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...