But to never punish yourself for your inability to open your fist and throw into the sea the dismembered shells, damp mud, twisted twigs, shards of heartbroken moon, rust eaten ships that will never sail again, unresolved rhyme schemes of incomplete poems, memories so out of context that you feel you can put a frame around them and gift a stranger you’ll never call back, because we’re living in the past, all of us. There’s only one intimacy we can truly claim to have enjoyed, if at all, which is that of the past, like newborn authors, always pouring out their lives into their works, almost on the verge of writing autobiographies, almost telling everything at once; because there’s never going to be a ‘what’s next’, but only ‘I remember’.
He took a deep breath and came close to her, overlooking knots of people strewn about him, some cussing, some getting cussed at; he wanted to touch her simply to confirm that his madness does, afterall, have a real cause, like a guerrilla sliding his hand down his waist to clutch his gun and feel its cold steel solidity in the wake of an armed revolution, as if that could defy his humane doubts and plunge him into the centre of his cause.
“I love you, and I feel ashamed to tell you this. You with this laugh, these fingers, these dirty pair of converse, look so human and incapable of understanding what I’m saying”.
She with her laugh, her fingers, her dirty pair of converse, drew back.
“You’re making somebody feel so loved, is that not enough for you lovers?”
I don’t know how you do it. I fall in love thinking I’ll live with it, and then it goes away. Life happening to me in staccatos, falling singly like slow piano mourning someone’s death.
I hated the person you made me, really! I loved you but it demanded me fondling it like chinaware. And trust me it had shattered to million pieces the first time I gasped. Only now my feet hurt a lot walking over them.
You were the story I created and I was aware your fictionality, but trust me only that awareness made it worse because I still lived that story every day
I don’t negotiate, do you get it? Its all-or-none for me. I don’t walk on tight ropes. I crash through water like a current in your body whenI touch your navel. So either stay or go, but don’t make me stretch my hand for you in a dark rooms.
I don’t know what I want with you; but looking at you hiding the sun while talking to me, I’d pull you by your waist and whisper the interrupted sentences in your mouth. The rest can be taken care of, I’m sure.
I sometimes think sex is the closest you can get to somebody. Their body is all you can touch and know for real, rest is just either what they cook or what you cook!
My life has bloomed like a flower, and I’d not like to part with a single petal.
a maddening menace of confetti hair,
skin drying like desert lips,
and my voice loosing arguments,
carrying a half baked home
in a donut box
through these streets chasing you
like a territorial Indian mastiff,
If I have a spare blanket
and some comfort to share?
I have walked away
when my words alone
could collect the stars and stardust,
and make a whole moon of us
I have silently disappeared
when my heart protested
and throbbed naked
on your empty streets like a half-wife,
with pamphlets and complaints,
but you shot at it with pellets
and yet another,
until I could rebuild,
because my notoriously seismic heart,
kept ravishing my new homes,
and my new streets.
I have hated,
because love fails,
because love that alone shouldn’t fail,
leaves you alone,
intimately coiled with your darkest self,
that knows only hate.
I have hated
by breaking into the dingy room
(where we bloodied the walls red in our epicurean delight),
and set the insides
of your serenity on fire.
like I have known love,
all in one, enmeshed together
in a single possibility,
like a heart of darkness in a city of lights,
I am the ying yang
I am the full moon in the black hole,
I am a chiaroscuro
There is consumption
in the warmth of this violence,
there is evanescence,
there is destruction,
I have lost sight,
Distances and time
have begun to roll over my frozen shores
like waves erupting from the center of the seas,
taking a whole lot of sand in its laps and lashing it at me,
There is no line that separates,
that grows apart,
that grows together,
you and me.
I have hated,
like I have loved,
only too violently,
only too much,
only too silently.
There will be no repose,
when the tree finally burns down
leaf by leaf.
I found a seedling in a broken beer bottle,
in the loo of a motel on the national highway;
it was growing on the smell of piss,
exposed sanitary napkins, damp mustard walls
and secrets of pot, sex and dark thoughts;
you can picture termites branching on wood;
it felt growing in the bottle like that.
I could have put a better image,
perhaps of creepers hanging loose on my old rusty bicycle,
or moonlight clinging to a street lamppost,
dropping from its contours like saliva,
but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant sight to see.
I brought it home.
I came out, dizzy with claustrophobia.
I decided to say something to you. Something snapped.
I let it be.
I remember how my grandmother made pickles.
She mixed turmeric, red chili, salt, cumin seeds, with mustard oil
and slices of red raw mangoes were dipped in them,
set aside in pickle jars in winters for next summers.
I learned to set aside things too, for whole seasons, to take flavor.
But my stories only fossilized in time,
sat alone in the audience, as if listening to a sad opera . I let it be.
I was shocked to see the awfulness of my own words,
How compact! Desperately wriggling for sunlight,
and coming out like slimy, sickly earthworms.
Perhaps some plants grow in broken beer bottles,
in terrariums, artificial homes, make-believes;
and they grow on nostalgia of the beer that
made someone drunk for a night,
of women who settled their makeups after a nervous breakdown,
of men who wrestled with confessions and erections.
Some plants do not need much air;
some plants grow in claustrophobia,
on the debris of desire;
The loo was the home that made no demands.
some plants grow in a loo.