My Own Muse

For a day, or two,

Or longer still,

Let me be my own muse:

A mirage of hope

I chase within.

Can I place myself

On a pedestal-

To look at me

As I look at the moon?

Clouds made of 

Rainbows.

Periwinkles blooming

Through cement 

Cracks.

The last light of sun

Falling at right angles

On a restless tide.

Can I be the evening breeze

Brushing past her cheeks?

Can be a caress to 

Cleanse myself

In her fragrance?

Can I hold myself

Between a prayer and 

A dance?

A fragile ray of starlight

Defying an ancient giant?

Can I slip through

The cracks of inevitability,

And sing lullabies-

For myself, this time?

A mindless thought.

Irrational decision.

Sweet little accident

And an irresistible 

Grasp.

Like the same one 

In a million chance 

Of being born.

Can I be my own muse?

For making it this far.

Aftermath

It's been five years 

Since she died, and 

I haven't moved on.

Today is the last day 

Of Dashami, and 

I'm sitting here,

Wearing her Red saree 

and seven bangles

On each hand.

That's what the 

Tantrik said.

A Mandala made 

Out of Haldi and 

Kumkum. 

Soil from her grave 

In the middle with 

Limbu and Mirch-

After myriads of

Attempts, I invoked 

Her spirit successfully 

This time.

It was so good to

Hear her voice.

Her translucent body

Looked hot.

Everything was alright-

Till she sobbed and

Asked me in a 

Coarse voice:

Why did you kill me?

Readily, I threw on her

The enchanted ash 

To set her on fire.

The spirit, too, had to

Be killed to unlock 

The ancient treasure-

That's what the last

Page of the book,

Grandpa left me said.

Roasted Liver

The dead body in the 

Backyard calls my name

In the night.

Asks me why I kill?

What do I tell? 

I like the smell of 

Raw flesh?

The sound of oozing 

Blood?

How I wanna give 

Sharp metals a better 

Purpose? or

My own lust has its 

Way to manifest me 

A greater revelation?

Ohh! It's such a 

Pristine compulsion.

What do I tell it?

Can it even understand 

The gravity of passion?

What a rush it is to

Isolate a subject.

Stab them in the heart.

Drain out all the blood 

Through just an ooze.

Run out of breath in the

Act. Feel hungry as hell

After that.

Then roast just the 

Liver on low flame with 

Just salt and pepper-

To feel my art on

My tongue.

Ohh! Great art is all 

Hunger and food.

Passion translating into

Juicy fetish in your 

Mouth- 

Good art is a 

Roasted liver for 

The fancy of one's 

Taste buds.

Painter

He paints a door on the

Wall so that someone 

Would walk in his life.

Plucks stars at night to

Adorn his room- he's 

Forever welcome for the 

Wayfarer he's waiting.

He has designed a

Clock that can transport 

Anyone to a new place

At anytime-

But he doesn't want

An easy way out.

The silver ring he has

Designed can materialise

Any wish of his-

But he has seen only 

Disappointments so far.

When asked why,

He just says-

I'm a painter that's why.

That he needs something 

To hold on and 

Anything is true in his

Imagination.

But the reality would 

Always be his cold room

With the stink of paint.

Says that repeatedly 

And paints an angel who

Takes him to heaven.

Lullabies are in colours 

For him and he sleeps

Listening to his shades.

Art is his mother, lover

And the divinity he craves.

The doors he wants

To open or close are

All in there.

To escape or to not

Escape- the line is

Blurry but he has made

His peace- 

Lives another day to

Surprise himself 

Again. And again.

Dating a Self Aware Girl

I almost fell for you.

I was almost yours.

But I don't know why

I flinch when I look

Long at you.

I don't know why can't 

I loosen up myself 

Around you.

I almost called you

My moon on our

First date.

Almost drowned in

Your sensuous eyes.

But couldn't face

You outright.

The songs I couldn't 

Send you late at

Night. The naughty 

Memes that stay

Unsent with your 

Name written all over

Them-

The urge to stand 

Close to you and

Unintentionally touch-

But my deliberate attempts 

To maintain a distance-

You're too much you

Know.

