Poetic Ends

When you cut open 

Your veins, the blood
That oozes is always
A shock of crimson red.

And when you hang yourself,
Your neck will crack.
Body will bulge, covered in
Excreta you'll stink.

There's nothing called
A poetic end.
There's no refinement
To the crudity of it.

It will hold your face in
Its hands and stare you
Like Anthracite coal-
The blackness of it will

Stick its tongue to make
Your throat thick- pull your
Intestine to choke you on
Your own breath and

Command you to count
Numbers in reverse.

So when the next time
One of those poets tries to
Serve you pain in an
Ornate thali-

Hiding the crude redness
And snapped neck of it-
Between the shades of
Water Lilies and Bougainvillea pink.

Take a moment to reconsider
The romanticism.

Either give him a hug to
Absolve him from his
Own pain. Or better
Kick on the nuts

Till he clenches his gut.
For caricaturing pain into
Cute dolls to plant them
In people's minds like

Time bombs.

Bygone

The unlatched door of 

My room that opens to 

A wide terrace.

It sways back and forth 

To the swish of the 

Incoming wind.

The Hinges grate,

It creaks- grr grr..

Like an Old man's

Snore to his disappointed 

Dreams. Who knows,

That no one is ever going to 

Come to meet him.

Blurry eyes- 

Even the light is

Hesitant to enter.

Runny nose- 

The air is afraid of a

Seamless exchange.

The winds come 

Constantly and Dreams 

Knock regularly but 

Both overlook all the usual 

Hints- In search of 

Something that has 

Greater meaning-

Eventually ends up, 

Alone and waiting.

Unlatched and creaking.

Once in a while, had he

Listened carefully..

He would have heard

Her song and latched

The door and

Slept early beside her

Without any nightmares

Or snore.

Let Her Fool Around

As she sits there curled up

Beside the couch with
Half-eaten dog feed in the bowl
Looking at the distance, lost..

Take a moment to stare
In her eyes.
Do you see the blankness?
The loneliness?

The fancy collar on her neck,
Ornate leash with a grip.
The cuddles you give and
Hot water bath you provide.

The poop you pick to feel good
About yourself and-

While on the morning walk,
When she wants to smell
The genitals of the fellow street dogs.
Why do you pull her away?

You, yourself waltz announcing,
Your pronouns on your social media
Profile. Is that why you want to
Make your beloved dog sterile?

Wake up, you moron.
At least for the love of some
Woke-God. Let her fool around
With those ugly street dogs.

You go on performing everything
From Missionary to Alabama-Hot-Pocket,
And deprive her the pleasure of 

Her own authentic Doggy style?

Grow some sense you condescending
Piece of Hypocrite.
If she makes babies tomorrow,

You must know that you can 

Flaunt them on Instagram-

As puppies have far better
Engagement than adult dogs.

Vigil

You can cover your face
With a scarf outside but
The walls have keen eyes
And they have seen it all.

You whisper your secrets
Into the ears of a vague statue
Of an unknown God.
But even the devotion in

Your fickle heart has holes
That can amplify lies.
And for long, you fixate over
The possibility of

Deafness in your lord.
But fate is playing
The game of chess with you.
And it's all tactical-

Lets you beat the queen
And bishops of the black but
That one insignificant pawn
Has been waiting with a plan.

You tie your shoe loose
Thinking it's all right and
When the vigil is gone-
A checkmate from the pawn.

You'll be done in a battle
You never fought.

Uncertain

From somewhere, the age-old
Conquest of rust will get to
The brakes of your bike and you'll
Forget to have it serviced
Before the next trip.

A bullet with your name written
All over it will somehow
Remain in the magazine,
Despite hours of practice
In the firing range.

Against your good fortune,
Another virus from a
Chinese lab is gonna find you
In a pin-pointed stroke of
Fate.

And despite all the precautions
And planning and those hefty
Insurance claims- A bee will sting
Your ear on the wrong side of
The state highway.

And that's it my friend,
Thirty years of your life will
Flash before your eyes in just
Three seconds and all those
Beers you're supposed drink-

Will be in luck, if they find
A refuge in the belly of your
Best friend- who might toast
Every year in loving memory of
The time you guys spent.

Able Form Of Expression

I didn't cry when my
Grandpa died. I couldn't,
Even when Grandma passed
Away Infront of my eyes.

