fb sketch(I hate giving titles)

A recent study suggests that youngsters, yes, those morose pathetic hipsters torn between being traumatized by the likes of Miley Cyrus and Bieber and posing for selfies with absolutely anything (flowers, fat-ass books, someone barfing, a tree, old poor people,a dead rat) are abandoning facebook for instagram. The reason appears to be the growing presence of parents and bosses and uncles and bittu-ke-mausi-ke teesre-bhai-ka-bhanja ‘s and of course privacy issues, I mean it is certainly embarrassing to be tagged in a picture of katrina in a bikini or john abraham in shorts shared by your grandparents. So folks join in the new selfie religion and you know where to find us next!


That scent of me,
of us,
my insides churn
to the surge,the heat,
the itch,
the taste of blood,
of mourning, of thought,
the sting sinking in my flesh
like the night, imbued,
the addict of my taste,
slave to my touch,
the heavy sense of him
lying there, breathless,
numb, my darling hashish,
crackling, moaning,
sobbing in ecstasy,
of a revelation,
of our gender.


A moment’s embrace..

A moment,
painfully fragile,
over brimmed
with a nameless emotion,
potent, poignant, poised,
in it’s scary unclothed veracity,
that you feel it’s warm touch,
feel it clenching your heart,
tapping your windpipe,
it’s cold breath over your forehead,
cradled in your laps,
denied the sadistic melancholic teat,
and an indistinct imperceptible wail
lost in a voluminous void.

A moment,
painfully fragile,
pleasantly lonesome,
an excruciatingly blank canvas,
awaiting the caress of your brush,
dipped in anxiety and yourself,
within an earshot
of your cries and screams,
and laughter.



Long matted hair tied in a messy knot,
A beautiful man dancing in the rain,
barefoot, to the restless rhythms
of the heavy ghungroos tied to his feet,
bloodshot eyes, in a transcendent rage,
a godliness in his dance,
his twirling saffron skirt,
and the fat lash in his hands risen up,
he looks up to the sky, and whips his self,
drunk on the pain, till it bleeds,
drunk on his dance, his art, his god,
while his daughter watches on,
and his wife plays a chaotic drum..


The mystic trees..

To those who learn fate from trees,
I ask, what good will it do to thee
To learn from the growing dead,
And they look upon me and smile,
no words I hear,but a rustle instead,

they speak in a language of rustling leaves,
as sweet and sour as the blooming fruits,
as potent as content, as a scented bower,
I say to them, in my charmed delight,
I’ll lie midst the pot-pourri,amidst the flowers,

And they look upon me and smile,
in their whispers, they say unto me,
no words I hear,but a rustle instead,
what good will it do to thee
To learn from the growing dead.