Hurt

The first time we fought, you and I,
I had promised you breakfast at Sharma's
And you'd promised to sing to me,
But I woke up at noon hungover and you 
Wouldn't grant me drunken immunity,
And I accused you of irrationality
But you accused me of betrayal,
And my crime was greater, indisputably,
And for half a day afterwards,
You held my heart in your hands
And squeezed it so I couldn't breathe,
And now that you've at last let go,
It hurts that never again will I
Hurt because you fought with me.

...

For a few white moments this afternoon
on a bench sweating rain

palms cupped around hot styrofoam
brown liquid burnt brown hair on tongue
steam joined hands with smoke
ash dissolved into asphalt

a vein thawed
an artery melted

and for a few light moments
I was whole
again.

Jasmines

Most plants last a week or two

on my once-barren windowsill,

until I neglect to water them --

(boredom / apathy, who can tell? 

or the fact that they aren't 

jasmines) -- but these

jasmines have survived months and I

have kept nigh light and rain

(on impulse / instinct, or from need? --

I don't know which).

Fifteen months, and finally

light is less wanton with its ministrations --

(less wanton / less generous, 

what's the difference?) -- 

on a fortunate day, a ray or two 

might leak down the sky's edges

into my jasmines' 

open palms,

slowly (surely) dying.

I'll air the curtains
and fluff the pillows tomorrow,
and, perhaps, allow

sweat (and blood?)
to unclog the pores
of my limbs and lungs
and wash away 

the perfumes of

faint, lingering jasmines.

Aftermath

It took years for my shell to grow.

A million skin cells bled, and dried,

then decayed to dust - like men at war -

and fossilized over millennia into

scales of tempered steel.

I must have defied countless sieges - 
that coat of mail and dermis had
endured wound and rust - but you,
you chipped, pried and plucked away
one loose scale at a time.

I've no more skin cells left to bleed.
The marauding's done. Move on to your
next plunder while I vainly scoop
my armor -- water in your wake --
together into ice.

Attar of rose

I knew not quite what I sought at
A winter bazaar in old Calcutta --
Terracotta, conch shell, a silken mat --
When I chanced upon the finest attar
Of rose in a crystal vial. A whiff
More giddying than opium milk; a sniff
And cities fell and crashed and burned.
Intoxicated, I returned
Infinitely to a joy olfactory,
Until at last the vial was spent!
I've plundered fen and glen; that scent
Eludes me in all but memory.
Had I perhaps been more restrained,
A vapor might have yet remained.

Stay.

Your form is clearer than water when

I close my eyes - dots, spots, crinkles, 

and all your smiles - despite the distance 

of a thousand miles, 

but the distance of a thousand years

will snatch every day one tiny detail - 

toe, smudge, fingerprint, white spot on a nail.

Had I been blind when I found you, 

and let my palms eternalize your pulse,

your breath, the warmth around you, the

contours of your kneecaps - 

these sensations and not those sights - 

you might have lingered endless eternities, and

I'd last a thousand fights.

Nights in March

On nights like this the roads and streets
Are wet with rain and taut with breeze,
But this - my king-sized bed -
Is bare and still and dry as husk,
Yearning for the warmth and musk
Of your breast instead.

Ablution

In Varanasi, where temples
outnumber the temple-goers,
we sought to sully
the waters of a tired river
that exhaled the stink
of past pilgrims
with the stale mud of our
infrequent sins,
amassed over thoughtless
years.

We believed the whores,
thieves, homosexuals,
who attested the chants
of widows and priests
and plunged ourselves
into a river whose waters,
balm and sulfur
for soul and skin,
we were careful not to
swallow.

Is it strange that I
perspired in the water -
dreading the ablution
would purge my conscience
and strip me of
the redolent muck
I'd thoughtlessly amassed
over infrequent moments
when I had truly
lived?

Snake

There was a time you were flesh
and I was skin -
If you were cold I trembled,
when you hurt, I bled,
and when you burnt, I scarred.

But now that you tire of me,
you cast me off -
Plucking me away with nails,
as if I were nothing more
than flake and crust.

I'd got old and wrinkled in the meantime.

The Least You Can Do Is Pretend

If I die today,
then tomorrow, will you miss me,
or will you waste hours minutes days,
laughing in hyphens,
weeping at trifles,
before you notice my absence
and realize it is time
to laugh, or weep, once again?

Not Goodbye Just Yet

Sleepy-eyed on lazy afternoons
I amble to your door even before
Other afternoon rituals are observed,
And pound and shout / kick and pout
Until you, disgruntled lazy bum
Let me in with a silly glare.

After I've got my daily hug
Back you sprawl upon your bed
Which complains with pitiful creaks / shrieks;
I go fishing / scavenging through your drawer
For matchsticks and six two-rupee coins.

Then I dart across our patch of grass
Dodging airborne spit-bombs, ants and snakes
And fetch from the other side of the wall
A smoke for you, a smoke for me;
Our happy puffs punctuated
With feeble rings and mindless chatter.

