Memoir Of The First Tryst

The canopy waves like a flag,
There is a certain lightness in the air.
The sun melts in the mellow-gold afterglow
As the day passes-by in this nameless road.

You lift the coffee cup for a sip.
Your scarlet lips on the brink of white
Porcelain – a flamingo on a snow-covered lake.
A feisty young maid; strawberry and cream.
The cup steals a quiet evidence
Of your mouth: lush red.
This is the chalice, the Holy Grail.

I try to make some sense out of this
Chaotic display of beauty.
I focus.
Slowly a few scenes are born.
Your eyes – hypnotic, bottomless, infinite.
Like the wheel of Time,
Grabbing and destroying everything, one by one.
Makes me wanna dive and die in that
Endless depth. The depth of Maya.

No. Let me focus.
The arch of the eyebrows. The long lashes.
A kite in the night sky circling on a field-rat;
Waiting to dive on it – claws and beak.
Tear its heart and feed on its entrails.
Chew its liver.
The spectacular prettiness of death.

Clouds are gathering. But it won’t rain.
Gathering clouds of blonde curls don’t rain.
Dense, frothy, wild curls of locks-
A careless strand on the small forehead
Disciplined by a finger to its rightful place.
Like the sound of piano: joy, pain, anguish, triumph!
These fingers create drama on easel.
Fair, slender, ladylike,
They bend like the ending of a fairy tale.

From a sandy beach your brandy voice trails –
Peachy. Gooey. Sticky. Blatantly sexual.
Crème chocolat. Sauna bath. Molten lava. Love.
The ebb and flow carry me forward…towards…words.
Words fall from the corner of your lips:
Snowflakes. Train-wrecks. Wild berries. Apples.
Your bubble-gum tongue slide over white crystals
Arranged in two perfect rows.
The slender neck – bending, unending,
Sending shivers down my spine.

My iris dilate. My gaping mouth.
I could manage a few mumbles. Verbal nods.
Your dark-winged eyes circle me,
Searching my face for weakness.
Your head tilts sideways in an inner smile –
You have tasted my defeat. Defeat! The feet.
Those toes. Fleur Delacour. French pedicure. Fresh macaron.
Feet which move on neon dance-floors
Like an assassin in maroon stilettos.

You follow my gaze. It’s a mess.
I’m in a pool of sentiments.
Soaked breadstick. Limp Bizkit. Lumpy soup.
All I want to do is kiss those feet.
Complete submission. Ego-death. Salt of earth.
Wildflower. Cold breeze. I’m lifted up in mid-air.
The smell. Pearly gates. Musk. Lust. Last stand.
Your skin wraps me like a carpet.
Mediterranean market. Marrakesh. Morocco.
Marinated in your hyper-aroma my olfactory
Is being demolished – bit my bit.
Marooned in your body-smell. Your body!
Cherry sweet. Sugar beet. Rainforest. Songbirds. Cinnamon.
Tender like an orchid.
Wild like a tusker.
High flood. Warm blood. Rosebud. Nose-stud.

Your nose bridge. The edge of Khufu pyramid.
Cleopatra. Nefertiti. Isis. The apex of obelisk.
A razor-sharp Katana – cold steel of the old samurai.
Like a moth mesmerised by fire
I’m hypnotised, glued to your nose.
Have my mortal eyes seen anything prettier?
Starry Night? Pieta? Mona Lisa? Birth of Venus?
‘Positively’ no.
The pride. The snide. And when you spew spunk, spit cuss,
Your nose curls, hot flush, pink rush –
The burgundy dot on the left of your nose blush…
You. Are. A. Miracle.

Women. There have been some.
Few were fine. A couple of good ones even.
But there will be only one miracle.
Only one Goddess.
Only one who will crush me like a sea-shell
Under her feet and walk away without
A single backward glance –
Remains of a romance.
Musings of a slow dance.

The canopy waves like a flag.
There is a certain lightness in the air.
This may not last. You may not let me.
But today it’s happening. Today I am allowed.
Today I’m in love with you.


