26 streams
1
half a word spoken in three scrambled sentences.
completed in white space each syllable striving for completion, vocalisation.
i cant let go of my mind, my pride, my love, for the other.
its mine
my mine-
diamonds shining in the mouth of my lover-
jagged teeth-
the ache of a lust destined for unfulfilment-
when the awkwardness of my shadow falls crooked on your face, i feel complete.
each part now can intermingle in a contentment.
ants on my fingers now racing across the folds on my skin-
creases.
i am now an old man-
morning whiteness runs rivers along the joints between fingernail and skin.
responsibilities and completion.
duty and love.
who am i?
the pretender- the lover- the two faced killer-
mirrors hold the same object in exact opposites.
so am i seen. one in a mirror, the other in a window.
who sees which one is debatable, dependable, indefensible-
words fall easily from my mouth or my fingertips-
they lie, they speak the truth-
they only show my audience (including me)
me half naked in the half light.
i cant say more of this battle for power over me-
my sexuality my disease.
i infest i am infested.
cholera is actually me
i fascinate, i terrorize but above all i disgust.
if i was a philanthropist, if i was not so selfish i would place myself in a corner removed from all innocence that believes me so easily.
i am a player of cards sometimes so prolific that i cant keep up with my first, last or next move.
shall i marry for love,
shall i marry for money,
shall i marry for convenience,
shall i marry- at all?
does my vision lack perception?
2
can madness begin where this terror ends?
a promise to myself to become the end.
we can only shriek in an unending void- oh my god, the "end" is here again.
i am dreaming of death again. the fascination of a death as the end.
the end for my state of mind.
suicide is deceit. suicide is punishment. suicide is love- or is love suicide?
the reeling thoughts that spin uncontrolled through my mind bringing with it the constant suspicion that it has all been said before by those more precise, more turbulently honest than me.
am i a sinner for attempting to articulate an enigma-
for experimenting with my pen- my penis.
the other words are found again in morning whiteness, this time in the crows feet around my eyes.
precisely drawn observations deceive for they leave out the unseen pretending that they are the unsaid or the unfelt.
my experiments with truth i call them. like gandhi’s.
they say kasturba suffered for his virtues,
who suffers for my sins?
should i make you part of this reassessment?
where will it lead to?
where will it leave me?
where will it leave you?
do you/should i allow me to use you as a sounding board, sex object, imaginary /real lover?
do i now experiment too late?
whom do i hold responsible for me and the future that i now desire to (re)construct?
3
' i am 'becoming' constantly
consciously
confidently
i shall become you one day in the future perpetually.
there is no beginning here no end here. there is only texture
every new day brings with it unending matrices superimposed on the earlier connecting me to infinity outwards and the universe inwards.
i am at once black hole and supernova
generator
destroyer
both
the words are difficult
a beginning always implies a start
there wasn’t one
it implies an end. i don’t see one
the smell of your armpits and you in my arms in my imagination
2 o’clock alarm bells
we love in silences spoken half heartedly
4
down where the drunkards roll and my footsteps sound hollow..
bloodstreams on manhole lids staring at me
lust for the last bystander of the revelry
a reverie of soft focus boys in twilight entwined.
rose coloured plastic tumblers or that view from your window of monkeys-
replacements of longing.
a twang of jealousy.
the music rises on your couch. two threads still hang uneven.
lover lovely child whispered in automated robotic moans speak of passions tender. still your lips find those diamonds and your tongue follows my breath into the white walls and andy warhol's vaginas.
mouth we speak
mouth sorry
say no more or soap mo more. the rest is easy.
'time is a waste of money'- wild wilde child.
can the smell of toothpaste be tasted or seen?
such a picture of loveliness,
of loneliness.
i noticed the resemblance between them years ago.
punished for a phone call ring.
suspicion of a password in a breath.
over the stones on the water with another's ghost haunting the room,
volumes created by you in your afterlife inhabited uninhabited-
when did the streets become the walls and now the ceiling?
hands in my pockets slouched against ephemera.
the horses that tremble in terror.
hidden from view do they snort?
there are no faces in this frame.
the mirror lies.
lower my lover lies in some corner
down where the drunkards roll
5
if knowledge is power,
don’t teach
6
my heart has burnt away leaving hot air in its place. it burns away my lungs and rises against my ribs. a breath of fire against my skin. i rise with the ashes that fill the air- the breath of death from my mouth. a black dust that settles on all around. a trail of soot- a dismayed wind.
i wake in the morning sometimes with biplanes in my dreams. me sitting on the wing engine- swooping over the gateway of india with you by my side. tricks in the sky and i sit unscathed, unscarred.
do i run my fingers down the lines that you traced combing your hair?
i don’t know about you but i find this attraction painful. the force it takes away from my body to stay away tires me out until my every sense is focussed on only that- how do i not accidentally touch you, watch you, breathe you, smell you and all the while yearning to do all that part of me says to stay away from.
my knees scarred, my eyes look up at the sky. what is that light?
there are no units where this began and no clues where it will end. was there an end? will there be a beginning?
all time lies reversed in this spiral. it starts in a multiplicity and ends in magnitude, in densities and sparseness that fill me up until i don’t exist in a boundary -the edge has dissolved. expanding forever.
there are only lines of force here moving in multiple directions, sometimes turning in diversity. this direction and then that- a mass of power chords in constant tension. i lie shattered and torn in their flux.
