Collisions

Why do we meet such people?

Like two similar fishes

Colliding in an upsurging wave

Being sported by an unknown hand

Out in the air      

Amused

Wriggled!

Vicious smiles-

Laughter - wonder-

Words slipping - stretching themselves

Slithering out of our mouths

Words rolled and sparkled

Ablazing the air around us.

All too much for us

To take in together.

And in the end

Only to dive backwards

To swim their own ways!

                  

I use to draw blood dripping bird wings

Broken glass pieces

And barren trees when I was small.

What did you draw when you were small?

Did you have myriad hues?

Vibrant and variegated?

Do you have silence?

Do you have sorrow?

Don’t play hide and seek

The moments you are in hiding

Would be the longest one to me

Don’t make me seek

Because

I am oblivion to

Faces hidden by intentions.

I know

You are out somewhere!

Wistful and waiting

Clenching fists-

Spitting thirst

For an abiding collision

For know not why!

The Tale of a “The Latter in the Either-Or”

“You wish to say something?”

“No nothing at all…”

Her planned words

The charm of her quiescence

What a blushing comfort on him!

And how artfully she crafted a latent heart

Conspiring with head before each exchange!

But                                               

Words rumbled within her

Throbbing and chiding-

Her hibernating longings.

And her incessant premonition

That the hushed fluttering of her veiled wings

Would reach his ears

Betraying her smiles and silences

Betraying her mask

Slowly welded and welded by

 -Umpteen silences-

Suspending her wings

In vein exertions of a sudden flight.

                 

Her flights- utterly instinctual-

It echo ‘commas’ and ‘questions marks’

Commas- question marks-

Abhorred by him

(‘Brackets’ vexed him more)

Instead

‘Full stops’ and ‘exclamations’ pleased him!

How earnestly she grasped all his likes-dislikes

And at times when her repression overflowed

Gave him the warm shock of her enigma.

Can’t ever entreat him to fly with her.

Out of question!

Only two choices left

Either

Fly single

Or

Walk double!

Wouldn’t dare to do the former

Being certain

Only of vacuum and desolation

When she folds back her wings.

Couldn’t afford for a neither nor too

That would be dreadful!

So she picked the latter in the “either- or”!

The “either –or” mocked her so often

That she had to defend her choice

Picked choices should never show off its distortions

Distortions should be concealed

By any self argumentation.

So she found a meek solution

For the rumbling moaning words within her

Throbbing and chiding

Her hibernating longings.

Words in print!

Words in print are mute

Fictionalize it!

Double mute to him

The commas, question marks, brackets

All hardly visible to him!

And fly in “the viewless wings of poesy”!

Prose rebuilt poetry:P

Impasto

It’s been in the habit

That any specification seldom drills her affections

That her style is rather fast perceptive in whole

It’s impressionistic- abstract -inexplicit

That the contours of his face-

The shifting shades of his eyes

The fabric of his skin- his hair- his nails

All sustain foggy in her memory.

Let alone the fervency in his smile

As he brushes his hands against her ankles

And his sweet conjectures racing before her pranks

Form the silhouette of her entire passion.

Yet he mourns over her ways so quaint

And yet she impishly laughs at

Because

 Every shell has its own whirl of air

 It’s always private

 Unrelenting

 And persistent.

Disarmed!

Can’t the mind see it?

Can’t it fantasize in seconds?

A sky in peach, apricots in blue

A boiling sea in a tranquil river?

They say it’s all created by the Grand Design

The trees         

The roots

The airy feathers

And the lump of flesh

From carnal delights!

And yet 

Why do the eyes cloud itselves

In sheaths of slimy delusions

In wraps of lies, wines, and glimmering city lights?

And yet 

Why don’t the hands bother -

To let go the lengthening shadows

And to fasten the distancing truths?

A drop of lust in love

Water in ink

And lie in truth

Makes it all sultry

Glossy

Likely!

-But-

Which fraudulence

Which artifice                  

Which impudence

Can make the worms less cankering

On a rotting corpse on a sequestered grave?

Not as Bewitching as HER Beauty in HIS Eyes

Seething pressure cooker and scintillating coffee fumes

She raises her hands to the cupboard in search of sugar

“Why you up so early?”

 His voice still embracing the late night’s sleep

Still sniffing to get a whiff of her scent.

“Take me to the park…”

“Longing for a walk?”

“Longing since our love was a child”

“Alone?”                                           

“No…with you!”

“Everything with me as usual!”

As he pulled her hard towards him

Her hands still wanted to search for -

Sugar and tea cups

Butter and butterflies

Romeo and Juliet!

