agar ye dauR tujhay daraye aur
har zard pattay ka rus rulaye, to

miTTi ke bartan ki tarah hawa ki
namee ko jazb kiye ja aur phir

uss namee maiN namak ki mehak ki
aawaaz ko, lalkaar ko, kisi rahguzar

ki nazar kar ke kisi bekhabar ko
khabar kar do ke shayad wo muskuraaye.

when the killing is done

when the killing is done, there is need forĀ 
the balancing kill – plus one minus oneĀ 
squaring off one by one – hell’s
equation distributing retributive in

this is where the dark meets dark, the
solemn meets solemn, the grim the grim the
itch the time more time this time deathlust.


verisimilitude is the ouching dragon,
the loff track, the una laila, all three
sitting on the cussed train counting
lilies as their necks strain, but not too
much as there are proscribed limits to verisimilitude, its cousins know that and so
should you.

Anti pattern

Thirteen passed away on the twelfth day as opposed to fourteen on
the eleventh. There is a pattern there it seems there is a pattern there

it seems. Death count, simple arithmetic, not so simple though as the
count fluctuates and you fail to see the pattern visibly dimming away

with every passing death or day or count or miscount or missed death.
For every pattern there is the anti-pattern situated not on earth but on venus.


agar iss raastay par dopehar ki bheegi dhoop ki aanch paR jaa-ay
agar usee dhoop ki do chaar boondaiN humaree peshaanioN ko
choomti huee kaheeN kisee konay maiN cHup kar bahaanay kar
kay, saw bahaanay kar kay, kucH poocHay aur kucH sunaa-ay

to yeh bila-uzr kehna paRay ga keh ab hum thak gaye haiN magar
thakan kay lawaazim ab tak pooray nahiN ho paa-ay; aur yehi dhoop
yehi thakan or wohi chaar boondaiN, inheeN nay to khuTkhaTaana
hai chokhat par, dehleez par, bila-uzr, bila-jhijak, khud bakhud, khwa-ma-khwa.

the blackened seaweed

The blackened seaweed has entered the room, the
conversation, the interjections and pauses. Refusing to
               sit, refusing
to say why it
              died its macabre death in this room and
not in any other. There

are other rooms lamenting your absence, not mine
which is done done
              with blackness
with the hint of 
             the dreary, the dark, the gray as much
as the black. Seek

then the heartchamber that is not mindful of gray
not mindful of the ray of black that sneaks out from
             the sun, guilty
almost of subver
             ting day as well as its connotation, and
corroding it too. Must

the corrosion wail its unseemliness along with 
the sorry, unreputed state of its wantonness, its
             gray, its soot
oozing subversive
             black off radiance, robbing daylight in

the hank in the pank

The hank in the pank is a glutodinous entity that
partakes in glust and blumb without too much of

a shtanking diss for a riffopataking tallyhoo. That
is of course only when the garb is clean and not

much remains to be seen in light in plain light.
What of light then, the hank would minaprobingly

ask? What then of the pilferably dissociated lumina
that garbs and garbs? What excuse of a dither of

a shocking diss of a dither would the pank disprobingly
bring forth? To action to speech to call. Diss then too.

Unravelling, Saving & Sin

I. Unravelling
The unravelling of the pause which loosens the knots that bind the soul to the stem letting the sap flow to those tentacles that have reached out too far. It speaks to the morning air just as it has allowed itself to be soaked in the sun.

Morn is not the promise of morn. It is
the calamitous beginning that ends the night which held the promise of a new morn.
It is repetitious in surprise and a bit expensive.

The buds of mirth that are opened up ever so slightly, reminder that the flow of sap inside is as vital as daylight. It behoves the tentacles to attend now to the ever so tentative call to worship.

II. Saving
When the saving is done and the sad song over
the blood of faulted generations will want to sing
in tune with yours Whether the accord henceforth
be in harmony or not depends less on circumstance
than on the twist of word that grinds the corn that
dries the sweat.

When the music stops that is when it begins to play
The rhythm is not one of your choice but one that
follows the twist of words that mauls the mood that
fits your today in their yesterday and so it is so it is
Choose in accordance with this harmony and hence
forth shall be fine.

When the rough is smoothed the sky will want to
shine a little more sky blue and the sun will dare to
shine with that extra bit of something that only the
sun can bring to day The rough has not really
smoothed has it but let the sky and sun shine on for
it is daytime now.

III. Sin
The yellow days give grist to a daft proposition sitting
somewhere quietly counting the sins accumulated over

Sins that could safely have been tucked away in the aftermath
nooks under the silent shadows of noise and rumble.

There is thus a requisitioning, a need for requisitioning, of remaining open to the
steady numbing of senses required for the regurgitating of sin.

I. and II.


onus is on
        you       and
not     on        the day and its outpouring of 
        day       like perturbances
that    perch     up wild atoms
        pierce    bubbles
of      warmth    reveal
        shards    of purple and grey
the     onus      is on
        you       and not on the day.


a wretched soul stands at the nigh end of
  my peripheral sight informing
  when it can, oftentimes the informing is more than a nudge, a push

a tattered visual traces the contours of
  my unbeknowest nook of conscience
  where not content with being dusted out, it jumps, at times all too

a broken form, a splintered one sits in
  my innards, reaching out, reaching in
  knowing it will see the light of day if not now, then perhaps some other