'flat multiplicities in n dimensions'
a line of flight is formed when segments form a force that breaks into a sudden thrust towards one. you and me on a biplane wing engine gulping the air like water.
i lie in a shadow space alone. light’s trauma. a slip of the sun. we can now sigh in a stupor, a love of sadness in the land of me. me.
i am the right hand of my future,
a stop gap measure,
an architect of paper towers,
ghost dreams,
a fly around a naked bulb,
a bra strap exposed,
a vagina incubating a flaccid penis,
a chiffon sari draped and drooping,
a shelter of thorns,
a rusted leaf on a mango tree.
7
i sit here in the morning and watch you sleep. morning whiteness and tears intermingle
there are things that i now know about your body that you probably will never know.
the way your chest heaves with every breath you take, the poses you strike when you sleep. the curve of your neck against the pillow.
that’s my pillow,
i laid my head on it last night
i live on these proxy connections-
the place where you once sat-
the streets you once walked on.
the other day i was in the place where you lived and i swear i saw you 9 years old pushing a broken bicycle with your knees bruised.
i wanted to know you then.
i want to know you in every single gesture that you have struck with your body-
the way you fold your hands when you sleep,
the arc of your back,
the distant snore.
i watch you sleep and gulp in the sorrow.
i want to touch you – i do-
a fingertip on lip on eyebrow on arm.
the gestures have no meaning to those asleep.
they don’t even satisfy me. this is a true rape.
to take advantage of a lover in the defencelessness of sleep
i am afraid
8
there are more reasons than this for the way that i cry on your shoulder- i speak to you with love- i dance on fire- i lick these flames- can i be unhappy again?
these bodies in twilight. the walk into a void. the vastu the rasa..
these sanskrit words that fall into this pond-
lotuses in water-
the edge of a sword.
these are the end products of our kisses.
the sex. the floating roof.
we cant even begin to smile- we shy away from looking into each others faces-
an old flame that rose into a dust track.
armadillos. tortillas-
these words than mean drawings and photographs for me- like the eiffel tower.
does a word articulate itself in an intake of breath or in the eyelash on my hand-
blow and wish.
with your serenity.
have i spoken too much.
have i spoken too loud.
have you taken your love elsewhere?
i speak to you about yourself and we rise along with the dust. it forms layers around our stomachs.
(what we get is what we give out.)
breathe easily my friend-
the stagnant pungent smell of drying ejaculations.
the stiffness of my shorts.
stay on course. stray off course
pin me down- pin me up
a last breath- swallow me- swallow me
i shall stay inside and play games i don’t know.
i don’t know who’ll win
9
in the place where people meet and depart with every breath that i take i sit and take stock of the day that defined the month that defined the year and that defined what i now see as my life.
these definitions only exist in my version of time and (perhaps) only there. what i would not give to know otherwise.
morning breath on nipple tip. moth flickers butterfly wing. my arm encloses a cool waist. palm cups a breast. a tongue ignites a fire in my mouth across my eyes. i close them at last. you are too close for me to distract my other step sister senses with delights visual.
some games are played by one lover while the other falls prey.
truth is the greatest aphrodisiac.
i lie in your arms. i surrender. i lie at your feet. i am taken over.
my fingers tease me into submission to your skin. these corporeal delights. the taste of salty sweat. move me like waves lashing the shore. teasing.
this means so much to me. this might mean all. a heady drug. a last breath. a dying mans confession, "i love you". too little was said and now too much. we turn in unison. my chest against your back, my nose in your hair. "possession and surrender". surrender and possession.
i slip with oilskin inside you and you slip inside me. i have said that once before. "surrender and possession". possession and surrender.
the body is a vehicle for understanding. it shapes our minds with what it allows us access to. there are mindscapes and cityscapes we create by superimposing our flesh against their stones
their intangibilities.
the mind is not the brain.
it was enough. it is enough. i am smiling.
you were right all the while.
you were older than me.
10
say something with my eyes
say something with my touch
i trust myself only to say things with gestures rather than words
can this be the beginning of a reversal of object and their use relationships?
do we
taste with our skin
watch with our ears
smell with our tongues
touch with our noses
listen with our eyes?
silence
the commotion rises and you sit like a waiting whisper
11
but if all that i tell myself is true
why does my heart feel so bad?
12
shall i know you again? or will this off centre silence be the end?
shall we stand in the same room looking out different windows?
sunlight on wingtips
that biplane again- but this time over kanheri caves
i love the taste of coffee on your lips
the laughter from that room of skyscrapers down to the motorcycles waiting below
you were the only one sensitive enough to care- to bring us our drinks(?)
the haze of alcohol and the euphoria of pain
a dangerous liaison
should i read my love letters aloud from a tree top- monkey that i am.
surrender to my instincts…
to speak of love is to make love.
i have been thinking recently not to love too much- resolution no 1
to love only those who love you more- resolution no 2
‘protection’
she says
‘afraid to fall’
she says
‘been fucking around?’
yeah- but not in the way she assumes- still that is her prerogative- to choose to see what she wants to.
i don’t understand this transparency through cards and symbols
the joker, the witch
we are them all
how do we read patterns in the gravel between train tracks or the way marbles roll down a hill.
within a curve there lie many divergent segments- a line of thrust- did someone say?
black chiffon across my eyes
the sunlight streams like night
risk all and lose all
youth and its possible futures
flirtation is only right
fickleness is to be expected
young people must be faithless for they use you to grow older and wiser. isn’t that the way we “progress”
they’ll spit out the seed when they have sucked the pulp and reach for the next fruit.
don’t blame them for their infidelities- you were them once.
