Friday, 30 July 2010

Subconscious and life

The mesh of bodies
Sprawling on the Earth
Is oppressing.
I'm struggling for breath underneath
And the far-away winds
Are eluding me.

I walk along the shores
For hours,
But there's no end,
No destination in sight.
The sea is tired of seeing me -
It is driving me away with its crashing waves.

I am on the hills,
Climbing up and down,
Along the ceaseless paths of green and brown.
There's no horizon in view
And there's no other escape.
I'm tired of walking.
It is growing dark,
And the woods are turning hostile.

I am standing in the market,
Not a known face around,
No hi, no hello, no what's up.
I am looking for friends,
But their voices far away
Merely add to the tantalising dreams.

This is no dream to wake up from,
Not a life to live out,
Nor am I in a trance.
Where am I?

Being at the right place in the wrong time.
Meeting the right people at the wrong time.
Asking the right question at the wrong time to the right people.
Being wrong when I am supposed to be right.
My life is a play of words –
between rights and wrongs.

It is a happy tragedy,
A sad comedy,
Of ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
The works.

Thursday, 29 July 2010


I shed my skin again for the night,
And my soul goes into hibernation.
It stays away from the desires of my body,
And I sulk in their disagreement,
Like the mother who watched her children fight.

The soul says she seeks
Spiritual salvation, and would
Rather stay away from the
Impurity of the body's desires.

The body, she scoffs at the soul.
'Be the elite, you bitch, for
You can seek the spiritual and attain it.
Has your superior creed allowed
My brood to even dream of that?'

I sob.
The body goes on:
'I am the Earth,
The Soil, the Water,
The Light and the Dark,
And my end lies here.
The Power and the Intellect,
The Higher One's studentt,
Can seek eternity.
You want me to sacrifice my pleasures
For your purity?
Go, bitch, Earn your own salvation.'

I sob again.
But my soul's nowhere to be seen.
It is growing dark,
And my bed has another being in it.
My body seeks its own salvation
As my soul attains it in staying away.

Thursday, 22 July 2010

Horny by the hair

'I love the way they curl on your neck, darling,
The way they stream down to your hips,
Where you quiver when I plant a kiss.'

He is fascinated by my hair,
And runs his hand through playfully.

I let them flow down his chest
And his body reacts as if touched with a live wire.
His raw lust is aroused,
and he wants me to turn to him again.

I get up,
Tying my hair up in a bun.

'No, let them down.
Let me see them resting on your naked body,
Let me touch you through their mesh.'

I acquiesce.
He comes anear,
Draws me close to him,
And quivers again when my hair brush upon his bare skin.

'There's magic in your hair',
He whispers as we make love.

Panting, I draw back,
My hair behind me,
Laid like the fresh English lawn upon my neighbour's porch.

He says he loves me.
I smile,
tying my hair up again.

Poetry in the rains

Rains spout romance.

Nature flaunts its sexuality,
Shows off its fertile and well-preened hues
Inspiring all living creatures to follow suit.

It’s the mating season, and
Every layman becomes a poet,
And mouthing metaphors and similes
Borrowed from famous brains,
They go preening about,
Trying to attract their mates.

Lovers moan and whine about separation,
Thirst for some company,
And make love in cosy corners.

While little sprouts of green
Show their heads on the soil,
Dark clouds gather on the horizon
And warn you of impending downpour.

Some revel in the pleasance of the rains,
Some crib about its gloom.

Poets never stop crooning
Of the rains:
They rave and rant like verbose viragos
Of the little rain drops.
Some Wordsworthians write of the nature,
And some write of human nature.

And I too become one of them.