Tears like frozen packs
Of ice and dead expanse
Of desert refuse to
Yield any water.

The consolations, though
Take off from the bottom of
My stomach, often they
Dry down in my throat.

The dark clouds of this
Unexpressed grief refuse to
Pour down on the aridity
Of my cheeks and the brittle-

Strands of my beard still
Find solace in flaunting
My masculinity- which screams
For help each day-

Without finding an able
Form of expression for
The condolences that
Rot in my belly.

Dogma

Belly crushed, insides
Exposed- you lie there.
Wriggling and grappling
For life.

Just beside you, I stand
Cursing the driver for
Not even bothering to
Look at his mishap.

Despite all the turmoil-
Out of sheer repulsion.
I fail to reach you and
Choose to pass by.

Maybe my gut would have
Churned a bit more,
If you were a cute little dog.
Or a sparrow or a pigeon
With a broken leg.

But who cares for a
Piglet right?

The empathy in my heart,
Seems, it can only be bought
With gold-plated tears.
And it goes unsold today-

Making even your blood
Worthless- over the dogma
That comes with you
In my surroundings.

Hopeless Quest

Sitting alone in the
Restaurants battling
With the spoons and a
Bowl of Idli-chutney.
Catching your lonely image
In the window glass and
Searching for yourself
In the cracks.

In movie theatres- early
Morning shows,
Sleeping there without
Any care for the plot
Or action and later on
Drawing philosophy over
Discarded condoms and
The spilled popcorns
In the last row.

Locking yourself in the dark
Of your room. Not wanting
Slightest of light.
And cursing that hole in
The window with no courage
To close it or let it
Fully distract.

These half-hearted efforts
To find yourself.
Asking deep questions to
End up falling in made-up
Dungeons-- to give
Over-thought meanings
To your shallow life.

The kind of facades,
You put up--
Masks you steal and
The identities you assume.
All for what?

To sit by the road again,
To paint yourself a
Self-portrait by copying
The faces of all the
Strangers that pass by?

Unaddressed Issues

Who's gonna talk about
Those retired guitars,
Torn-out shoes and
The redundant lanterns,
That still want to glow?

And the broken bicycles,
Forgotten recipes.
Stopped watches that
Still want another chance.

The cold bowl of soup,
The lost lots of souls and
The shattered pieces of
The mirror that still
Want to reflect?

Rust-eaten door keys,
Dust-ridden rooms,
The dried leaves that
Scream about how
Brown is still a color.

The silly sisters,
The lonely mothers,
Angry brothers and
The hopeless fathers-
Who may just want a hug
Or a decent talk--

People that haven't yet
Gone mad,
Friends that haven't
Yet died and yourself,
Who still wanna give it
One last try-

Who's gonna talk about
Opening that room?
To pull yourself out of
The head of yours,
Where you often brood.

The Jar

End of every year,
I sit on the beach,
Get hold of a
Fistful of sand.

I press as hard as I till
Much of it slips away
From the gaps between
My fingers.

Whatever remains in
In the palms.
I put it aside in a jar.

I do this on repeat,
Till the jar is full of
The sand grains that
Chose to stick around.

Years have rolled down,
Decades have passed.
The grip has weakened
Yet what I retain keeps
Coming down.

Keeping up with old friends
Is a laborious task.
Now it takes more time
To fill the jar.

Gender

From tree to tree the

Monkeys that hopped,

Have suddenly remembered

What it's like to fly.

Some weaved 

Themselves wings. 

Some had to steal from 

The birds instead.

The birds now have 

Forgotten the art of flight.

So they've imprisoned

Themselves in cages-

To feed on crumbs 

Thrown by men who

Think flying should be 

Banned.

Luxury of Grief

She, a mother at the

Age of eighteen-

Lost her son to 

Pneumonia last week.

Husband in a local brawl 

A few months ago.

In-laws in a bus crash

And her widowed-

Mother to asthma,

The year before.

Autumn hovering

Over her life,

People falling off like

Yellow neem leaves.

Her tears dry down,

Before even they

Could make it out

Of lashes.

Goodbyes, tired like

Worn-out feet of

Women fetching water 

In Lathur.

The weak roof on

her head, out of pity-

Has decided not to 

Collapse-

To let her have a

Discretion over her

Grief at least-

Not anytime soon.