constancy is the defining characteristic of the old- for they fear the unknown as a threat
the only thing awful about growing old is being still young
permit me these sermons for i hold on to my youth through loving the young.
that is my greatest weakness
the part i fear losing and reach out to possess is the part that creates the greatest rift- fault line.
almost broken.
can love ever be equal?
can love be measured?
is this a barter system?
an economic theory of affection
“returns”
we live in times of constant accumulation
add add add add
a consistent agglomeration of things and emotions that rise in piles around me
vultures and seagulls
imprisonment and freedom
the images are interchangeable
choose your bird
13
through a frame policemen stand and keep watch over the sari clad women
i think about lust
i pursue pain
the songs of the night waiting for us in the wings- the cheap seats of this sky- my mind is elsewhere-
with sheer fabric on skin and light on the other side tracing a contour in the morning.
on a hand on a shoulder tapping a tune-
on a silence that speaks so much louder than a howl
she was my day my night my body my soul
he was me in time space and mind
i quote poetry from movies and say to myself-
thief.
i fall into my seat, my hand falls on your lap and my eyes stare at the horizon of vertical slabs in the summer’s early evening haze
the same haze of euphoria
the hand raised in a gesture of victory over the lights of flyovers
phone calls from the feet of apartment buildings with play slides within their compounds
the darkness of tube lights like empty tumblers
the material and the space interchanged
success is a failure and failure is no success at all
thief again
she was wearing white and her hair tied tight behind her slouched against the polished granite and sprawled over the floor
reflections in the faux michelangelos from new york and mumbai
children in search of stars
i just saw one in yellow light that glowed by my side.
to stretch and bask in the sunlight radiance
in air conditioned rooms the warmth
the tea that we drank in glass tumblers-
everyone says hello
everyone says i love you
buster keaton and woody allen
reveal yourself said you
i’ll find you said another
i smile in jubilation knowing that this is the high before i fall vertically down slabs on the horizon
11 stories high
corner windows and candlelight
an unwanted presence- a closed door
these are the images of the last few days- the new days of a new resolution
no more kisses on the lips from now on and soon all we’ll have to do is wave- or not
can we create an intimacy without sex?
the urge to hold on to each other like spidermen on a brick wall
superheroes
super villains
tarot card images
us all
remove yourself
laugh at yourself
easier said than done
i raise myself on one elbow and my eyes glint with an evil leer
i toe this line and it drifts further and further away
step into my palace of dreams my lovers
this song is dedicated to unrequited love
to the hollowness of bottles and the undersides of carpets under which we sweep our sins
our virtues
we draw the lines far too easily
we set ourselves up for a let down
‘don’t give up
you got yourself time
and you got yourself a mind’
a moral dilemma and a cognitive one
recognize
deform
reform
14
i know i have to write you into history books- but you’ll forgive me if i can only manage to do it an alphabet at a time?
15
we wait at the tables for someone to join our parties
hand over hand we stand in the background
we stare across the table at the neckties of uniforms
and white shirts that sink into shadows
curtains that shed their lint behind us tickle us behind our ears
we feel the soft stare of passion in their folds
the eroticism of the city
jogeshwari station at night is yellow
not the yellow of sunlight or of what do you call them- wordsworth’s daffodils (though i’ve never seen them)
but the yellow of burning tungsten in yellow urine
piss that falls against its walls every morning
or the gold from the hands of watches glinting off hairy wrists
16
and at night the horizon shrinks to rectangular frames hanging in mid-space
they pass in a flurry and tempt our gaze
we step through them into different worlds
a green room through a wrought iron grill
a framed photograph of ganpati on the wall
the glossy poster of some muscle clad hunk (i cant see his face)
you duck under undershirts strung out in silhouette
the tube light crashes against your eyes
through half a doorway another one leading away
the frosted glass in between the bars of a prison
the balcony and a man leaning smoking joking
a naked bulb hanging on mud walls and asbestos or outside a half open shutter of a window
exhaust fans, nylon curtains, mosquito nets
there’s a flower pot in one window
some frames lead to stairs stacked leading to the sky
a limb
a wisp of hair
a yawn
two squares with glass
break it open with a stone
a crack
a glow of a television set
a frame to light lies
a frame to everywhere and nowhere in one night
17
the last friday in the 8:17 when i did not see the card players with the briefcases bridging the aisle i wondered
which one of them died yesterday?
paper bags tear
plastic bags hurt
they make great nooses
the distance between raindrops
18
where is my old flame
under the same photograph in every corner doorway
the pepsi signs
the way work bound women stare at the floor while walking
tomorrow
19
i began writing you love letters on the back of my palm leading all the way up my arm across my chest and stomach over my thighs and feet until the words spilled across my bed over the floor.
they crawled over the walls and then the ceiling
there is no stopping them now-
there they are now out on the street
sentences follow sentences writing themselves out in an unending stream
they go where they have to go- they have a life of their own
i merely watch them now
an observer
a detached recorder of facts
the words are no longer mine
they belong to the world
they are the world as i perceive (perhaps)
they describe and inhabit at the same time- both the outside and the inside
the word is the object
the subject the omnipresent eye (i)
i am the word
these linguistic tricks
semantics
theories of meaning
psychoanalysis and perversion
guilt
on the way to pune the expressway was a hum of wheels and a cut out in the vinyl over a rear window framing a landscape of dunes and coral
my head leaned back against the seat.
i had just called your name
i watched the road disappear with the frames of flyovers in a liquid evening light
sun setting and set
the waiting silence for us to sing love songs into
stones that skip over water
sinking with a gulp
a veil lifted to reveal another
if we follow this water it will lead us to the ocean
will you walk with me?