It's like I'm always 

Scrutinizing myself in 

Your presence.

Like I'm standing 

In front of a mirror and 

You read my intentions 

Beforehand.

I wish I could just

Go away. I wish I could 

Find a home that's 

Less complicated.

But the standards you've 

Set are so high-

Every other hospitality 

Is gonna feel like

There's something

That it lacks.

This fog of silence 

Between us.

The unsure air edging 

Us towards an uncertain 

Fate.

I'm sure I'm gonna 

Drunk call you soon.

Just don't tell me

You saw it coming.

I don't want you to

Read me again.

If you could have 

Only stopped treating

Me like a Test-subject 

In your poems-

We could actually been 

On a voyage to that

Place you poets call

Muse.

Manipulation

Every time you closed 

Her Eyes from behind,

The names she guessed 

Dropped dead.

After years of this.

After feeling there's too

Much blood on your hands.

You confront her.

And that day, when 

She uttered your name

From her sassy lips-

You stood in front of

The mirror, smiling.

And cut your throat.

But your reflection 

Walked out of the mirror,

Bearing a different name-

Only to close her eyes

From behind and stand

Dumb struck when she

Utters another name.

Who's that guy, you ask..

The one you just killed,

She retorts.

Ephemeral Rapport

Our ships got wrecked 

At the same time and

We got stranded on

An island for a while.

There was nothing to 

Do much except talk

About poetry.

You wrote to me and

Read it to the birds.

I learned to write too 

And you were happy to

Listen.

Good times, really.

The breeze was clean.

Night-sky was promising.

But how long can one

Be stranded?

The rescue teams 

Showed up like age

Though we didn't 

Want them to.

We were pulled back 

To normalcy.

We were briefly alive 

In the long stretches of

Our reveries- to become 

Metaphors with wings.

But whatever grows

Wings should fly.

So there you go-

Go soar high.

I got an ocean waiting 

For me, hopefully.

Lemme happily dive.

Eyes

When I looked into your eyes,

All I could see was whirlpools.

One, two, ten... A hundred.

Well, I lost count-

Touch of stardust.

Jolt of rainbows.

Thunder and storms for sure.

But the broken moons, 

Doused galaxies-

Transcending their 

Agitation within myself.

Is this how one looses oneself.

Is this how incantation work?

Is this how we start to adore

Cats of witches?

The deeper I look.

The deeper I'm drawn in-

My darkness finding a

Spark in you? Or

My excessive luminance 

Making peace with the despair 

You wanna offer?

It's mind boggling.

Bamboozlement to be precise.

But I don't wanna overthink 

This time-

I'm a sorted muggle drowning

In the ocean of your eyes-

Happy to have succumbed to

The Hermione you've become.

Caw Caw

Boredom is a crow that

Sits on the clothesline 

And caws.

Caw caw to mess with

Your head.

Caw caw to draw your

Attention to the things

That are better left

Un-attained.

And caw caw to trigger 

Your anxiety with 

Rounds and rounds

Of FOMO.

Hungry, desperate 

And utterly restless-

Ready to push you to

An edge-

Caw caw in your fingers.

Caw caw in the eyes.

Certain cold in the thighs-

Butterflies in the belly 

That want to come out.

You try to scratch 

Your nose thinking it's 

Just an itch.

Just a notification 

You say to yourself but 

Ain't that a bitch?

Time stretches like

You're sucked into a

Blackhole.

Attention spans,

Bombarding thoughts-

Mere excuses drown

You in a whirlpool of

Dopamine.

Caw caw for the hours

That have passed-

Time-jump like there

Was a wormhole-

Age is just a number.

Caw caw for the years

That have gone.

The first time I knew I was alive

When you cut a newspaper in
A square and place a bow and
Arrow across two ends diagonally.

And paste the ends well with the
Rice paste prepared by mom.
You get a skeleton of a kite.

