Thursday, March 26, 2009


I lost my poem,
lost long back.

I wish I never find it,
things of blue-black origin
search for it,
I lost my poem.

- - -

It is just not coming,
not even when I wriggle my insides,
not even when I rack my senses.
It's gone.

Lines are cliched,
sand is white.
Love is not over,
lines are.

- - -

This probably ends here.
Spaces and corners,
are filled with,
fluids of emptiness.

Emptiness is filled with,
all I never knew,
is what I do not.

- - -


Friday, January 2, 2009



And, yet.
They talk of people, shivering beside the ring,
with liquids in their hand.
I wonder whether any stars will fall today.
My wish is a waste.


I know your hideous shadows,
so well,
just like Master Humour knows Twain.

I move with my avant-garde thoughts,
knowing it's difference and progression.
May be that's why the moon seems to be a smirking ghost,
who shrinks as the witch sulks.


If you want an epilogue,
go to the masters.
As young men,
do when they die.

If you want some lines,
look at mercury lapped objects.
The astrologers will explain the riddles on your fore head,

If you die thinking,
you were never rich.
If you die dreaming,
you were rich.
be both if you die trying.


I created poems.
out of the wind and out of deadly alleys.
I create fire,
out of the poems I create in my smoke filled nude thoughts.

I lose my voice with the fall of her strand.

Neruda's lines,
seem happier at such times.

Today at college,
I saw the cloth swimming over National Instruments.
I wonder again if it was ever done in remembrance.

my vote goes down too.
I try to get it out of the never to change,
another idiot box.

Twist and twist,
dig and dig,
for I always confuse it with R.

still isn't a politically motivated
It's illusion.

I created this out of the wind and the black fire.


I sang a song to my self,
long back.
I saw her in the song.

After few days,
I won't be there.
She'll be off to Isles.

I hope the song would still burn then.
May, the music never bid a farewell to you.



I saw the old lady coming again,
asking for money.
His son was admitted in the ICU for the past one year.
Since when did doctors become so kind?

I had a dream.
(Although I'm no King)
I was sleeping among visions.

You may call this conglomeration.
It's not.
Lust, it is

Let's create and recreate,
edited memories.
Let us enter into a virtual world of realities.

They do not claim to write the saddest lines tonight,
or be as timeless as the Natore girl.
They are just off springs of magic,
who rise from the embers.


This is disorientation,
the wind is stale and the fire is out.

she lost my guitar.
The tune is no more.


Visions are not a man's choice,
they are of his mind's.

Neo-logistics do not rule,
if you see well.

I see wind and black fire.