20
if i refuse to acknowledge your goodbyes
will it be possible that you will never leave?
21
this is my face
you said it was beautiful
i agree
it is a mirror today
22
dotted lines are virtual boundaries
or lines below me
or lines above us
or lines that exist only in spurts and stops
it is strange how drawings- the language that they use, describe our inner lives
are they more descriptive than words for our turmoil?
then, lets diagram this..
you besides me speaking of her
me besides you talking of me
the same conversation with different players
parallel universe
perpendicular lines
intersections and obtuse angles
she is a presence
you are my presence
and this absence
here is our life
hold on to my head
i shall not be free
until this obsession is dead
until this obsession is death
and in this silence of leaves and stone
there are variations in my head screaming in the rubble of my fortifications
in your minefield of affections
this emotional wreckage
a breakdown of parts
premature ejaculation
erectile dysfunction
mutual masturbation
i whisper sermons in a lion’s ear
i pretend saintliness to gain devotion from my god
a world of upside down pretences
the gold chain glitters around my neck
i hang strung by cables from a sheer cliff
upside down
up side
down side
‘you’re walking in a minefield’, said kip
i know
i am resisting the urge to dance
the fever rises again
i try to let it out through this pen of mine
the words are jittery broken
my thumb aches
i don’t articulate each alphabet
if dotted lines are virtual boundaries
i decided to cross each one
now they lie above and beyond me
her name and our history in the making
a conversation about the weather
with hidden meanings all over the city
every alley every compound every parked car
we should be lovers
i can be your child, i said
i meant it
this affliction
this conversation was not words
but tone of voice and kajal in the eyes
the softness of her touch
i am glad
this is my face
it is a mirror today
it changes daily, you know
sometimes a mask
sometimes a void
sometimes a question mark
and sometimes a note
a love letter
‘i waited for you too’
23
there are gulmohurs in bloom all over the city
flames thrown seen through your window
from the place where you once wrote me from
raintrees are seen through another
and a coconut palm through mine
in the hour of the aftermath
the swirling hangover
late summer is a time for clear blue skies and drifting clouds
hands itching for cigarettes at windy swamps
we hold each other in an embrace of conversation
a late night fight
a sentence
a dance
“you were fantastic”
did i cause you to cringe for me?
can i erase my memory?
can we start all over again?
can we trace back our steps in slow backward movements
cry baby
cry baby
you cry too
i search for a place now where there is no longer this whirlwind of voices
yours or mine
in my head
in my time
a space between words
the bar on a window
the rhythm of light on my hands as they swing on my walk down the colonnade
dust caught in its web
this is a beautiful feeling
you in my arms
alternately child and parent
we sleep in movie theatres
the gulmohur bleeds outside
a copper pod blooms in gold scattering petals like rain
here it comes again
here it comes
like rain
the rain
who is that whispering conversations in the other room?
the gurgle of stories not for me to hear
the wall crumbles
what’s the story today?
i peer
24
the poetic the mythical
we sleep in the summer solstice and dream of cauliflowers
and raindrops on dead dogs
we cry at weddings
and laugh at funerals
the hum of a distant chant lies just beneath my skin
i feel it shudder in spasmodic gasps
you called
is this my calling?
the pigeons nesting in the columns
are the memories of disaster
this peace of pieces that have finally found their rightful state of disorder
a bird reflected on his helmet
jubilant cries to the sky
i stand on the seat and laugh out loud
“yes yes
yes, i am still here
very much here
corrupt corroded
but still here
very much here….”
in this heartbreaker of a day
the trail of tears that runs along with the wind to my ears
laughter
soft smiles about the coconut palm
the mythical
the poetic
the truth
25
i stand in the rain watching you walk away
crying mock tears that run down my spine
dripping wet
the feeling of not being wanted
or even being acknowledged
this desperate urge to be part of that group huddled under one umbrella
walking away
arm in arm
a place that i long to belong
explanations
excuses
-
it might not even be love
it might be power
its laughter on a cell phone
the haze of a movie
i seek out those i cannot have
i need to be told to believe i am worthy
daily
weekly
every minute of every day
i seek and because i seek i don’t find
shy of my desperations
sanction of worth
this pardon runs
walks away from me in the rain huddled under one umbrella
the warmth of a shoulder underneath my palm
“i need a drag”
mock tears turn to real
these are the faces i make when i cry
ugly deformed
my lips turn to twisting caterpillars
my teeth to stone
my eyes squint and turn red
tears well up and fall
now that i have released you from my spell
where will i be
my one true love
my saviour
without this feeling i might be lost again
i had found you right in time
a summary of this story is told in fragments
lying somewhere in these sentences
i just don’t know which those sentences are that simplify clarify and satisfy me
and this
when i punched you on the shoulder it is a sign of affection
vladivostok or tokyo
places where i’d rather be
places where it no longer matters where i stand
naked in the rain
dripping wet
dripping rain
dripping ink
dripping blood
for seven months this passion
this anger
these confessions lead to wet trousers and a twisting earring of a bird in my ear
mock tears in my eyes
again and again
regard them with care
they may be real
i wish i knew
i am alone again
you walk away from me as i stand stationary in my tracks
watching you leave
mock tears
tears in my eyes
26
i said ‘i love you’ in bold type in small print in headings in split columns in between the lines of in captions in the margins of the pages in the main text of every love letter i ever wrote
half a word spoken in three scrambled sentences.
