Saturday, December 22, 2007


First Chapter

On the mountain peak,
the place of the unkown birds and the hot snow.
There lies a filthy soul.
A lost soul.
A lonely one.

Near the banks of the river,
the one they called holy and yet let everything down,
sits quitely a refused soul.
A lonely soul.
It's then when he calls it:
"My River"

The waves wahsed away the castles.
His dreams were "Sand Dreams".

Second Chapter

For days he waited for a shoulder,
a shoulder to support his burnt head.
The head which had eyes,
that saw the confusions galore.
The head that had ears,
which heard the foul men speak.
The head,
that symbolized loneliness.

Doors remained shut,
and windows sealed.
There wasn't an answer to ,
the solemn pleas.

Third Chapter

the psychedelic mind works like a pendulum;
Swerves into the deep interiors
and comes out again.
He is a horologist's dream.

His thoughts enter his shallow heart,
to bounce back again.
It's a devil's dream.

Final Chapter

He must find a friend,
a soul to relax with.

The rocking chair relaxes in the outdoor sun.

He finds a shadow that bleeds,
the one that has been roaming for a companion too.

He finds himself.

The Gain of Pain

When the soul burns,
tears are acids that,
flames the effigies of love.
And when you know the only medicine is,

It's a game of dance on Mars' fires.
It'sa rhapsody of lateral thought.

The ancient eagle flew from miles away,
suffered bruises in the brutal rainforests,
burns over the magical sand,
of the hot desert.
And was numbed in the evil Siberian cold.

The bird has an unquenched throat,
longing for the polluted rain.


The distant howling,
echoes in the hollow interiors of the black fores,
that hit hard in it's lost senses.

The dead vulture,
perches atop the dead,broken tree,
feasting in the alive langur,
in some land,
a morbid land.

The voices that spoke tyranny,
continue to yell through echoes.


The fingers that swayed the cradle,
now picks up the broken cradle,
and cries at the broken baby.

The horrific lullaby that was once sung,
now rekindles a new desire.
To sleep again.

The illuminated eyes,
speak of a dark inside.

Led Zeppelin is sung,so is Maiden.

It's an experience,
It's a teacher.
Pain is what makes a person at times.


Pain is when the infant cries,
whilst the mother earns money and pleasure.

Pain is also when the baby dies.

Pain is your heat,
when it bleeds.
Pain is more when it is stiched.

Pain was also when Chaplin wore Hitler's moustache.
Pain is when Holocaust haunts

Pain is when the reddest of blood is spilled by,
the scarlet sarcasm.

Pain is when you read these lines.


The lullaby was the last one,
he ever heard.

The greatest pain.

(The name of those two metal heads is a reference to Led Zep's Babe I'm Gonna Leave You and Maiden's Dance of Death)

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

The Nomad Woman

With a subtle difference in thought,
she travels with time,
flies with the moon;
and floats with the dragons.

She's a woman of forgotten centuries,
a woman of holy wars,
and violet visions.
A girl of gentle curiosity.

Her hair flutters in the air,
like the golden histories that,
tell a tale of silver mysteries,
of mystical nymph and hollow sand dunes.

She is built by lengthy tunes of the sitar,
and the humble strike of the church bell.
She is surrounded by metallic trees,
and void walls.

It's like the honey dew on the dead corpse.
The killer smile on the vivacious lips,
and the red senses that murder theories.
It's about abstract pragmatism.

She's a modern day witch.
She works with cracked bulbs and molten ash.
Her thoughts are nude and volatile.
Her talks are of old streets and new wine.

She's of the third kind.
The one that slices temptations of the blue mind.
It's also about the one that rule the planets,
the other planets.

She races against the old horses,
which saw many crusades on the desert.
These were summer wars,
fought in the evil winter.

These are not stories or rumours.
These are women who ruled the smoked world.
They rode men with great fantasies.
These were men of the summer land.

She had breasts that smelled of light poison.
She had the vigour that made the adams die,
who later rose under the sand,the hollow sand;
and drank the water that floated.

The wind that blew in the heavy air;
carried with itslef a spirit of envy.
The women,the men and them.
It's the wind of civilization.

She ain't any Cleopatra,
niether the slain Joan of Arc,
or the horrible witches of Shakespeare.
She is unique.

Alcohol percolates her senses,
and the drink of glory,
entwines herself with what the Romans;
called Breast in heaven.

She also visits abandoned forts and grey forests,
that once bowed to the horrible fire.
She is a girl,she is a woman.
She is you.

The Nightwatchman

Back in the other land,
(the land of Ganjas and the gods)
there is a mountain where the men graze.
There is a river where the blood melts and the snow flows.

There's also a small hut,
where the old man puffs,
where the women relentlessly cry,
where the goats bleed.

In the younger times,
the boy roamed about during the sun's reign.
parades the narrow alleys,
when there stars rule with the
monotonous tune.


of stick,the pointed cap and the whistle,
and the ironical torch.


The eerie company of the night,
changes its colours.
It's sweaty,wet sometimes and is comfortably chilly.
The stars grin with a white shine.

The cracks at the post,
runs after the dogs.
He doesn't realize,
his heart burns.


The two circles of smoke,
smothers in the blue air,
and unites somewhere
in the vast blue-white unity.

He picks up the half done bidis,
our old man prepares his own puff.

They offered loads for his sister,
but he did not give up smile,
for red tears.

The silvery wrap of the moon,
creates a magnificent illusion.
The stick becomes a bewitched wand.
A wand that kills the night.
The whistle forms an eerie call,
the call of the wild.
The rotten call.

The pariahs turn into,
howling and bleeding wolves.
The houses , the angry buildings,
convert to monsters of today.

The blunt faced man,
becomes a royal guard.

There are several kings that repose.


In the confused land,
tears wipe tears.
Cannabis consoles the heart.

Something was cheaper than water.

The other boy is growing up,
a shameful town is gearing up.

It's a tale of grit and self-proclaimed,


The petty thief is never caught,
eludes each try.

He was caught on one black day.
New moon night.
The night watchman wasn't there on duty.

The next night saw another boy,
From the same land.

The land of untold mysteries,
land of told complexities.
where hell and heaven is the same place,
where the men are not the citizens.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

The Birthday Poem

She stands undaunted with the clearest of thoughts,
She roams wildly with the swiftest of feet.
The chill in the wind caresses her gentle chin,
the emotions in her heart plays with her brain.

The leaves rustles on her silken hair.
The green of the forest shines on her crystal like eyes.
The meandering,nearly dry jungle stream is livened,
with the reflection of her being.

The distant fox howls in the cold night,
the moon gleams a white smile on through the dark clouds.
She stands undaunted with the clearest of thoughts.
She gazes on time's face with the cutest of smile!

She blinks and misses,
the night just kissed her.
The looks around searching for answers,
She's different.

The onslaught of memory creates a void.
It's about the Dalis,the Warhols and the Kahlos.
The persistence of endeavour makes her special.
It's about the Roses ,the petals and the rain-drops.
And also the about the Monets.

The sparkling eyes create an illusion,
She sits silently.
She has grown an year more.

(This was a just a request from a friend to write something for her.So....)