ash laden reality

Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle

spiral traps me
I am stuck to the wall
you will paint me with damp ash
I will hide in the corners before bolts lock me in
the bird climbed down to be with me
bundles of straw stuck to her wings
what remains of that storm
which you conjured in your imagination
evidence of it shook out that tiny plane

"do bring some husk to cover the smooth floor,
I am not going to last in the corner for long"

poeming with songs

why do you need sleep-
is it to dream?

waking eyes see the inner soul

only an open mind can fathom the depth.

sleep takes us to a bottomless pit of no escape

at least for me, at least for me.......

do you expect halcyon days of youth
to ease handling life,
the onus solely lies with you
the songs you sing will keep you awake

oh, you need sleep
to pursue dreams
closed eyes are the soul of conscious
a rested mind can plunge into deep emotions
sleep is that escape we need
now and then, now and then

"let me escape into poems while you dream your songs"

sepia tints

where I end she begins 

is it what you think?
not in motley mind of yours

you can fathom her depth-

a predator you say;

I ask, of what?

she escaped you,

enclosed in your arms-

her cascading locks merged with yours.

time does fade to sepia shade

"blah, blah, blah,
the end, the beginning

can anyone define?"

wrapped in solitude

where is your gaze, I ask?

I thought you had fenced it

wrapping it around moments,

each one an entity in itself

on these pages I see vacuum-

a solitude, no one else seeks.

in the newspapers, words unwrap

fall apart on my lap

I collect each one

and arrange in the busy alone-ness

"in my dangling shoes,

why do I have that fenced feeling?"

footprints of venus

Venus and The Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali

I came down from the sky
to serenade with you
our dark glasses hiding us
the water is still
but we are splashing the ship
where did you send your crewmen
are they on a tryst like you?
I understand solitude,
the need of it
and why not-
it is a constant for me

"come my sailor, let me go now
sky waits to take me to mars
where my podgy thighs might thin out"

saunter

silent lilting tresses call out to the artist
for peering into her silhouette
if he could only see the color 
of her sensuous eyes
her exterior is so pleasing
her wholeness is a rich lyric

wild beauty is no alliteration
yet it resounds within him
every pore of his on fire

the artist in him
calls out to lilting the tresses silently
her silhouette is pouring into darkness
eyes so sensuous, color still a puzzle
light reflects her exterior
into a lyric of richness

"mind saunters, heart shimmers, body smoulders
yet the artist in him can only falter for a little while"

swirl it round and round

I swirled around your words
sometimes wisdom
many a times trivia
neither a lethal moment

my tears turned to laughter
or vice versa
so much emotions hinged
in the in-between silences 

morning turned to nights
nights into dawn
exchange of mind did not end
as it could not identify time

I know, it is not true when they say,
it's only words.
and words are all I have,
as you see me beyond that

we might not exchange a single word 
for weeks to come, 
yet the silence will make us
gravitate towards each other

"friendship is too mild a word for what we share,
the day I lose you, I will need to call it that"

blacker than the white

Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger

I turned into stone over that breakfast table
with pebbles within my stomach;
echo of those rubbing stone could be heard by all

you were shaken, no doubt, to silence
but it is a blessing for me
end of my suffering in which I had to listen to your ramblings

now I am a sculpture
a splendor in your drawing room
fiercely protected by scattered warriors of unknown origin

I can not be pushed into a remote corner
or thrown into a pasture where cows will stand near me
with grace, and look at me with reverence

"in a rugged marble, preserve me forever
and remember your follies"

tipsy fingers play footsie

hand on my hand
evidence of strength.
smooth sensuality changes gear
subtle shift of bare sensations
rest in the small of my back
light touches of the fingers
ignite the skin,
refresh volatile thoughts.
will it last
that bare white emotion
nine is only a number
gassed into bits
five is my destiny
when I enter your mind again
after eight hours
my hand, your fingers
banter with each other,
then coming into their element,
play the erotic dance
rawness of which amazes me still

"taming the toes was never a duty,
why then I curl my feet?"

mystic voyeur

Summer Night, 1913, by Albert Bloch

once upon a time
on a hot summer night
they were shivering
melting iced statues
cooled the air. 
their ardour did not cool
purple night enhanced it
staring at the tableau
I violated their space
a voyeur in that whorled ground
sky spangled with weird lights
no stars soothing the vastness
tree were akin to the limbs of an octopus, 
tentacles touching everywhere
aura of desire has a strong pull
I hug myself thinking of you

"heat is never far away, 
close your eyes, feel the fire, arctic fire"