completed in white space each syllable striving for completion, vocalisation.
i cant let go of my mind, my pride, my love, for the other.
its mine
my mine-
diamonds shining in the mouth of my lover-
jagged teeth-
the ache of a lust destined for unfulfilment-
when the awkwardness of my shadow falls crooked on your face, i feel complete.
each part now can intermingle in a contentment.
ants on my fingers now racing across the folds on my skin-
creases.
i am now an old man-
morning whiteness runs rivers along the joints between fingernail and skin.
responsibilities and completion.
duty and love.
who am i?
the pretender- the lover- the two faced killer-
mirrors hold the same object in exact opposites.
so am i seen. one in a mirror, the other in a window.
who sees which one is debatable, dependable, indefensible-
words fall easily from my mouth or my fingertips-
they lie, they speak the truth-
they only show my audience (including me)
me half naked in the half light.
i cant say more of this battle for power over me-
my sexuality my disease.
i infest i am infested.
cholera is actually me
i fascinate, i terrorize but above all i disgust.
if i was a philanthropist, if i was not so selfish i would place myself in a corner removed from all innocence that believes me so easily.
i am a player of cards sometimes so prolific that i cant keep up with my first, last or next move.
shall i marry for love,
shall i marry for money,
shall i marry for convenience,
shall i marry- at all?
does my vision lack perception?
2
can madness begin where this terror ends?
a promise to myself to become the end.
we can only shriek in an unending void- oh my god, the "end" is here again.
i am dreaming of death again. the fascination of a death as the end.
the end for my state of mind.
suicide is deceit. suicide is punishment. suicide is love- or is love suicide?
the reeling thoughts that spin uncontrolled through my mind bringing with it the constant suspicion that it has all been said before by those more precise, more turbulently honest than me.
am i a sinner for attempting to articulate an enigma-
for experimenting with my pen- my penis.
the other words are found again in morning whiteness, this time in the crows feet around my eyes.
precisely drawn observations deceive for they leave out the unseen pretending that they are the unsaid or the unfelt.
my experiments with truth i call them. like gandhi’s.
they say kasturba suffered for his virtues,
who suffers for my sins?
should i make you part of this reassessment?
where will it lead to?
where will it leave me?
where will it leave you?
do you/should i allow me to use you as a sounding board, sex object, imaginary /real lover?
do i now experiment too late?
whom do i hold responsible for me and the future that i now desire to (re)construct?
3
' i am 'becoming' constantly
consciously
confidently
i shall become you one day in the future perpetually.
there is no beginning here no end here. there is only texture
every new day brings with it unending matrices superimposed on the earlier connecting me to infinity outwards and the universe inwards.
i am at once black hole and supernova
generator
destroyer
both
the words are difficult
a beginning always implies a start
there wasn’t one
it implies an end. i don’t see one
the smell of your armpits and you in my arms in my imagination
2 o’clock alarm bells
we love in silences spoken half heartedly
4
down where the drunkards roll and my footsteps sound hollow..
bloodstreams on manhole lids staring at me
lust for the last bystander of the revelry
a reverie of soft focus boys in twilight entwined.
rose coloured plastic tumblers or that view from your window of monkeys-
replacements of longing.
a twang of jealousy.
the music rises on your couch. two threads still hang uneven.
lover lovely child whispered in automated robotic moans speak of passions tender. still your lips find those diamonds and your tongue follows my breath into the white walls and andy warhol's vaginas.
mouth we speak
mouth sorry
say no more or soap mo more. the rest is easy.
'time is a waste of money'- wild wilde child.
can the smell of toothpaste be tasted or seen?
such a picture of loveliness,
of loneliness.
i noticed the resemblance between them years ago.
punished for a phone call ring.
suspicion of a password in a breath.
over the stones on the water with another's ghost haunting the room,
volumes created by you in your afterlife inhabited uninhabited-
when did the streets become the walls and now the ceiling?
hands in my pockets slouched against ephemera.
the horses that tremble in terror.
hidden from view do they snort?
there are no faces in this frame.
the mirror lies.
lower my lover lies in some corner
down where the drunkards roll
5
if knowledge is power,
don’t teach
6
my heart has burnt away leaving hot air in its place. it burns away my lungs and rises against my ribs. a breath of fire against my skin. i rise with the ashes that fill the air- the breath of death from my mouth. a black dust that settles on all around. a trail of soot- a dismayed wind.
i wake in the morning sometimes with biplanes in my dreams. me sitting on the wing engine- swooping over the gateway of india with you by my side. tricks in the sky and i sit unscathed, unscarred.
do i run my fingers down the lines that you traced combing your hair?
i don’t know about you but i find this attraction painful. the force it takes away from my body to stay away tires me out until my every sense is focussed on only that- how do i not accidentally touch you, watch you, breathe you, smell you and all the while yearning to do all that part of me says to stay away from.
my knees scarred, my eyes look up at the sky. what is that light?
there are no units where this began and no clues where it will end. was there an end? will there be a beginning?
all time lies reversed in this spiral. it starts in a multiplicity and ends in magnitude, in densities and sparseness that fill me up until i don’t exist in a boundary -the edge has dissolved. expanding forever.
there are only lines of force here moving in multiple directions, sometimes turning in diversity. this direction and then that- a mass of power chords in constant tension. i lie shattered and torn in their flux.