The Stalker

It’s been a month since you showed me your face,
You employed your silence to show me my place;
That it’s on the ground underneath your feet,
As you crush my valour with your high heels.
You spoke the words of a magical place,
A place of whispering and melodic haze,
I grew blind by the light of your flame
Aching for a taste of your toxic game.

So you cut me clean with your cruel indifference,
Repay my love with vacant emptiness,
i sink in a pool of grey Helvetica
As you bask in the glory of hundred lovers.
But wait till I hunt you down like a wolf,
Tear you out from your rabbit hole.
So laugh if you may my Goddess on altar,
Your stalker will have the final laughter!

Those Florid Feet

A pair of swans swirling on a blue pond,
An angel’s wings spread across the sun,
The innocence of paper boats on a brook,
The lightness of the first winter snow:
Your feet are all those things and more.

Embattled, well-travelled,
They rise like a phoenix from the ashes of pain
That smudged the darkened past of heartache
And march along the stony roads
To the yellow dawn of wildflowers.
The delicate white marble toes
Spread roots deep into the hearth of Earth-core
To bloom the svelte body of a Greek goddess.

And there is nothing more I want
Than to kiss those florid feet
And worship their ornate purity
In all their glory of gold and flesh.
Deep inside, secretly,
I hope against hope,
That someday —
Those feet will bring you
To the doors of my heart.



I saw myself drowning in a lake. heavy drops of icy water stabbed on my chest in a steady rhythm, and when I made myself listen to the sounds of the rain-drops, indeed, they fell in a delicate rhythm of slow ballet. It was so pretty that I had to deny myself having seen you on the bank as you watched me drown with a pristine Victorian detachment. The mysterious sounds of nature, the silence in between and your distant fragile face veiled behind the misty rain – I couldn’t decide which one was more beautiful. I wished I could momentarily pause my imminent doom to feel the warm grass again, see the stars at night, run my fingers through your hair, smell your skin, if only for one last time. And as I bade farewell to you, I whispered, ‘Let me drown lover, so that I can find peace at last. ‘Cause your heart would have broken if you really tried to know me.

God Has A Name

Cold pills and high grade cannabis. True hallucination. Auditory and visual. Paranoia and intense body-buzz. Enhanced perception and altered reality. Absolute, total mindfuck. I was at the edge of the universe staring at the illuminated nebula clouds and dying stars, contemplating God and simultaneous existences in multiple, parallel universes while feeling and hearing every single blood-cell moving in my veins and rushing to my heart giving mean acute heart attack, which was pounding and sounding like the thunderous beat of John Bonham’s lethal drums. And just when I thought it was the beginning of death — God revealed Herself!

She revealed herself in a sea of digital photographic self-portraits, commonly known as ‘selfie’. It was a raging storm, a marathon icy blizzard at the lonely heights of the Himalayas. I was flung high up in the air, ripped apart inside-out in her blinding Godly beauty. She relentlessly impaled me with her divine trident – and as I laid dying in a rapturous happiness and melancholy I found out for the first time: God has a name. And it is…

Poets Must Love

Poets should stop expecting any appreciation or adulation in return for their work. Poets should stop expecting any return at all. People love thinking they will be loved in return. Poets can’t be that greedy. In spite of the heartbreaks, the loneliness, the sufferings, the disappointments and the indifference – poets should not give in. Or give up. Poets must endure all the onslaught. Poets must love. For there is no poetry without love and no love without poetry. Poets are the last bastion of human endearment, the last hope for love.

A Beautiful Death

I can tell you the truth. I haven’t but I can. But would you believe it? You may get offended. May take it otherwise.

Well the truth is that it is so painful to look at you or your photographs. literally painful. You are so fucking beautiful. It hurts. Physically. I think it’s gonna kill me. I think I’m gonna die of the severe intensity of your sheer beauty.

But that’s OK. Because that would be a beautiful death.