Numbers

Numbers had me fumble

when she told me we were one,

and extended my existence

from a walk to a run.

After that never ever

was I less than two,

No day will pass softly,

I told her, without you.

In the jumbled numbers

I found her to be one with me,

one was two and two were one,

as I could see.

From zero I started counting

and had just reached three

when she ran away,

with my numbers to an infinity

Since then I find her

in every number thrown,

Two are broken, one is gone

and I am less than even alone.

The Shirt

The cloth that hangs,

on the door of my bedroom,

is an anachronism

that once was a fancy shirt;

that once was flaunted;

that once was unbuttoned

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Now has ended its glory, by

a wicked pun played by time

that has left the shirt in tatters,

infested with a nefarious fungus

that slowly reduces its existence

to a nothingness.

The cloth hangs on the door still,

untouched and neglected,

through the brightest of the afternoons,

and through the darkest of the nights,

longing for its lost glory,

longing for another pun

to be played upon it,

longing to be worn again,

and to be frisked and unbuttoned,

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.

The Diatribe

Time is nobody's bitch,

and often anybody's whore.

Caged and tormented like a medieval slave,

and smothered by a million woes,

I lived a week sulking alone.

With sullen eyes I went to work,

in silences elongated by a native pain,

in melodies converted into dirges,

I abused the fuck out of myself,

to nobody's bother.

I was a loner.

A loser. A bastard.

I was the last moment before the sunrise,

waiting for the last tear in my languid eyes.

I was suffocated like a Jew in Warsaw,

and split like two ends of hair,

dissolved in a time-bound misery,

that perhaps, time could only bear.

I hit the walls but whom to blame?

I banged the keyboard but whom to blame?

Blame it on the bastard of the night,

Blame it on my dullness.

Blame it all on her laconic eyes.

Blame it on my shameful self.

Blame it on the reciprocal mistakes,

and on the smiles we did not share,

and on the love that left me alone.

Blame it and just blame it,

and blame more!

This is a blame-game,

and melancholy galore.

No rose blossoms, in this rhyme

no star shines and no moonlight spread,

For this is a diatribe, my love,

and not a fucking serenade.

Just Another Poem

And the flame in the lamp fluttered.

Reflecting in the glass,

of pain and agony,

and a contrasting hope.

A red-lit arena of hollow youngness.

In it, I live many lives.

In it, I search for self.

My wanton ambition,

intercepts my reality,

of darkness and abnegation.

Now, I try to fly.

way, way up high.

I try to fly,

beyond boundaries

that I don't conform to.

A futile indulgence, or

a fierce hunt for nirvana?

What is it?

What is it?

HER

Stolid stones and mundane conversations

have enclosed a finality of time.

She has escaped. From my ego,

through two-faced streets, into

another layer of the universe.

I am split like a bisected earthworm,

into two insignificant selves,

at the wake of a private apocalypse.

I have tamed into normalcy,

like a man with combed hair,

I have no doors open, and

none closed either.

I have no doors at all to see through,

on this hopelessly dull night.

I am the primary agony of my room.

I am annoying like a spelling mistake.

I am a pun on modernity, and a

euphemism for abject pity.

She has faded. Into a distance,

far from my pitiable self, floating

on amicable waters.

I walk like an old man,

looking at stolid stones that

play Gods to weeping worshipers.

I weep too, don't I? I cry dry.

I am caught up,

between several stones and many Gods,

unable to detach myself from any.

Because I weep. Yes, I do cry.

My wired wishes,

have her kidnapped.

I have arcane dreams of her.

They are wild and vivid.

And they have her kidnapped.

But there is no ransom.

She has escaped.

There is no ransom.

She has faded.

There is no ransom.

There is no her.

And I am done. Fuck!

Am I?

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.