'flat multiplicities in n dimensions'
a line of flight is formed when segments form a force that breaks into a sudden thrust towards one. you and me on a biplane wing engine gulping the air like water.
i lie in a shadow space alone. light’s trauma. a slip of the sun. we can now sigh in a stupor, a love of sadness in the land of me. me.
i am the right hand of my future,
a stop gap measure,
an architect of paper towers,
ghost dreams,
a fly around a naked bulb,
a bra strap exposed,
a vagina incubating a flaccid penis,
a chiffon sari draped and drooping,
a shelter of thorns,
a rusted leaf on a mango tree.
7
i sit here in the morning and watch you sleep. morning whiteness and tears intermingle
there are things that i now know about your body that you probably will never know.
the way your chest heaves with every breath you take, the poses you strike when you sleep. the curve of your neck against the pillow.
that’s my pillow,
i laid my head on it last night
i live on these proxy connections-
the place where you once sat-
the streets you once walked on.
the other day i was in the place where you lived and i swear i saw you 9 years old pushing a broken bicycle with your knees bruised.
i wanted to know you then.
i want to know you in every single gesture that you have struck with your body-
the way you fold your hands when you sleep,
the arc of your back,
the distant snore.
i watch you sleep and gulp in the sorrow.
i want to touch you – i do-
a fingertip on lip on eyebrow on arm.
the gestures have no meaning to those asleep.
they don’t even satisfy me. this is a true rape.
to take advantage of a lover in the defencelessness of sleep
i am afraid
8
there are more reasons than this for the way that i cry on your shoulder- i speak to you with love- i dance on fire- i lick these flames- can i be unhappy again?
these bodies in twilight. the walk into a void. the vastu the rasa..
these sanskrit words that fall into this pond-
lotuses in water-
the edge of a sword.
these are the end products of our kisses.
the sex. the floating roof.
we cant even begin to smile- we shy away from looking into each others faces-
an old flame that rose into a dust track.
armadillos. tortillas-
these words than mean drawings and photographs for me- like the eiffel tower.
does a word articulate itself in an intake of breath or in the eyelash on my hand-
blow and wish.
with your serenity.
have i spoken too much.
have i spoken too loud.
have you taken your love elsewhere?
i speak to you about yourself and we rise along with the dust. it forms layers around our stomachs.
(what we get is what we give out.)
breathe easily my friend-
the stagnant pungent smell of drying ejaculations.
the stiffness of my shorts.
stay on course. stray off course
pin me down- pin me up
a last breath- swallow me- swallow me
i shall stay inside and play games i don’t know.
i don’t know who’ll win
9
in the place where people meet and depart with every breath that i take i sit and take stock of the day that defined the month that defined the year and that defined what i now see as my life.
these definitions only exist in my version of time and (perhaps) only there. what i would not give to know otherwise.
morning breath on nipple tip. moth flickers butterfly wing. my arm encloses a cool waist. palm cups a breast. a tongue ignites a fire in my mouth across my eyes. i close them at last. you are too close for me to distract my other step sister senses with delights visual.
some games are played by one lover while the other falls prey.
truth is the greatest aphrodisiac.
i lie in your arms. i surrender. i lie at your feet. i am taken over.
my fingers tease me into submission to your skin. these corporeal delights. the taste of salty sweat. move me like waves lashing the shore. teasing.
this means so much to me. this might mean all. a heady drug. a last breath. a dying mans confession, "i love you". too little was said and now too much. we turn in unison. my chest against your back, my nose in your hair. "possession and surrender". surrender and possession.
i slip with oilskin inside you and you slip inside me. i have said that once before. "surrender and possession". possession and surrender.
the body is a vehicle for understanding. it shapes our minds with what it allows us access to. there are mindscapes and cityscapes we create by superimposing our flesh against their stones
their intangibilities.
the mind is not the brain.
it was enough. it is enough. i am smiling.
you were right all the while.
you were older than me.
10
say something with my eyes
say something with my touch
i trust myself only to say things with gestures rather than words
can this be the beginning of a reversal of object and their use relationships?
do we
taste with our skin
watch with our ears
smell with our tongues
touch with our noses
listen with our eyes?
silence
the commotion rises and you sit like a waiting whisper
11
but if all that i tell myself is true
why does my heart feel so bad?
12
shall i know you again? or will this off centre silence be the end?
shall we stand in the same room looking out different windows?
sunlight on wingtips
that biplane again- but this time over kanheri caves
i love the taste of coffee on your lips
the laughter from that room of skyscrapers down to the motorcycles waiting below
you were the only one sensitive enough to care- to bring us our drinks(?)
the haze of alcohol and the euphoria of pain
a dangerous liaison
should i read my love letters aloud from a tree top- monkey that i am.
surrender to my instincts…
to speak of love is to make love.
i have been thinking recently not to love too much- resolution no 1
to love only those who love you more- resolution no 2
‘protection’
she says
‘afraid to fall’
she says
‘been fucking around?’
yeah- but not in the way she assumes- still that is her prerogative- to choose to see what she wants to.
i don’t understand this transparency through cards and symbols
the joker, the witch
we are them all
how do we read patterns in the gravel between train tracks or the way marbles roll down a hill.
within a curve there lie many divergent segments- a line of thrust- did someone say?
black chiffon across my eyes
the sunlight streams like night
risk all and lose all
youth and its possible futures
flirtation is only right
fickleness is to be expected
young people must be faithless for they use you to grow older and wiser. isn’t that the way we “progress”
they’ll spit out the seed when they have sucked the pulp and reach for the next fruit.
don’t blame them for their infidelities- you were them once.
constancy is the defining characteristic of the old- for they fear the unknown as a threat
the only thing awful about growing old is being still young
permit me these sermons for i hold on to my youth through loving the young.