But soon some Sunday, slave of habit
I'll drag my feet to your warm black door
To find it locked with cold steel;
For you'll be gone with all your loose change
And I'll have to buy my own cigarettes
And in silence, smoke alone.

Get Out Of My Head

The slightest brush
of your skin
sent dots,
dashes,
and pinpricks of joy
down mine.

Now, all I can do
is wait
while the hurt of longing
slowly bleeds
through the pinpricks
you gave me,
still on my skin.

If You're Smelly And You Know It

'Tis painful when young college men
Do not shower for days on end.
When the underpants smell
They exclaim, 'What the hell,
Just turn 'em and wear 'em again!'

The whiff of unwashed loins, they say,
Is enough to drive the ladies away
Who make do with toys
For all the clean boys
Are either taken or incurably gay.

But take heart, there's news to be told,
Dear stinkers, you may stink uncontrolled
And rejoice in your dirt
As long as you flirt
With a lassie nose-jammed with a cold!

Loss

Like all fate-less whispers

that are lost to the thoughtlessness of self-obsession,

so did this pass unheard.

I have heard the silence growing,

bit by bit...

In words that remained unsaid because

they seemed unnecessary,

were deemed unnecessary.

In the pause before a hug

that wasn't asked for

but should have been given.

In the quiet comfort expected of a friend

who should have been there,

but wasn't.

I have heard the silence growing, bit by bit.

What was once the inconsequential quiver

of a gentle pluck

is now the screech of a shattered string,

and all music the drifting flotsam

in dying laughter, unspoken dreams,

and unsung memories.

The silence that was once one of expectation

is now one of punishment;

I heard it growing,

and presumed it to be acceptance of my flaws.

I presumed too much.

Moonshine

Moulted skin of a dying sun

that is salvaged and spun

into hoarfrost and raiment

by naked moons.

The same beauty that enchants, deceives,

for moonshine is unreal. A barren spectre

of the light of day, now

stripped of warmth.

Yet, the moon I will not deny

with all its hollowness, emptiness

and factitious inspirations of poetic affection,

for its moonshine is you...

You, I cannot deny, for I

still drink in the scent of hair,

smell nascent sweat on bathed skin,

caress undulating spine from nape to hollow

taste moisture of tongue.

And you swell, and throb,

and ebb, and retreat,

phantom lover. With form,

but without face or name.

You entice me with light but

bring me no warmth...

Moonshine!

The Misogynist

A suave gentleman had a yen

To cultivate a taste for men;

The ladies they cried

For much as they tried
He fudgepacked his own brethren.

Now That He's Gone

Edges of pictures
bruised with stains of oiled fingers
and dusty mem'ries.

Reflected in tears
waiting hidden in parched eyes,
wet with fetid hope.

Wind, be merciful,
lift them away, her window
she opens for thee...

Four Dirty Poems

Bored one night, when Zoo had this idea about writing limericks. So we juggled lines. My favourite parts are all his (sigh), but I'm gonna steal all the credit by posting them here first.
                 

                   (I)
I went down the road for a smoke,
Some Kaapi Nirvana and Coke.
I pulled out my gun
Coz (behold the fun)
My wallet was gone! I was broke!


                    (II)
(At this point, ladies - take your leave, lest you be offended by the appearance of impropriety. In my defence, Zoo is the perv. What to do.)


When a man and a woman have sex,

It pains so they need Iodex.

He rubs it on her,

She says, 'Dearest Sir,

Those two are my breasts, not my legs.'

                   (III)
Not to save water do dear Jack 'n Jill
Use condoms instead of the pill,
Instead, condoms omnipresent
Make Jack's rod un-crescent,
Jill needn't turn elsewhere for her fill.


                   (IV)
She took off her clothes one by one
After a long sweaty run in the sun,
To get rid of the stench
She rubbed 'gainst a bench.
Pigeon shit now laced her left bun.


<snicker>

Note

I think I repulse you. Didn't intend to, and sure as hell don't want to. But if I do, I'm not going to apologize. Live with it. And if you can't, then good riddance.
If it's any consolation, I will miss you. I promise.

.

Home Sweet Home

You can't see stars in the night sky of Calcutta.

It's not a happy sky. Doesn't give you a rush. Doesn't make you dizzy or hearty, as happy skies should. It's not an orgiastic sky either. Doesn't lech or sweat, and warms no loins. It's not an intelligent sky. Doesn't tighten nuts in rickety heads. Doesn't rattle you with chemical equations or black holes. It's not even a sad sky. Doesn't inspire ballads or bard-like visions. No silent nights with lanterns wobbling to the background music of cricket chirps.

It is a sky that is as bland and unremarkable as a Monday morning, because you can't see stars in the night sky of Calcutta. But sometimes, an adventurous star pokes its head through the smoky neon orange. Intruding in your insomnia. And then you realize that Calcutta is a poem.