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Haunted Houses

I lean with the gravity
Of a dark vortex
Of possessions
Of possessions,
It has opened up
a zone
of

Houses
how are they made
haunted
With dancing the same dance
Washing the same hands,
Hoping the cycle
Would turn into a spiral

The Second guessing

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold”
– W. B. Yeats

You omit
before you write yourself
lest you become
the colossal weight of
what lies under the ocean, that be,
the weathered face of the mad king,
the woman who had jumped off the roof,
a past lover of your lover,
a past-lover.

The ocean is no man’s alone
and yet it floods us all
with it’s seismic wreck,
spinning:
it batters old and new structures alike,
it eats men alive
and leave them language.



On abiding the seasons

I.
I remember the cold in my body
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

There was daze in the eyes of the sky,
it had blunted its own vision
and melted down the buildings off their roads.

I was in the white room
they had barred the windows
and I could not tell the knock.

There was that life-explaining roar of the wind,
may be,
they did not let me listen.

II.

I remember the cold in my body
in the pit of my heart,
it had arrived
in the middle of a succulent August.

The August was grey
and hinted an October,
but they had opened their obedient mouths
and smelled the plastic lilies.

Their colors were gay,
and not like a hermit’s hut’s kitchen;
they persisted
and those who couldn’t,

they left behind.













Bad days

Picture by Kiyo Murakami

Bad days don’t happen to me
with the first hyphenated
ray of the million mile away burning mine,
when, perhaps, the bed becomes
radioactive
and with an incubus-poise
presses upon with gravity,
and insists to stay–
yes, there are these days too.

But for me
it often begins with the corner of my lips
stopped amidst a curving of the smile
which echoes in a closing space
of the borders between
mockery and applause
and
then
the glass slips out of my hand
the fire would become stronger in the stove
and I won’t hold my pen still,
neither do my words
–the solemn heat sensitive bugs–
would brief my tongue with language
and so in the dying light of a “good day”
morose, I become clad
in all this good gone bad.


About a dream


51/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Once in a blue moon,
when the wind shuffles in the night
and the bat sits above a cat’s crossed tail,
I’ll fall in luck
I’ll fall in a beautiful tale.

[What a pity that I do not remember it;
Just a crooked picture for you,
only twice removed.]

Soft fingers
beautiful red curls on a man
a staircase leading to a souvenir shop
a sunset smile that reaches the eyes
(that could also be the color of the dream)
a freshly-painted dark door
an urgent feeling to keep this man safe
soft fingers.







The mother


50/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Art credits: https://picsart.com/mgroftedits


I wonder if
roots growing from the ground–
the mother,
relish in her own irony,
repetitions,
cycles of unabashed hubris,
that render us all in pain
and then, we are cynical
in laughter with everything that has gone by
in acknowledgement
to the mother
who took us underneath
before we could even be born
and so
we make a father out of her in revenge,
in her own clay.

Renovation


49/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for house surreal

Flying Houses – Fubiz

The house that has come to be
is fiction.
They brought mortar and then mud tiles,
facing the wild growth overhead
and I sat with a little bit of my wild tamed,
it was very unlike me.

They brought paint in winters,
a deafening white,
but the city haze took over
and it became a rusted armor
that one puts on instead of sweaters,
because that is what we always do–
we fight cold with cold.

I sat in my room
but they had come in and replaced the walls,
a faint feeling of memory still lingered–
the decay and the stagnancy
which no paint can soften out.

Guts and Glory



47/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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We put out bullets like bubbles
It is the joy of erasure,
Aren’t you proud yet?
My mother’s songs are like plastic bags,
Her hair are orange creepers shrouding the ceiling fan.
Today I need a glove, I am only my hands
Touch me, open up my chessboard
The boxes are a moonlit night
64 Circles.
“Chew your food!”
My chest swallows up the buttons like a toothless vagabond,
But I retch and let
a tunnel come out of my gut
People scream in delight,
O Lord Flight
—Every house’s household deity
(They know that salvation is a cabin of ministers)
But I’m a trite, an imitation of this god,
A red dot
That sits between your legs.