that is my greatest weakness
the part i fear losing and reach out to possess is the part that creates the greatest rift- fault line.
almost broken.
can love ever be equal?
can love be measured?
is this a barter system?
an economic theory of affection
“returns”
we live in times of constant accumulation
add add add add
a consistent agglomeration of things and emotions that rise in piles around me
vultures and seagulls
imprisonment and freedom
the images are interchangeable
choose your bird
13
through a frame policemen stand and keep watch over the sari clad women
i think about lust
i pursue pain
the songs of the night waiting for us in the wings- the cheap seats of this sky- my mind is elsewhere-
with sheer fabric on skin and light on the other side tracing a contour in the morning.
on a hand on a shoulder tapping a tune-
on a silence that speaks so much louder than a howl
she was my day my night my body my soul
he was me in time space and mind
i quote poetry from movies and say to myself-
thief.
i fall into my seat, my hand falls on your lap and my eyes stare at the horizon of vertical slabs in the summer’s early evening haze
the same haze of euphoria
the hand raised in a gesture of victory over the lights of flyovers
phone calls from the feet of apartment buildings with play slides within their compounds
the darkness of tube lights like empty tumblers
the material and the space interchanged
success is a failure and failure is no success at all
thief again
she was wearing white and her hair tied tight behind her slouched against the polished granite and sprawled over the floor
reflections in the faux michelangelos from new york and mumbai
children in search of stars
i just saw one in yellow light that glowed by my side.
to stretch and bask in the sunlight radiance
in air conditioned rooms the warmth
the tea that we drank in glass tumblers-
everyone says hello
everyone says i love you
buster keaton and woody allen
reveal yourself said you
i’ll find you said another
i smile in jubilation knowing that this is the high before i fall vertically down slabs on the horizon
11 stories high
corner windows and candlelight
an unwanted presence- a closed door
these are the images of the last few days- the new days of a new resolution
no more kisses on the lips from now on and soon all we’ll have to do is wave- or not
can we create an intimacy without sex?
the urge to hold on to each other like spidermen on a brick wall
superheroes
super villains
tarot card images
us all
remove yourself
laugh at yourself
easier said than done
i raise myself on one elbow and my eyes glint with an evil leer
i toe this line and it drifts further and further away
step into my palace of dreams my lovers
this song is dedicated to unrequited love
to the hollowness of bottles and the undersides of carpets under which we sweep our sins
our virtues
we draw the lines far too easily
we set ourselves up for a let down
‘don’t give up
you got yourself time
and you got yourself a mind’
a moral dilemma and a cognitive one
recognize
deform
reform
14
i know i have to write you into history books- but you’ll forgive me if i can only manage to do it an alphabet at a time?
15
we wait at the tables for someone to join our parties
hand over hand we stand in the background
we stare across the table at the neckties of uniforms
and white shirts that sink into shadows
curtains that shed their lint behind us tickle us behind our ears
we feel the soft stare of passion in their folds
the eroticism of the city
jogeshwari station at night is yellow
not the yellow of sunlight or of what do you call them- wordsworth’s daffodils (though i’ve never seen them)
but the yellow of burning tungsten in yellow urine
piss that falls against its walls every morning
or the gold from the hands of watches glinting off hairy wrists
16
and at night the horizon shrinks to rectangular frames hanging in mid-space
they pass in a flurry and tempt our gaze
we step through them into different worlds
a green room through a wrought iron grill
a framed photograph of ganpati on the wall
the glossy poster of some muscle clad hunk (i cant see his face)
you duck under undershirts strung out in silhouette
the tube light crashes against your eyes
through half a doorway another one leading away
the frosted glass in between the bars of a prison
the balcony and a man leaning smoking joking
a naked bulb hanging on mud walls and asbestos or outside a half open shutter of a window
exhaust fans, nylon curtains, mosquito nets
there’s a flower pot in one window
some frames lead to stairs stacked leading to the sky
a limb
a wisp of hair
a yawn
two squares with glass
break it open with a stone
a crack
a glow of a television set
a frame to light lies
a frame to everywhere and nowhere in one night
17
the last friday in the 8:17 when i did not see the card players with the briefcases bridging the aisle i wondered
which one of them died yesterday?
paper bags tear
plastic bags hurt
they make great nooses
the distance between raindrops
18
where is my old flame
under the same photograph in every corner doorway
the pepsi signs
the way work bound women stare at the floor while walking
tomorrow
19
i began writing you love letters on the back of my palm leading all the way up my arm across my chest and stomach over my thighs and feet until the words spilled across my bed over the floor.
they crawled over the walls and then the ceiling
there is no stopping them now-
there they are now out on the street
sentences follow sentences writing themselves out in an unending stream
they go where they have to go- they have a life of their own
i merely watch them now
an observer
a detached recorder of facts
the words are no longer mine
they belong to the world
they are the world as i perceive (perhaps)
they describe and inhabit at the same time- both the outside and the inside
the word is the object
the subject the omnipresent eye (i)
i am the word
these linguistic tricks
semantics
theories of meaning
psychoanalysis and perversion
guilt
on the way to pune the expressway was a hum of wheels and a cut out in the vinyl over a rear window framing a landscape of dunes and coral
my head leaned back against the seat.
i had just called your name
i watched the road disappear with the frames of flyovers in a liquid evening light
sun setting and set
the waiting silence for us to sing love songs into
stones that skip over water
sinking with a gulp
a veil lifted to reveal another
if we follow this water it will lead us to the ocean
will you walk with me?