Then you poke two holes at
The junction of the bow and arrow.
And two holes parallely down-

You pass a thread across the
Holes- double the diagonal length
Of the kite.

Pull it out at the posterior end
To tie together the entire structure
To balance the centre of gravity-

You would need a reel-thread
From mom's sewing machine to
Set the kite in its course.

And for the first time, when
My kite soared high, it was
The first time I knew I was alive.

Time Traveller

The time traveller moves 

A stone. I wake up in

My New York apartment 

With Ana de Armas 

Asking what I want for 

Breakfast.

The time traveller moves

A chair. En route to 

Colonised Mars.

They ask me to be an

Interim president there.

Hands down. 

No complains.

Time traveller does 

Nothing this time.

He had a chance to do

Something but bored,

Tired, procrastinates

And sleeps.

I end up in misery here.

Broke, ugly, single

And still choking on 

Poems.

The third one is me.

Haven't realised it yet but 

I've travelled to the 

Present of this timeline 

For nothing.

Taj Mahal

When Shah Jahan was 

Imprisoned by his own son.

For wasting public money on 

Extravagant architecture..

Held captive in a cell facing 

The Taj Mahal so that he could 

Wither away to death 

Contemplating his creation..

Did the White-Giant diminish 

Into a hateful nothingness 

Or it became a point of 

His pride?

Swooned daily by it's 

Magnificence. The beauty 

Growing louder day by day 

Till he himself became 

The shadow of this very 

Entity he commissioned.

Leaving historians with 

The ultimate question of

Who's bigger?

The dream or dreamer.

Heart is Art

Stabbing is not easy.

And stabbing right in 

The heart is a skilled job,

Needs a lot of practice.

Ribs will come in the way

To begin with.

And kitchen knife is

Not enough to penetrate 

The sternum.

You could go for the

Throat to kill or stab

Randomly on the torso 

To open an artery.

But we're not interested 

In the kill, are we? 

We gotta get through to

The heart. Heart is art.

So when you practice 

The same on the dead bodies 

In the mortuary with a 

Special knife smuggled

From Russia. And then..

You wait for weeks to 

Isolate a victim..

Constantly running a

Simulation of her chest

To thrust the dagger 

Between 4th and 5th rib.

And at the right minute

You don't flinch, and you

Don't blink.

The reminder to yourself 

Of a blunt puncture with

Right force and angle..

Then to draw it back with

Same precision with not a

Sound from her mouth. 

Just the squirt of blood 

Oozing out gushing..

You fancy that sound.

You smile at your art that 

Just assured you the right 

Frequency of life leaving.

Last Day

On the last day.

We unwillingly kissed.

Got naked and 

Entered the shower.

We rinsed each other.

Made love like we're 

Hosting a funeral in 

Ourselves.

The hollow cascade of 

Longing..

The smoke out of

Embers that were dying.

We couldn't look in

The eyes could we?

This repulsion for 

Each other. The sparks

That don't invoke 

Emotions now..

The unloving that feels 

On the skin and under it..

Rather, I feel nothing.

There's something missing.

I say whoever pits love

Against carnal sensations 

Is wrong. Whoever 

Preaches purity is wrong.

It's all messy and dirty.

Imperfect and wild.

And if you don't feel her 

On your skin..

It's not love.

If the blood doesn't rush 

To your head at her 

Instance and if the veins 

Don't bulge...and if you 

Don't get a mild erection 

Whenever she crosses

Your mind..

It's not love. At least,

It's not enough love.

Ochre

Ochre-faced dreams haunt me.

I try to remember why I call it 

Ochre but I can't recall.

The quest takes me to an ancient 

Cave. Pitch dark and only a 

Kerosene torch to look ahead.

The smell of soot, cough and 

Ancient cold in tattered clothes. 

I hold the torch to the walls-

The Cave-Paintings in red dye. 

Hunting, Killing, and boiling 

Cauldrons with bodies..

A sudden slam of pale face at me.

It's my History teacher yelling 

"Ochre is Ferrous oxide..

