A Green Light District

When my mornings woke up
stretching my arms to the sun,
rubbing my eyes to darken
the shadows of a bright dawn
and when I curled up in a bed,
the scent of which I remembered
from the night before…
the same incense of cheap wax,
diffused into an air Of fresh flowers,
that were bought not long ago
from the corner of a street
which awoke with the farewell
that the sun bid, each night,
and slept at 4 in the morning,
when the residents fell, tired…
the streets in which eyes await
the shine of newly polished shoes
and, but for the airs of perfume
that the females draped on themselves,
would have been stale with sweat
and the smell of liquor…
night after night, post evenings
when those streets called upon me,
not seducing, not pleading,
but calling a friend to a friend,
I would go there,
intoxicated, tired after the day,
eyes requesting a few hours rest
and talking the night away,
in return for a few green bills,
and next morning, breathed a dawn
next to a prostitute’s half naked body,
I became aware of my need for love
and the fact that I was in the right place,
finding it.

Lasagna and Silence

A lady to be slept for
on a Sunday night
to wake up with,
the next occurrence
of the amber sun,
and a dream lost
to an orchestra of stars
playing their chords
to the depth of the night
which the mortals
burn their eyes for,
in its live concert.

A Lady,
of the bluest of hues
creeping into a monotony
that a seven words write
on the scroll
which starts in the ode
of the lady in question
and ends just before
the mention
of the reappearance
of the lady in my life.

A Lady,
an amicable muse
which invites my thoughts
to a castle
bricked by inspiration
and entices me into a maze
as I get lost and resurface
on the shore of art.
A Lady-
Monday morning.
Lasagna and Silence.

About Thrillers…

I thought I could read into her. You know, how romantic novels go, they meet, go to a restaurant, sometimes on dates, sometimes just to escape an evident quarrel and sometimes just to get out of home where the seductive bed attracts them into an act which eventually draws them out of breath. And I thought that her breathing synchronised with mine in a way that I could count my heart beats by the number of times she inhaled and then exhaled the ever-so-intense heat of her body.

But as certain novels go, each turn of her head, as she looked towards me, or into the distance, thoughtfully, she made me skip beats, in plural, yes, and each new word in the novel of her existence made me crave for the subsequent one, as if she was the cocaine of my heart. Why do people write thrillers?

Those Who Don’t Die

I cannot comprehend
the smiles on mortals
as they walk towards
their graves
neither the cries
that lament their hearts
while their strides
direct them
to their coffins.

I have always
been expressionless
when I find my way
towards mine.

Each night,
leaving my body behind
in the toils of the day,
pushing back
the tiredness
that the sun
forces me into,
I climb my bed
completely zeroed out
on my reactions.

It is an entrapping loop-
the birth
at the dying moon
and the death
when the stars
come to life
but a rarity are aware
of such a merry-go-round.

The majority,
ignorantly,
smile at the crests and troughs
of the comfortable seats
that they are placed in
by the conductor.

If you wish to seek those
who,
aware of the vicious cycle
of a mortal death
after a generation of life
are sensitive
to the daily deaths
that men are subjected to,
ask for those
who have attained
Nirvana
from the clutches
of such a routine.

If you wish to seek
Moksha,
seek them
who have the luck
of not sleeping
in their graves.
If you wish to seek
Moksha,
become an artist.

Chains of Love

Someone filled my plate
with a lot of love
and the sweat of her
sweet neck
as it turned,
to and fro, back, again
when she poured
a semi solid porridge.

I was sitting outside my hut,
looking through a river
to interpret the depths
where the stones below
had the chance
to be carved out
into smooth spheres
when I was handed the plate.

The plate was steel
much colder than the love
with which my food
for the evening
had been prepared
and it took away
the heat of my hands
as soon
as I balanced it on them.

As I took a handful
of the yellow appetizer
I saw a few stones,
perfectly globular,
come to the surface.

