
a celibate zone that makes
precisely no sense as you are aware
you are aware of your volcanoes
that are now cold and snow tipped
but do you also remember across
all these years
do you remember our being ever so
naughty once, twice,
in company
in our company
You must remember your bleeding
when you were kissed like wolves
your whiteness parted
to feel the throb of
your virgin reds!

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