Mineral used in cave paintings."

Ancient piss tightens my bladder.

I wake up. 10th class history paper 

And there's that question.

Occhre I write. A caveman comes

Running and slaps me for the

Spelling mistake I made.

Suddenly I am in a class at

The edge of a mountain.

Writing ochre a hundred times.

Only question in mind.. why is 

English ma'am naked?

The PE sir charges at me with 

Cuss words after that thought.

Seems they're a thing from ancient 

Times. But why the hell he would 

Speak correct English this time?

Wishes

The next time you travel
By bus at night.
May a beautiful girl occupy
The seat beside you.

May you talk all night
And hit it off well.
May she ask your number
Before you could.

Then by next weekend
May she come to meet you
And you two readily
Fall for each other.

May bike-trips happen
To you both. Late night
Convos under the stars.
Music, love, lust, fights.

And worse, a marriage.

May you have a seamless
Happy life. Two kids in a
Big home. One girl
And the other boy.

One afternoon when you
Sleep on the couch.
May one of them throw a
Steel glass at your face.

And when you wake up
Irritated, to the summer of
Power cut. May you curse
The humidity with

The sweetness of what you
Briefly felt in the dream.

The Picture

Your head rested on my

Right shoulder when we

Sat on the park bench.

A photographer captured

It from behind and gave 

Us the pic saying 

"It's beautiful."

We kissed later that day.

Our first one.

The tendency of that pic

Of turning into innumerable 

Good things-

Travel, food, party, kids.

Sunsets, mountains, beach.

Long walks after fat feasts.

This pic that has no 

Beginning or an end but 

Only possibilities. 

It's a house on lease where 

We no longer live. But I go on

Paying the rent still.

Like a zoned-out writer 

Disappearing in his story.

Drowned and dusted-

Refusing to come back.

Reality fused in fancy,

Your face becoming 

A philosophy, an ideology.

Romanticism edging towards 

A singularity. And the religion 

You've manifested in me-

I'm happy to have become 

A fanatic. 

My bigotry stands stout 

At your service now.

I want a spiritual awakening.

Secrets

This secret that lingers
In you and bombards
Demanding a safe carrier.
Day by day, gaining weight
And turning into a rock.

How do you find the right
Ears to whisper it to?
The able shoulders to
Unload it onto?

You can't just throw it
At your pillow.
It's already overburdened
With tears and your drool.

Or you can't just scream
It off from a cliff hoping
The wind would carry it
To a place of no return.

If there was a competition
For bearing such a weight
Of a secret.
I wouldn't win it.

Crushed by even hints of
Such secrecy-
Spread, surrendered
And bled out on a paper-

The urge to unburden
Myself readily. The urge
To shed extra-baggage
In order to travel light.

I want to be a feather to
Fly away when the wind blows.
Or turn me into a quill to
Do the same.

Manther

The day I died,

My soul came out holding 

Its nose, like it could

Not bear the stench.

It didn't look back or wait. 

It escaped from gap between 

Unbecoming of my name

Into a corpse.

What will this bird out

Of the cage would do?

For I haven't taught her

Any songs too.

I already see a limp

In its wings,

Can sour to the heights 

It wishes to reach?

But then it enters another 

Body before I could 

Empathize with it a bit.

Souls have no loyalty, ain't it?

Flaunting its body-count 

Like it's a Manther,

It goes on lusting for better 

Cages and skeletons, 

To collect bounty in terms 

Of carnal misery of the body 

That comes with every 

Mortal's mortality.

Good Night

Bridges from where to

Where and why?

Why they're always in

The proces of building or

Burning in the stories?

Today, in mine, everything 

Lies flat on the floor.

Reasons I don't know.

I mean, on this winter night 

Why the trudge?

Why build something 

Out of sweat? Or burn

Something to cough out

The same?

It's lazy, hopeless and

Mindless freak this night.

Lies flat with wanting 

No help or support.

Loses control and withers 

Itself to sleep.

This story is sleep deprived.

And I badly need it.

Good night.