They had probably seen
and were hungry for
the love that had seeped
from the porridge
through my eyes
and was rolling
down my cheeks
as tears.

Six Steps

One.
Two steps.
The third affront.
The fourth one ahead.
The fifth about to come.
The sixth a few steps more.

Doesn’t a flight of stairs
amaze you by its continuity
and the fact that they’ll
end lessen your little desire?

You don’t know what to do
when you finish the climb
but walk straight ahead
and ignore them
that elevated
you!

Strange.

Six steps up.
Six steps down.

Six seconds
and the steps forgot.

Where Have You Been?

Hello mother.
Where had you hidden yourself
as I entered the vision
of a forest of sunrays
when the leaves
of a wet autumn
blanketed the sandy tread
that would have lead
if not for your disappearance
to she who had livened me up.

O mother.
It’s been an eternity
since I haven’t seen you
neither did I know of the
state which your mind
existed in, in the current
of a brook which you
with zeal, had yourself
meditating into,
whenever I had seen you.

Yes mother.
The bullets of the clouds
have now stopped
for the war of the season
is over and the laments
of the soldiers
perched up in the trees
have suddenly begun.
Is it for the war
that you had isolated yourself
from me?

Mother.
Do cooperate with me
and brief me with
where you had been
for the words question
the ink and the ink
questions my scrolls
and it all leads to my conscience
which made me ignore you
as I looked out of the window
when I filled sheets
and you were somewhere nearby
yet in another world.

A Thought on Thoughts- III

A lonely being stays in the voids of a cave
living in the opaque shadows that are made
by the hindrance of a soul-less stance
which darkens light by its interference
and thus, keeps hidden, socially forbidden
to do its own, nay anyone’s animate bidding,
making it devoid of being lively employed
in the realization of an emotion overjoyed
but it has not a belief of a ridden grief
that will ever deliberate it to be pensive.

The solitary cave dweller inhabiting a cellar,
free, without bounds or chains to tether,
of its own dire will, neither mobile nor still,
it just exists there, as pure as winter chill.
A thought resides in the hollows of a wide,
destitute tomb of a cavity but with pride.
It has no companion; literally no one
to bless it with the consorted sanction
but the thought idles, as a divine idol
marveling at being satisfactorily unbridled.

The thought shines bright without a light
being offered to it, as it protests for a sight
of a patient artist to humbly summon it
into the confines of his thoughtful midst
to work it up and aesthetically envelop
the inspiration into a magnificent trump
and encase it in a cast of values- vast,
for a generation, hence as well as past
to admirable revere in it’s, but sheer
majesty that it vehemently perseveres.

The isolated spirit cares not a single bit
for being carved into an art without merit
as it is highly aware of it’s elegant flair
even if a rendition about it is unjust, unfair;
neither it worries upon a critical debris
that leaves it charred post scornful bawdry.
It rests assured of an essence clear, pure
of an existence divine as that of a soul
and thus, is convinced that no taint
shall ever mark it with a disdainful sin.

The thought does know of a watchful beau,
stemming in the skin under an artistic fellow,
searching in the ether for an impulse, ardor
to fare it through a resort that he hides dear.
The artist is ignorant of a similar simulant
driving the fancies of the thought, sacrosanct.
They’ll both benefit out of the mutual spirit
existing to form a bond- amongst- illicit.
And the thought will await another such bait
to obtain a stimulus for an art it’ll then create.

A Thought on Thoughts- II

A thought lies naked, the growth upon it raked
a stimulus that conceived it, an inspiration sacred
finds a tomb for itself, for the depths it delved
have been corrupted and hammered giant into an elf.
The thought, covering upon a ridiculed bare form
awaits a transport, ashamed, alone on a platform
to be fared into another, where though not bothered
by a further soul it isn’t abruptly, yet politely summoned.
A thought, thus, lying nude, expects not an intrude
where it peacefully, from animates, alludes.

