The Chanel and iPod Man

Man is a stimulant-driven creature where purpose, beauty and truth show their side headshots every once in a while behind a smolder that is the by-product of our desire to immerse in what we think is life, only to ultimately remain always peripheral to it.

When it is all quiet, without even the whispers of fur, perhaps.

A fish in the sky

A fish in the sky is as absurd and artificial as a suicide aero-plane in haste. Both are spectacles of head-tilting nostalgia. If only grounded flight is ever fanciful, what happens then to sky? I would like to think that she becomes the merciful backdrop that contains this shattered innocence, in spite of her. She has, over centuries, come to understand that her changelings now will forever prefer layers to simply surfaces.

Homage Regarding

regardless, oh godless goddess,
there is much celestial quality to your choreography
that even the clouds choose to serenade
your relinquished throne,
and
whenever the heavens decide to
open upon your rainforest of good
intentions, you are always in full-bloomed mercy.

I can only stand in awe,
and withdraw.

onion

how is it that we can peel a bulb
endlessly, and never reach its
core?
is it then vacuum encased we
mistook for air, where nothing ever existed,
and salt for irrigation, merely at its pores?:

to indicate, (simply)
more,more, more

that day (that day)

hush up the days which tend to boast
and you might remember the unfed ones
in comatose:
that day that day, when the bookmark wouldn’t stick;
that day (that day), the adjunct to the rest
that tick.

curtain call

Will we still recognize each other
During the final curtain call?
Will your drapes last longer than mine
Amidst our flashbacks and all?

bluebeard

the numb release

from your reticulated embrace returns gradual
favour to my pallor,

introduces a bluebeard hangover
with parrots
on each side,

re-telling sceneries.

serpentskirt

an arrest in sudden
heat by light of a left voltaic-pounding
snatches life’s penultimate breath at the lip:
the smoke thread is pulled taut along this
snake’s belly, where the next is only caught on
a serpent’s skirt.

if tomorrow is not future enough

i was informed
of a
void deck reality
by the lyrics
in my head-
(phones):

"you and i
are not meant for the future.
all we have is
now."

then the rain came,
and the clothes had to be
kept.

perhaps tomorrow,
at Compassvale Southgate

if tomorrow is
not future enough

we shall all meet again.

not a poem

these days
i find myself
preferring
to do poetry
in my head.

this is therefore,
not a poem.

my position that dusk

I remember that evening.

It was like numerous other evenings when I could only be so lucky to have been spotted, and to have squinted, as you gently landed your distance on my face. We were in such hurry, almost desperate to realise the inevitable: I was racing towards ‘the next happening’ while you had more important surfaces. But in that instant, I had already come to understand the depth of your story, and my position that dusk – like you had meant for me.

Such was my happening.

an arm's length construction

On a night that moves along
sideways,
I can only push my black pieces towards
you, and
pivot on your shoulder.
You pour me an arm’s length,
answering me with
some grey.

Look!

We are anti-gravity cranes
defining the perimeter
of our land with
alternating white...

the method

The method was to pull the rug from underneath the crystal ball so that it rolls and crashes against a non-partisan wall - where 2 fish will emerge as they had been before: intact but forever withdrawl

但願人長久

明月幾時有　
把酒問青天
不知天上宮闕　
今夕是何年
我欲乘風歸去　
唯恐瓊樓玉宇　
高處不勝寒
起舞弄清影　
何似在人間

轉朱閣　低綺戶　照無眠
不應有恨　何事長向別時圓　別時圓

人有悲歡離合　月有陰晴圓缺
此事古難全　
但願人長久　千里共嬋娟

-蘇軾

Upon the plain of black and white,

it will be greycast;
but never has it been
more certain than when our pre-
technicolour hearts
(interweave and then) collapse into
a valley of monochromatic green,
where my castle
is vessel to your queen.

winding

i am frost-bitten upon realizing that
suddenly the diaphragm
refuses to cough out any more air:
(at least not this happy,
not this cold).
at least not now, not anymore.
with vapours on me,
i know that the winds were once here

the tide you are in

perhaps it is time to open your eyes
and watch the fishes
that are your lighthouses
go by;
and then you will know
that you haven't
really been dry, even when this
human tide arrests itself
in masks of
4-ply

living is about

living is about

being able to offer

everything in one second,

and nothing

the very next.

i love them still, though,

i am surrounded at times by
friends who make me feel alone.

How i found love

I found love
(illuminated) on a
bathroom wall, during
a blackout in Leh.