It hurts me
When after a long rain
Or in a long while of sunshine
The scarecrow stares at me
And gives me a full cry of scare
With its eyes wide shut out
Killing me halfway
From the swaying breeze
To a wide-eyed darkness
Of tattered clothes
And beehive bones
All falling into a swoon
At my lazy feet

The shadow of its puckered face
Saying nothing but old sweet nothings
That redeems my weary heart
Out of the weakening chaos of uneasy calm
Leaving a blazing trail of nothing
But sickly skeleton of washbone silence

It hurts me when it keeps silence
Like a gravedigger uncouth an forbidden face
To forsake me halfway to the long lurch
When I am left with no choice
But to grasshop a further way from the aisle
Of washbone silence of imperial blue
To catch a glimpse of the rising inferno
In the microcosm of my own face
And the rotunda of the philistine sky
Hanging loose over my non-believing eyes
To see it dying once more in sunshine
Or in dense rain coming close to my heels
As the scarecrow collapses on its long gravestand
And the wings of the bird shoot off the ground
Scaring me away to say the last goodbye
In my keeping voice of long washbone silence.

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Had I been me
Had you been you
Holding high our breadth
In a crusade
Against our worldly mess
We could have paved down
The aisle of autumn path
Over the spine of our howling bones
To ensue the risings of the ages
In our idolation of the bruised rainbow
Making love unto the twilight
Under the grand old banyan tree

Had we remembered our days
When we promised our good old vermillion nights
In oodles of musings in our tiny membranes
We could have succumbed to the cruellest phrases of soliloquy
Only the grand old banyan tree saved us
From the happiness of the swan song
In captivity of our worldly mess.

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As she asked me
For a heartful of love and hate
I gave her a cry of soulless happiness
And I agreed to burn her flaming desire
Of love and hate once again
Once again to carry her days over the dying moon
As she dried herself up in the love of hate
And she hated to love my soulful crying
I gave her a tearful of silence

And as she asked for more love from me
More to hate the breathing solace of my silence
I loved her hate all the more
Once again to burn her flames of fire
And she gave me a few more of her hastening moments
To love to love her all the more to fall a prey to hers
As I took her gothic heart out of the thin wind
And unfurled the longing sails to give her my mind.

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A howling silence
Like a solo journey in a distant archipelago
Blowing past the bottomless night
As day gathering momentum into the mystic blue
Fresh seedilngs crumbling in breathless sigh
Amidst the churned and burned slashes
Of unseeing twigs fluttering by
She breaks peace with the gala moonshine
In gibberish talks with her lonely self
Alongside the overflowing tears of sweating rivulet
Cracking tempos of unlettered syllables
As if crooning like a diva from the Faust's hell
And dancing down the breeze on false footsteps
In fiery embers of soliloquy
No more seeking the blessings
Of ancestral hominids
To break free from the dungeon's darkness.
Gone with the wind
On a palanquin of lifeline shadows
She tries to break force the peace of rhythm
With the vengeance of centripetal dilemma
She rises up the zenith of the seventh heaven
To catch the glimpse of the falling sparrow
On a dewdrop of spanning saliva
She sees her own image
On a broadening speculam of chiaroscuro
As she halts and falls over the moon.

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Stange as it is
Stranger than the unforeseen
Words buried in words
In a frenzy of chaos
Images shine as if in sinning
Sinner than the most sinned
Uglier than the jejune follicles
Of beauty and shame
Prettier in wombs, prettier than
The weeping stillborn, alas!
As if crying for its birthright
Begging in a half-moon twilight
To tear open bottomless darkness
In wishful jerks, in wistful tears
Of pains and pleasure

But alas!
The bell tolls, the bell will be tolling
Without any rhyme or reason
For whom the words buzz, who knows
It knows not the opportune bound
To declare the flag of war
To rebel against miscarriage
Of justice and fair
Of flighty innnocence
Images remain still so cruelly
Breathlessly out of flesh and blood
Stillborn as it is, and stillborn it will be
Alas! the words trembling apart
The images calling it a day into night
As if never the twain shall meet
In intercourse of consonance
Of all dwindling vowels
To bring forth a love of sunshine.

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"The people of India deeply love you" - Manomohan Singh is reported to have said toGeorge Bush.

The harlequin says
She is the whore of the downtown market
And baring her sagging breasts she says
She loves the bastard more than her body
The bastard says he knows hiow to master bate
With the seven deadly sins in his armoury
Basking on high in the nuclear sun

As his his imperial wont
The bastard masterbated with his Indian puppies
The whore sold her everything of celibecy
To the uptown market to buy a big gun from her client
To vibrate her over-jealous libido
As the flames of red arc daylight ejacultaed
She hugged and hold tight the bare body bear
At the lower dpths of orgasmic height
And the love shyly turned her face in shame
Away from the court of courteseans

The hyena laughed in his sleeve
Nobody knows how much changed hands
In how many drops of blood and tears
But it is sure to be the setting in of Nuclear Winter
After the hungry autumn gets the boot
And caves in the white palaces of the mandarins.

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