A thought, afraid of being inked, in but a blink
urges not to be pushed from a formless brink
to dive into the confines of being designed
aesthetically, and to form an art, albeit divine
for none except the artist on whom it rests
to be, with precision, driven up steepest of crests.
A thought, satisfied, humbly averting being tried
with pseudonymous norms it boldly avoids,
awaits not to be expressed, neither professed
for the sheer dread of hence being harassed.

A thought, the same thought, a mind it crossed,
the imaginations of an artist upon which it called
was innocent as they come, and at that an infant one,
and ignited the fancies for a masterpiece, yet undone,
to be fabricated, but of the likes that violated
the norms, the society had so naively, created
where it would exhibit, not though as of a gimmick-
the taboos, but in the sense of an appeasing spirit
which aroused it from a tot to a mature wrought
just to be raised to a reviving messiah of sorts.

A thought, little did know, that when it grows
it’d be subject to criticism, the world will bestow,
inexorably merciless, and that it’d further press
till the last pore of the body hadn’t been suppressed
against its procession through the mass’ attention
towards an instrument, deemed to be, of perversion
for it would ignite minds to come out of the blinds
and, firing a mutiny, unchain the restricting binds
of being muled as perfectly oiled, geared tools
to muse against being liberated, as insolent fools.

A thought, that of restrictions, moral prohibitions
the society that deemed it as of lawful proscriptions
laughed at it being put under a legal, social scanner
and to be judged by senses not of artists but others
and humored it being classified, apparently bona fide
under the statutes a true value of which they denied
was blessed, vice versa, with an artist it deserved
and got fabricated, covertly, into an art hardly perverse
but it cared not when it’ll transcend, to find acceptance
by the minds which dwell in the shadows of ignorance.

A Thought on Thoughts

Let, when you speak, the soil you till wreak
the roots in them sing lore of thoughts ableak.
The sounds are loud, yet adorning a shroud
wade through silence, whispering your laud.
There’s much to say, in tones of a muffled way
to clasp the fancies of a heart utterly dismayed.
Thus, hear me out for I imitate not the touts
and oblige you with secrecy, words of a shout.
I shall speak for your good, subtle as I could
lest, charging through thoughts, you brood.

Thoughts travel in strides and sounds, their guides
direct the tourists through, by their sides,
and finding terminus, the thoughts lay anchors
and with revelations and surprises, oblige us.
They have long oars, with which to course
through the ignorant and blind curtained doors
and they cut sharp as does a seasoned ark
in waters mucky with arrogance, dark.
Welcome them, you all, the thoughts that call
upon you, to offer them services- to your pall.

Welcome them as they are, of smiles or of scars,
of those that oscillate the songs of the heart.
For grins would be cheerful, a resort for a pull
towards the deep confines of a shining soul;
the injuries, a lesson one may, from which, learn
and then, futures hence, recollect in compassion;
and the rest, well one may find, being inclined
inspirations, stimuli, inducements, and the kind
from emotions portrayed in the thoughts- his way,
thus, let the musings be received, come as they may.

A prerequisite, I may advice- be humble and wise
for humility is an open window, arrogance a vice.
When spread arms and neck, bowed in warmth,
obliges thoughts, expect them to return the charm
but if raised brows meet them at shut doors,
where visitors may turn their backs, abhorred,
do not, for once, expect the ideas, to your behest,
be seduced into showering you their respects.
Blessings, let them be treated as, not crass,
and revel in the delights of fruits amassed.

And then, rest assured, thoughts shall be lured
to visit you, journey with you, solid, not contoured
and escort you through landscapes your mind shapes
with eyes-shut, lips-curved, heart- splendor draped.
Behold yourselves, masters of your own universe
and create, breaking out of the restraining curses
ideals which exist presently not but are requisite
for your own existence and let you physically persist.
Inspire, ignite, motivate, and above all, simulate
through words skillfully stringed, a world, consummate.