Deep cuts

How deep do you cut without bleeding
and I will call it art
your crimson feathers and stark lurking breath match
the width of blade
which you promised last time you
wont use

what is it you inflict on me for the pain to pass
a whiplash
or the same sweet dread
after red gives you away
and crimson scars turn you beautiful again

My blade
I protect you

and when you convince me of your cowardice
I know you pretend
to be brave
for these nutshells of mines
that you spread across
are just my pilgrims to your sacred heart
so I will reach your shrine to wake you up
and for that moment
that will be the first
and last thing I do for you
and turn to dust
that is all I can take
to make you brave
I can become a scar
the best one for your heart
and you can wear me
pretend like its art.

Let Me Write.

I have to compose something quickly
before hell breaks loose
and urgency of my heavens touch the incarcerated souls
to not burn them again
I have to write
the reminders in time
and adjust the velocity of feelings
each time to a faster pace
and further the gaze
so that the character adjusts the amount of futile references it can make
so as to not smother them and itself
I have to make space
and compose quickly but still not in haste
the metamorphosis renders my incapable past, I suggest myself to last
with the wisdom of gaze that I inculcate
I have to write
so as to not forget
these fillers of past
and metamorphosis of haste
I have to write
the moments of truth
willingness of heart
through my – this ignorant art
to see how my words taste
in your mouth like
the countless things you say
I have to write
allow me if I may.


severe cold of the shutting lungs

scoff for the warm ice cream

mellowing the combustion of cold

shields stay up. lungs fight

of the momentary disguise

in which the cold plays

the warmth of haste 

and sends chills

of the developing taste 

sniffs are the signals

when I go around 

I think I am changing 

but I just change the crowd. 

The Drift.

and she looked at me
in the way I wanted it to be
but it was late
and, I, had places to be
could it fall so fast?
that, which was meant to last
could it be more clear?
my, this face, with your smear
you had said
that it was meant to be
and I said you knew my name
but, then, when you called
I didn’t respond
because it was late
we called it fate
but, what was all that
before all this
when we had time
to sit, define
then again
you had looked at me
in a way it wasn’t meant to be
and when it was not late
we still called it fate

whenever, the tides turned
they never favored
how we moved
and, we always looked backwards
to this drift
from the start
just why had you said
that it was meant to last.


Because people give up by now,
wiping off the mopped floor, squeaky clean,
marble white,
I reflect.
Painted the windows white, walls red,
no bloody stains here.

Furniture is white,
dining table round and of pine,
this is where I dine,

they say 1 day at a time.

Because people give up by now,
cleaning brownish-blackish gunk on the stove,
over flown, forgotten, I scrub, clean it bright,
I cook,
I surprise.

Because people give up by now,
killing, poisoning, stumping on other roaches.
In corners quietly they repair who pretended to die,
I put my makeup,
got few more lives to live.

A rusty old watch I clean, memories creep,
speak, have you forgotten me, I am low.
This time I don’t pack it back.
I let it hang, in my sight, with a lighter mind,

they say 1 step at a time.

Because people give up by now,
pretending to be cursed,
pretend what you may.
In plain sight, I have let it go.
They are they and I am me.

1 day at a time,
1 step at a time,
1 life at a time.
Because, most people give up by now.

Black Box

I was looking at you through the black box

thought that was all everyone ever wanted

                     to not be related to their own hands

infinity, then an undone task 

of 1000 possible futures 

relates me to the nonexistent you

and I look at you through the black box 

and my shining eyes 

reflect all white

like when lies

work around for long

feel like they belong

                      and in the potholes cultures cursed 

the saint 

who did not listen

and didn’t let a scum die

there were still a few things 


for both to try. 


What would you sit there and wonder

let me tell you

love fear hate derision pretense 

all were true

it was best to not wonder more

so we did not

but if you sit and I cross your mind

know you cross me too

now when we swim across 

to more oceans 

and different lands

if you find me in another 

find me then for her 

and you will find me for me

I will till then try to loose you

and un-clinch my fingers

grappling your version with me

hoping that you find 

the same unsettling love

which settled in me

and then maybe you will see everything left behind 

was same and more

but now lost 

on the edge of our past. 

The melancholy of wisdom

I caress her in the dark

as touch magnifies my presence

she lays peaceful

reaching ignorance of her heart

that doesn’t absorb the light when made aware

wisdom is not so absolute

as the ignorance complete in itself

this melancholy of opposites biases to 

everything which knowledge can’t impart

wisemen solving riddles that didn’t exist in the dark

and in a light way 

she goes along the not so wise path

bearing the weight of knowing 

that wisdom is only as reasonable as all thoughts combined

but not wise enough

to create things that unreasonability could define. 

A Hymn

transfixed by the moon
in the finished glare
come.            stare.

do you know what it is?
pain engulfed in love

free. incorrigible. beyond repair.

My solitude in the gloom
where your single flower bloomed
the inane incantations
always worked to incapacitate

my moth,
that never did recuperate

             how did he swallow himself?

he poured the tea
while uncurling her hair

with verity on the verge
but never gone
the idolatry pretense
got carried on

and she kept choking
in his fresh blood
the moth
kept the light stuck

brightness is a scanty measure
for the dark
like when a sanguine offers
a sardonic heart

both sit to satiate the salvage
the burning light
that sought solace
and the carnal moth,
a caustic case.

Whole Death

a walking graveyard
of still houses 
to be scavenged little more 
is left open

what can pesky beaks do
                          carry on the task 
death and rest follow 
graves digging body 
and body itself 
to end it all
the savage picks up the taste
half rotten stuck in the beaks
body evolves 
birth to the burp
making it alright

whole death is whole 
unlike half hearted meal
not eaten
not forsaken.