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.
girtay huay chhoo lo is mausam ko
jo ab gumaan ki hadd se guzar kar
thoDi der chaaoN ka khel racha raha
hai or dikhla raha hai tumhay wo kiran
jo adhoori hai per iss se aagay tum
dekh bhi na paao gay; tumhari deed
ki bass yehi hai aakhri manzil aaj.
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
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 has entered the room, the
conversation, the interjections and pauses. Refusing to
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 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
black off radiance, robbing daylight in
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.
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.
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.
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.
onus is on
not on the day and its outpouring of
day like perturbances
that perch up wild atoms
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