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.

Two Chairs

At the end of the world,

Against a fiery sky that's

Dying. There are two 

Plastic chairs.

I'm sitting on one,

Waiting for you with a

Cold beer.

At the beginning of 

The world. Against rebirth 

Of a new sky- there are

Same two chairs.

Still waiting for you,

The beer is cold still.

And the epochs pass by-

Ice-ages -advent of warmth-

The civilizations and now-

The same chairs against a

Murky sky and skyscrapers.

But you come this time.

Where were you? Doing what? 

Having flings? Kissing hoes?

Tasting betrayals? 

The beer just turned warm 

And the moment is gone.

Saying BFFs for life-

The way you've come now.

The sheer audacity.

Where are the snacks?

Entanglement

The train of my thoughts 

Has a steam engine.

Loud, shaky, and smokey

When it runs.

It forces me to cough.

The soot overpowers.

I feel asphyxiated.

But it takes me ahead,

So what's there to complain 

About?

Yes, some hop on with 

Guitars and some 

Jasmine-laden coys.

Folklores and comedy 

That I enjoy.

The hot tea and chips

That are offered and

The scenery that passes 

By when I peek outside.

But they all entangle 

Again in a short while.

Lighting, thunder and

Rain-- deluge.

Then there are sparks too-

Fire, steam, and the train

That runs. Travelling is

Messy- bad tripping too.

Validating a Wound

What good is a wound 

That heals quickly?

What good is a wound 

That didn't itch when

It shouldn't?

The helpless fingers 

Compulsively finding 

Excuses to scratch.

Healing seeming like

A petty crime-

What good is a wound 

When it's not inflicted 

By you? What good 

Is a wound that doesn't 

Remind me of you?

The reason to bruise

Myself and the reason 

To heal, when it's you-

What good is your 

Occupancy in my head-

If you don't force me to 

Push boundaries that are

Beyond the visible blue?

What good are the wings 

That don't force me to fly

Close to the sun and 

What good is the flicker in 

The heart that doesn't 

Set the world on fire?

Meaningless and loud

I like things that are
Meaningless and loud.
Enough imagination
And totally dumb.

A mountain that's ready
To cry. A volcano afraid
Of Butterflies. Petals bearing
The weight of the skies.

I wanting to be you.
You, wanting to be me.
To be parallel lines
Tending to meet at infinity.

Philosophies not afraid
Of math. Spirituality that's
As secure as science.
A villain deriving power

By square root of minus
Nine and a hero defeating
Him by dividing himself
By zero thrice.

Math books felt abused
By listening to this and
The History professor
Turned Pookie to snatch

'The Great' from Alexander,
He's a they/them, now.

Pheonix

We sit by the river in 

Silence and her eyes talk

About "How we give wings 

To passing moments to 

Make them memories."

My eyes have a different stand.

"The ticks bore each other 

And set one another on fire.

Memories are ashes,

Self-immolation of moments."

She knows it. About my

Cynicism and I know well,

How she always tries to

Fill the gap.

So she asks me to give her

A stone. Throws it into 

The lake holding my hand.

A phoenix rises shaking off

The ash. And she says-

"We're that dip and 

The subsequent flight."

September 22

This girl who's bday is

Due tomorrow.

She times blowing the

Candles at exactly 6pm.

Cuts cake exactly half 

So that, the day and

The night are equally 

Split in half.

She's obsessed about 

This day, maybe 

Possessed. Equinox 

It is she says.

Half of her 'should

Have been height',

Confused about cutting 

Her boyfriend laterally 

Or vertically to call

Him her better half.

The stuff she explains 

Sometimes pervades,

Halfwit of the humans.

So she writes verses 

Like they got a half-life.

Never-ending, infinite,

Almost finished,

Yet something left.

Half you get, half you

Can't. There's always half 

And half of something as

It's equinox.

Leap

The wet floors and
The banana peels are just
Excuses. My fickle heart
Likes to slip and take leaps.

The sunsets, the moon.
Colors and the melodies-
Spring is here and my
Garden hasn't bloomed.

Body fancies bruises that
Only you can bless,
Gleam of your eyes to cleanse
The clutter in my chest.

The pen bleeds but for whom
It doesn't know yet.
But I wait for you to smile.
A cue enough to levitate-

My fickle heart likes to
Slip and take leaps, and
Now that I've seen you,
Maybe, only at your behest.

Unchanged Odds

In a world where they
Ask the right questions in
The wrong time and the wrong
Ones at the right time.

I ask the right question
At the right time and
You don't agree to meet
Me over a coffee.

So I shift to a world where
Things are reversed.
To ask you the right questions
At the wrong time and

The wrong question at
A right time. Only to get
Rejected twice.

And in a world where
The questions and the
Answers are banned.
I bottle my emotions to
Sell them in your street.

