one of those thoughts

If you were meant to travel in and out of here and there, without much cause and lesser effect and then, if you are tied down to a body, its all you can think of. Of the restraints.

prayer for rebirth

Black and white beginnings

Of nothing

A return to purity

Immaculate conception

On wings of

crystal tears unshed

un

stifled

Still

Born

to quiet cradle songs

of sighs

and the snap

of little boxes closing

the sounds

sun-burnt memories make

leaving transparent stains.

A blanket of tissue, then

Not strong, not warm

Enough

But it will cleanse

rancid memories

That seep in through

Heels with the scents

Of rain drenched earth.

some desires

for dreamless sleep

white awakening

forgetfulness



the desire for perfect life.

what if your mind is like a subway station? the thoughts you held private and important, the memories you never shared with anyone, proximate fears and distant dreams, hope and the lack of it, ideals and the reality of those ideals, expectations, desires - all of these intensely personal things that you are jealously protective of - what if they were someplace sharing space with anything at all, and were not entirely yours?

have you ever been afraid to even think something and if you finally let yourself think that, would you still feel secure knowing that you might just have shared that thought with someone?

how important is privacy?

no, i am not paranoid and i am not insane. but this is something that can creep under your skin, stay uncomfortably close to your spine and haunt you.

ecstasy

thrist
summer-storm-drain-strong
breathe in
breathe out
caramel-mocha-liqueur
escape
stains your neck
smells like blood
tastes like wine
acrid.

bare
back
cold
floor
stripped
gooseflesh
sweat stays
on eyelids
closed.

arch of sole
curve
of invisible conches
whispers back and forth
of someplace else
of
waves
rolling
sands
shifting
toes
holding tight
salt
stinging raw skin
still

endless whirling dervish frenzy

Inertia.

excesses

the one without a country in crowded restaurants
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away
didnt know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didnt want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here..
- Neruda

theres too much of everything here. lately, to me, each place feels the same and i dont want to be there. i am too close to the same edges and ive been here too many times; the familiarity sickens me. the people around me are creeping into my person and that this can happen is scary. the smoke is in my skin now; the faces around me are the matte, numb colour of wanting to stay and more than anything else i have to get out of here and feel new again. i want to leave.

there is no pain, you are receding

a friend leans across the table and whispers in my ear that he can "hear the wheels in my head turning and screeching" and i laugh exactly like a person does when she doesnt want to. the music quickens and some part of me moves out of habit to its beat. i want to leave.

i want to leave.

rush

shes looking for a new vein to slit. its what you do when youve run out cheap thrills and people to hold you down.

from up here, at this balcony, all you can see are the lights and cold streets running like straps all across a city that stopped resisting a while ago. out there, people are fast sleep on the pavements, finding warmth and inertia beneath the lamp posts. in so many rooms everywhere, women will make love on cue to their partners and have obligatory orgasms. they will then turn to the other side and think about making breakfast. dutifully, children are made, fed and put to sleep at 8 pm and for so many people life flows along gently. its disgusting.

the music reaches deep into her stomach and its harder to breathe now. she closes her eyes and wonders how far she would have to lean over the balcony before the wind would push her onto the other side. across her back, he runs his hand and the only thing she knows about him is the pattern of the lines on his palm and fingers. she breathes in deep, turns away and towards him. "take me away" .
your place or mine?

claustrophobia

breathe
breathe
breathe

brown-paper-bag-world
just big
enough
for you
and the primal waves
of you
breathing
again

there's no one else

distant laughter
is that too much?
perfect
silence,
then
endless
light
effortless
dark
chocolate
warm
water
deep enough to hide in

a blindfold

no,
there's no one else
not even time
running a finger
across your shoulder
too close
to your ears?

farther away then
slip away, just
stop swimming
dont stay
for daybreak

around the horizon

effortless
dark

pointless

it is. believe me. it is like a merry-go-round ride..

sweet sixteen forever. you would have blushed again, and then owned your age with the quiet rush of your fingertips against my hair. the simple blessing you said i would always have, i want that once again. please.

i stayed long after you were gone, trying so hard to make sure i never forget. long silver hair. the self conscious smile that followed each time you told me i should stay a little longer because you didn't know when i'd visit you next. the lines of your palm, hands i couldn't find the courage to touch once more because this time they would be cold.

its fading away. one of these days i will walk into the spaces we shared and not look for you. i didn't stay long enough.

Arid

torn?
they're no longer red-
the rims of eyes
you wait patiently by

remember?
where
homeless journeys
Ended
along the course
of wasted veins
scarlet-split tile.

did it ever
cut deep
enough, sweetheart?

nevermind, you
can't drip back
into pain again

some April, soon
you will cease
with the khamsin

anonymous dust
falling
off someone's lashes
someone
with tears,
still

so, nevermind.

its easy to disappear people.

first, a human being becomes something to be disposed off as soon as possible, a reason for comfort food, something that occupied space, time and thought till just a while ago.

a life then becomes a lifetime - a collection of things, memories, spaces. a creature of the past.

so, youve left behind these crumbs of you, like links to a broken anklet. handprints made in red ink and intentionally on bedroom walls; in ketchup and unintentionally in that corner of the kitchen. the scent of your breath on someone's skin. the way you sat on the edge of the couch and smiled last time we met. the conversations. may be even the bitterness and disgust someone felt for you.

and then the signs go away. fresh paint, new books, more albums, different homes, new words and more people replace everything. the bitterness may linger a while, but it too will be gone soon enough. what then?