Inaction

A pirate with both of his
Eyes intact.
His ship still safe at
The shores.
Sings about wretched
Winds at the edge of
The world.

Not standing the irony.
His compasses-
They give themselves
Away to the daily-rust.
In an attempt to find
Their deprived glory,

In death.

Confusion

A swordsman in
Shiny clothes,
Who fancies poetry
Wonders-

If he could write
With blood and
Sometimes,
If he could sever
Heads with verses-

Papers like empty
Battlefields, wait
For a taint and the
Swords at least
For some red paint-

As he sits idle

Doing neither.

Aura

Some people have a
Lit up face,
A mysterious aura
Oozing off them-

You can't take your
Eyes off their persona.

With a dead expression
And sullen smile.
Some, however upbeat,
Look just bland.

I don't know, in which
Category I fall in.
No one is gonna tell me
That to my face.

But if you think
I'm of the first kind,
Don't be fooled.
If you think, I'm of the
Second kind.
Don't be fooled.

I just might be a man
With a gun to my
Temple or yours.
Or maybe I'm the

One with flowers,
Out of goodwill or
Waiting for more
And more funerals.

Cat

My ex, she sneaks in,
Like a deceptive cat.
To pamper me and
Talk for a while.

With an emotional
Stirr of hopelessness.
I keep on asking her,
Why?

The conflict therein,
She lacking answers
To my questions.
My denial to face the
Reality- to hold back
Onto charred fantasies.
Which light up upon
Her instance.

This to and fro
Toxic communication,
In spurts.
Stretched well over
Three years.
Pervades my iron walls
Every time.

These days instead
Of shooing her all night.
I've decided to let
My rats bell the cat.

Though she makes
Noise. My rats know,
Where to hide.

Abandoned House

Door mats with no footsteps 

Laid for over a decade.
The thresholds deprived
Of the touch of any feet.

The doors that haven't
Lead anyone to any room.
The air, stuck in a corner,
Running out of breath.

The knives in the kitchen
Rusting away without the
Final taste of onions.
The taps, thirsty without-

The slake of water.
The furniture, with lost limbs,
The bells that refuse to sing
And the broken window sills.

Life is being eaten away
In this dust-laden slavery.
The half-life of this
Abandoned house is

Being measured by
Cobwebs, per square inch.

Demise

In the final hour,

Her breath cracked like
An un-oiled machine,
Summoning strength to
Give it a final try.

Her eyes rolled around,
To look at whoever was
Present. Maybe she
Acknowledged everyone
One last time.

Then, I who sat, rubbing
Her right foot.
It suddenly turned cold.
When I saw her leg,
The otherwise brown-

Had turned yellow.
The kind of yellow,
You can't imagine but
When see, you know the
Horror of that paleness.

One of my aunts burst
Into a huge cry.
What was lingering in
Everyone's head was
A manifested reality.

The proper noun 

Grandma was, moments ago-
Laid there lifeless as
A body waiting to become
Fading memory.

On the third day when
The crows fed on the
Food offerings of Tithi,
It was as if a permission
Was granted to take her,

"Off our conscience."
So that we could comfortably
Push her to the realm
Of forgetfulness for the
Slow assault of time.

Heels

The pink sandals
With heels-

Every time I run down
The stairs.
There's something about
The pair.

The beauty, the curiosity,
The sheer deception
As they neatly sit there
Catching my eyes..

After weeks of 

This encounter-

A fantasy got around
The sight of them.
The imagery took shape
Of a fetishized face.

Then the fancy met,
The reality when,
My landlord's girl,
Opened the gate.

Ahh! The disappointment.

Never meet your idols
They say. The reality of a
Fantasy is often a
Disgrace.

Best Letters

The words that hitch

A ride with the
Immediate simmer
Of thoughts.

Blown out from the
Rush of blood,
Illegibly traced on
Loose papers.

The words that readily
Manifest out of angst,
Without reasonable
Considerations.

The ones cursed
To brood in long drafts,
Often deprived of an
Address they're destined.

The best letters
Are often unsent.

Sometimes in closets,
Sometimes in bins and
In unopened envelopes..
The best letters are-

Often unread.

They linger in you,
Then in the air.
Then turn into shreds,
Of memories.

To live in you as a
After-taste of a
Long-lasting grief.