For years no one buys
Anything. At the distal
End of an apocalypse.
When everyone starved,

And thirsty for love.
I sought you thinking,
You might need something.
Even then you chose to be

A vile bitch, who thought
She could figure it all out,
But ended up dying of
Dehydration by a creek.

Gothic Bitch

A woke who identifies 

With spectrum of genders..

Yet she doesn't get laid.

A fascist who enslaves 

Low borns but even they,

Detest her to say nay.

She can do anything to 

Get laid, this Vixen is a

Sex addict and is ready to

Be anyone's bae.

She tried to seduce the Devil 

Once but he said he's gay.

So she pulled out a weenie 

By identifying herself as male.

That too ended up in

Disappointment. So she sold

Herself to Bengali baba,

To become an enchantress.

But that came with a condition,

She can never be straight.

She's this type of lesbian now,

Who cuts male genitals to 

Use them for her scissoring 

Sessions. That's the best 

Revenge she says..to hunt

Men who don't respond to 

The nudes she sends.

Boundless

The songs of the languages 

I don't understand..

I don't want to thrust words

To this feeling.

I want music to cut my

Sanity, frequencies to

Suspend my vanity.

I want hands of this illusion-

To reach my belly to churn

My realities to make me align

With whatever isn't discernible 

And is not in boundaries.

Too much awareness is

Weighing me down.

I want unicorns to invade

Earth and for them fireflies 

To enslave us. If somehow 

Sparrows fall in love..

With the Periwinkles that 

Learn to fly..

Take me there and wake

Me up.

Where Irfan meets Ila

I just wrote a poem for you.
Apprehensive. Little afraid.

In the world where Irfan
Doesn't look in the mirror
To feel the weight of his age.

And reveals himself to Ila in
The restaurant that day.
There-

There, these unapologetic
Poems of romance blossom.
Hundreds of them.

Eventually, you turn them
Into a giant airplane and
We fly to Bhutan.

Fad

A story-burning ritual fell in
The groove of popular fads.
In a decided venue,
Everyone Interested would

Surround to throw theirs
In a bonfire.

Stories of those who couldn't
See made a lots of noise.
The one who couldn't talk
Amplified the fiery light.

You threw yours and now
The world is on fire.
One-half of you ran for water
And the other half..

Starved before it died.

Why shouldn't it Rain?

She dances in the crowd holding
Her skirt and I feel teased.
She's like hope of rain in my desert
Of solitude and for the fleeting desires
In my heart, why shouldn't it rain?

For the last leaf that flirts with
Unfinished hopes, and the overbearing
Clouds that want to pour down.
For the earth that needs to be ploughed
And the hunger that needs to be fed.

For a longing unquenched and
Songs unsung. For the wayfarer
That hasn't reached and the night
Un-spent waiting. For the unfulfilled
Waves of the sea and premature
Death of some beliefs.

Why shouldn't it rain to reassure
The worthiness of the wait and
Sweetness of the quench when
The water has been scarce.

One that's Supposed to come

Where's the one that's supposed
To come before it's late?
Where's the one 'I would know'
Upon her arrival and by now,
It seems it's too late.

Wide awake, I wait, for this wayfarer,
Sometimes questioning the sanctity
Of my eyes, and sometimes
The intentions of the paths that
Lead up to my house.

Sometimes stability of the lamp
That keeps flickering to the deceptions
Of the winds, and sometimes 

The sanity of clouds that keep 

Masking the polestar.

I re-oil the lamp, pray for kinder
Paths and prostrate before the
Winds invoking ancient chants.
But there haven't been any signs..

The Lotus I brought droops and
Retires to forests and the songs of
The Sparrows dissolve in the air
For it didn't find a beholder.

Seasons are tired, decades have
Passed. Lamps have made way to
The LED lights and the warfarers now
Are vloggers with Google Maps.

Yet, there haven't been any omens
But the wait hasn't stopped.

The heart seems condemned to be
Unfulfilled, like an unplayed guitar.
But the urge to compose songs renews
Each day like periwinkles in an old
Cement wall.

We're are all Bukowski's Poems

We're all Bukowski's poems,
Stolen from the rawness of stingy
Beer bottles and crotches of whores
Bedding his sadness.

The illegible bloodshed on tissue,
Left unread beneath a park bench and
The one lost to chance while he typed
On inkless ribbons.

We're all Bukowski's poems escaped
For good when he poured rum on his
Bluebird to keep it hidden in his ribs
And goodbye to his broken car,
Sent prematurely to salvage.

Fifty miles from nowhere at Twelve past
Twelve and coffee mixed taste of a cigar.
A twenty-year-old with a 9 mm waiting
To reconsider his options for one last time.

Sleep wanting a cigarette break-
Life coming alive in the dead of the night.
Swollen fingers compulsively pressing
The keys of the typewriter in an
Attempt to erase his suicide letters.

We're all Bukowski's poems, blamed
For crudity and lack of aesthetics-
'Burning in water and drowning in flame.'
Trying to stay relevant in specific niches,
Like 'Love being a Dog from hell.'