20
if i refuse to acknowledge your goodbyes
will it be possible that you will never leave?
21
this is my face
you said it was beautiful
i agree
it is a mirror today
22
dotted lines are virtual boundaries
or lines below me
or lines above us
or lines that exist only in spurts and stops
it is strange how drawings- the language that they use, describe our inner lives
are they more descriptive than words for our turmoil?
then, lets diagram this..
you besides me speaking of her
me besides you talking of me
the same conversation with different players
parallel universe
perpendicular lines
intersections and obtuse angles
she is a presence
you are my presence
and this absence
here is our life
hold on to my head
i shall not be free
until this obsession is dead
until this obsession is death
and in this silence of leaves and stone
there are variations in my head screaming in the rubble of my fortifications
in your minefield of affections
this emotional wreckage
a breakdown of parts
premature ejaculation
erectile dysfunction
mutual masturbation
i whisper sermons in a lion’s ear
i pretend saintliness to gain devotion from my god
a world of upside down pretences
the gold chain glitters around my neck
i hang strung by cables from a sheer cliff
upside down
up side
down side
‘you’re walking in a minefield’, said kip
i know
i am resisting the urge to dance
the fever rises again
i try to let it out through this pen of mine
the words are jittery broken
my thumb aches
i don’t articulate each alphabet
if dotted lines are virtual boundaries
i decided to cross each one
now they lie above and beyond me
her name and our history in the making
a conversation about the weather
with hidden meanings all over the city
every alley every compound every parked car
we should be lovers
i can be your child, i said
i meant it
this affliction
this conversation was not words
but tone of voice and kajal in the eyes
the softness of her touch
i am glad
this is my face
it is a mirror today
it changes daily, you know
sometimes a mask
sometimes a void
sometimes a question mark
and sometimes a note
a love letter
‘i waited for you too’
23
there are gulmohurs in bloom all over the city
flames thrown seen through your window
from the place where you once wrote me from
raintrees are seen through another
and a coconut palm through mine
in the hour of the aftermath
the swirling hangover
late summer is a time for clear blue skies and drifting clouds
hands itching for cigarettes at windy swamps
we hold each other in an embrace of conversation
a late night fight
a sentence
a dance
“you were fantastic”
did i cause you to cringe for me?
can i erase my memory?
can we start all over again?
can we trace back our steps in slow backward movements
cry baby
cry baby
you cry too
i search for a place now where there is no longer this whirlwind of voices
yours or mine
in my head
in my time
a space between words
the bar on a window
the rhythm of light on my hands as they swing on my walk down the colonnade
dust caught in its web
this is a beautiful feeling
you in my arms
alternately child and parent
we sleep in movie theatres
the gulmohur bleeds outside
a copper pod blooms in gold scattering petals like rain
here it comes again
here it comes
like rain
the rain
who is that whispering conversations in the other room?
the gurgle of stories not for me to hear
the wall crumbles
what’s the story today?
i peer
24
the poetic the mythical
we sleep in the summer solstice and dream of cauliflowers
and raindrops on dead dogs
we cry at weddings
and laugh at funerals
the hum of a distant chant lies just beneath my skin
i feel it shudder in spasmodic gasps
you called
is this my calling?
the pigeons nesting in the columns
are the memories of disaster
this peace of pieces that have finally found their rightful state of disorder
a bird reflected on his helmet
jubilant cries to the sky
i stand on the seat and laugh out loud
“yes yes
yes, i am still here
very much here
corrupt corroded
but still here
very much here….”
in this heartbreaker of a day
the trail of tears that runs along with the wind to my ears
laughter
soft smiles about the coconut palm
the mythical
the poetic
the truth
25
i stand in the rain watching you walk away
crying mock tears that run down my spine
dripping wet
the feeling of not being wanted
or even being acknowledged
this desperate urge to be part of that group huddled under one umbrella
walking away
arm in arm
a place that i long to belong
explanations
excuses
-
it might not even be love
it might be power
its laughter on a cell phone
the haze of a movie
i seek out those i cannot have
i need to be told to believe i am worthy
daily
weekly
every minute of every day
i seek and because i seek i don’t find
shy of my desperations
sanction of worth
this pardon runs
walks away from me in the rain huddled under one umbrella
the warmth of a shoulder underneath my palm
“i need a drag”
mock tears turn to real
these are the faces i make when i cry
ugly deformed
my lips turn to twisting caterpillars
my teeth to stone
my eyes squint and turn red
tears well up and fall
now that i have released you from my spell
where will i be
my one true love
my saviour
without this feeling i might be lost again
i had found you right in time
a summary of this story is told in fragments
lying somewhere in these sentences
i just don’t know which those sentences are that simplify clarify and satisfy me
and this
when i punched you on the shoulder it is a sign of affection
vladivostok or tokyo
places where i’d rather be
places where it no longer matters where i stand
naked in the rain
dripping wet
dripping rain
dripping ink
dripping blood
for seven months this passion
this anger
these confessions lead to wet trousers and a twisting earring of a bird in my ear
mock tears in my eyes
again and again
regard them with care
they may be real
i wish i knew
i am alone again
you walk away from me as i stand stationary in my tracks
watching you leave
mock tears
tears in my eyes
26
i said ‘i love you’ in bold type in small print in headings in split columns in between the lines of in captions in the margins of the pages in the main text of every love letter i ever wrote
posted by Anarchytect at 5:11 PM
3 Comments:
Great stuff here!
i like 3
7too
Post a Comment
<< Home