There Are Men and There Are Men

He is no illusionist
Only hardened muscle
And the salted water of our land
For even a twitch of cracked lips
He will bite back blood
Without a flicker of an eye

And there is the man who must hide
To hide the voices in his head
Draws curtains
Drives nails into crumbling walls
And music to block out the silence

Then is the man who rocks
Into the wood and iron of his chair
Sober and steady he gets up to leave
But his misery keeps rocking still

And among them all
Stands our homespun Olympus
Of the kathas, of Greek mythologies
Whose whisper hushes storms
Whose roar lights the world afire
And yet even his heart has broken
Leaving behind but another mortal man

These are men of the earth
Whose darkness can still the night air
When unleashed
Into them all I breathe life
And hope to live in a single breath
Of these great men
To flicker
And to die

Another Day at Work

Day- 7

Date- 17/2/14

Objectives-

Objectives..objectives..obj...

> To faint in the recesses of the known that draws from the stretches of my own consciousness, clutching at glycerined memories, and exhaling.

> To flutter around lamps illuminating the outside, shadowing the murkiness right beneath.

> To lift vicariously into weightlessness and drop gracefully through sleep-caressed vacuums.

> To be. To just be.

<sigh>

New Year

We give birth in a bloodbath 
A bloodshot sun glares 
At bites and scratches 
On parched lands 
Tramped upon by the millions 
Rejoicing the beginning of a new era. 

 Only young blood is spilt here 
Hot and impassioned with wrath 
It is the only kind of blood that boils and bubbles 
In our test tube babies 
For we create clones of our expectations 
And shatter them as we fail to live up to them. 

 As the salted waters rise again 
To rinse the healing sun 
Heads bend in furious prayer 
To eclipse the terror of an end 
And procrastinate living 
Till another night, 
Another starless dream sequence, 
Another heady daze 
Another maybe, another might. 

 Eyes rubbed and rubbed and rubbed again 
Set with a bloodied sun 
Shards glisten, 
Weeping clouds that could have been 
To mask the hurt of howls and hyenas 
All settle now under a shroud 
Till another morning, 
Another dew-soaked dawn, 
Another lukewarm warning, 
Another blood-soaked response.

Making Memories

I walk a hundred steps a second. And only some left steps feel right. How you live knowing where each breath goes is beyond me. You know I was never good with words.

I look for you in the pauses, in the crevices of my dreams but I find only gaping holes, some insect bites, some already filled.

The bitten leaves I stared at for hours were not ours. Our hearts are whole and full of fresh blood. And beat thickly no matter what the day was like. But I was never good with words. And I cannot say. It wasn't us. Neither you nor I. Our hearts were not to fathom why.

And I wondered why I smiled or cried and I looked at leaves and wondered why. The knowing smiles were lost on me. It was you I knew then and know it now. I cannot love as you do. I cannot hold on tighter than you. In front of yours my love feels small. And she sits by the window and pouts. 

I have stamped my foot, I have laughed, I have smiled and I have wished and wished and wished I was another, almost anyone else would do. 

Tomorrow is tomorrow and tomorrow is some other day I have no need to concern myself with. Mine may cloud over or shine in the blinding light of bikes on nights like these. But it is yours I wish was ours  for I can see the fireworks that'll dazzle onlookers and foolish strangers who have wasted lives wondering what love is.

Do not waste yourself on me. I am a bunch of lies that made itself up in your head. That is all I am and all I can ever be.

Maybe one day you will believe me. Maybe one day I will really be the dream you think I am. I was real. But I became illusory in your fingers. Dont ask me how or when or why. I do not know. I do not hope to understand. I am less than illusory now. I am the lines I traced on your palm. I am the wish I blew off your cheek. But I am there. I am more real to you than I am to myself right now.

And that's all, I cannot continue. The words I frame are too vague and blurred just as mine always were. Maybe that would make for a memory.

Those Unseen Sounds of the Night

A yellow leaf falls quietly to the ground
Nothing stirs, nothing frowns
Black holes yawn at drowsy cats
Another battle, another night
For hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

Trees have fallen before
Roots trenched firmly underground
Come gravedigger
Pull me out.

Here lies a bundle tightly curled
The softest wind will wake him, tread light
Black holes yawn at drowsy cats
Morning cowers from the blinding night
For hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

I watched as the minute hand moved
And then the hour
I watched as our faces glowed in the dark.

Let the sleeping lie
At least they breathe
At least they sigh
Petals form roses
I cannot get them right
My fingers slip off buttery window panes
The world condenses on our hour glass
I wake him with a whisper
And still he lies
Standing by a leaning wall
Eyes close all thought of him
For  hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

We whizzed past dreams
And lowly sights
Wiping sleep from cloudy eyes
I cannot lose what I cannot hold
I cannot have a falling star
But  hearts have stopped before
Muffled like drums on weeping nights
A thud somewhere, a low groan
Passed off as one of those unseen sounds of the night.

Growing Up

The sky always fascinated me. When an airplane cut across the sky, all the children would run after it, shouting and waving. But that had never been what interested me. I always looked beyond those airplanes, deep into the sky, at the stars that never failed to twinkle back at me, reciprocating the same unconditional love that I had for them.
Every evening I went to the market with my parents on either side of me. I never looked at the houses towering over me or the people who exchanged pleasant greetings with my parents nor did I ever see where I was going. I simply held my parents' hands and trusted them to take me with them wherever they were going. And all the while I had my eyes fixed heavenwards, watching the moon teasing me from behind little puffs of clouds.
At night, I would lie next to my father on the little cot out on the terrace. He would tell me to count the stars and obediently I would start to count until his breath came gently and his lips twitched along with his moustache and I would put my head on his stomache and listen to the slight rumbling noises in there and all the while I would keep counting. I was afraid I would have to go back indoors once I finished counting. I was afraid I would run out of stars to count. So I would count the same stars again and again until I fell asleep right there, cuddled next to my father.
Today, when I walk down the road, there is no hand for me to hold. I can no longer trust somebody else to take me along, and so I stumble along by myself. But even now, sometimes when I stand by myself at night, I count the stars. I continue to count the same stars again and again and again just so I don't have to go back inside.

Big Loves and Small

My love sits in a corner of a brightly lit room. Hugging her knees she rocks herself to sleep. Her frame is small and frail and she cowers from the light. There are bigger, greater loves than hers they tell her and she shrinks further into the background merging with the soft cream and peach of the ideal lover's den. If it be small, is it not love? How can she lift her chin and face your love if you tell her she doesn't exist, if you tell her she is not enough? It has been a while since she stopped believing in herself. It's been a while since she could speak or stand. Take her in your arms when you have time. She grows weak and flutters helplessly with every harsh wind that blows. Hold her and gently press your lips on hers. For even love needs loving sometimes.