She purposefully dodged the thought of park and the walk

And bit the surfacing reservations to his kisses  

For next to her conscience in the park and the prolonging walk

There was a Narcissus’s lake

Which reflects her beauty

Only to make her know that

It’s not worth jumping!

It’s not as bewitching as HER beauty in HIS eyes!

    

There Should Be Always Something a Bit Vague

She doesn't remember if this is for the first time or the second time or the third or a habitual one. This unanticipated oblivion to detachment from someone that she thought would be lacerating. The observation itself nauseates and kills the whole feeling that she treasured as boundless and infinite. The fact that the feelings are abstract intimidated her like never before. The abstractions have a kind of passiveness that pushes the mind to cloth the fragility of feelings in the camouflage of much awaited and needed pleasures. Fragility here is neither condemned nor frightened of. There is something about him that she finds as inescapably riveting as well as illusionary. There is something a bit vague. The sumptuousness in the expressions they exchanged is far elevating and addictive that they sensed a grotesque oddity and contrast of crudeness of the surroundings with the otherworldliness of their dreamy existence together.  

I wish to see your face in my own reflection when I turn towards a looking glass. The annihilation of the past that I desired all through my life is no longer wanted if my past holds your laughter and despair. It as if you sliced out a part of me and still I feel whole within where it is supposed to feel the incompleteness. You took out my rawness and showed its distortions in the tenderest way possible. And yet I complained of hurts. I would like to surrender a million times if you promise me that there will be grey in your love and thorns in your hugs. I prefer claws than petals and feathers. I prefer desolation and torment than the sweet contentment with which you would shroud me in. Because I cease to know you if the voyage is so serene and short. Let us be distant and vague so that the there will be other million contexts in which you would place me in and for me to get out and begin a combat. Let us not possess each other so that I will not cease inventing hues and shades to seize you in my canvas and give up my sobs. Because for me any feeling dies as soon as I touch and known it as tangible and less raving. Also I badly want to ravish the word context :P     

Something in Us I Dare Not Whisper II

It is so unlike the radiance of familiar affections

And much averted affectations.

So unlike the disguised bliss rushed in -from a cataract romance.

Its aroma fans out and kisses their souls-to-

Fuse- Coalesce- run- and battered together.

-Even from miles apart-

The flesh tastes indifference- lust defeated- as their minds defrost.

It’s so unlike her fiction- and so unlike his verity.

The emotion half travelled in a bridge where the two edges converge-

And the end seems eternal like its contradicting travellers.

After all-                    

Where the pebble does stands if it forgets to-

-Treasure – discern- and cherish

The very grain of sand that fosters it?

"He sends flies to wounds that he should heal!"

Past midnight. Aches hovering about the gut, piquantly palpable, squeezing the confessions out of nowhere. The scent of an ardour, love, as invisible as its meaning, smudges the air, dragging its reel all over the space I occupy, debouching unwelcomingly all over the room which got moulded itself by my habits, the room which laughed, flied, smiled, teased, idled, read, cried, pitied and raged along with me. Three sculpture men, part of a miniature trio, one with a flute, and the others with a drum and a sitar sitting hard and firm right above my view with its characteristics closed eyes and torpid faces. And how I longed for a parallel, for a numb heart, for torpid feelings and forgetful love. The mind refuses to be tranquil, and turns bluntly towards the wall, unyielding to my tears, to my half broken importunes.

Leaning on to my shelf, I tried to smell the pages, fondled the books, groped for a volume, to consume me, to snuff out this hissing tempest. The author fails to save me. Or I am opaque to the offer. Everything else look avid, passionless, faint and lethargic to that which stands out as impassioned and fierce within me. Appalling love. I see the world is blurring, slowly getting discoloured, the outline merges with the contents, the contents getting spilled out, turning into an awful amorphous vision. Gravity looses, sounds getting muted and time freezes. I wanted to take back all my wishes. Take back some moments that lead to our goodbyes and abstentions. People always want to betray themselves, to revel in the lies they carve out safely, to a play in the dirt for they know not why. I couldn't see anything less stale in this fragmented world, that’s as beautiful and grave as you, that is as beautiful and pithy as we together. As rapturous and wild as our sweet dualisms and contradictions. But we send ourselves “flies to wounds that we should heal”! May be because the healing will dilute and quench the passion that is drowning us now. Or maybe because we cringe together from sending flies to others’ wounds, that we may not eschew from inflicting if the passion grows and swoons. For reasons as decrepit as customs, as dry as logic, as relative as time and space. Or as simple and unambiguous like archaic submissions and conformities.

I stood stranded as the small puddle below the window mirrored my rippled face with a flinching nose. The night’s heavy downpour seemed eternal though it gave way to silence as I cried my eyes out.