In life, the prince chases the princess
Or the girl next door or a cinder-fingered Ella.
Who promised a fairytale in return.

And the princess – who’s always beautiful
Jumps on the Prince’s car – a flashy one at most times,
And they drive off to the sunset, like Bonnie and Clyde,

While a string of soup and sardine tins
Makes a clanging noise on the rear buffer.
A racket that soon become a ruckus.

And love making, is just a brimmed-pact that tells us,
That you get to make noises with your wife
Like those bandicoots make in the ceiling.

You and her, are just silhouettes in dimmed light
Amorphous in the dark, familiarities when the lights are on,
And only a gossamer nothingness in slumber.

And always, a multi-faceted study on how many angles,
You would have to try out, to make the silhouettes disappear
And the amorphous, double its original size.

At the end, your center of gravity, turns to
A weightlessness, spanning hummingbirds to eagles.
Until you fall down, like an albatross to the ocean

With a glint of fire blazing on the edge of the wing,
Almost like Icarus lit by wrath of the sun, diving down to water,
And in that moment you are extinguished,

You become someone’s older Brueghel




It is strange that melancholy,
Although sounding like a tummy-disease of melon,
Is just, a crack that lets in neon lightning
On an azure collage. Your tummy
Collects blue butterflies, into a disorder,
A slope that goes along to the abysses,
Defining you, as a lepidopterist,
Who grows mulberry trees inside his gut,
Where little worms live inside cocoons,
Searching for elusive wings.
In this programmed inertia
You can only look at your blue ceiling
Day after day, to learn that it
Keeps getting farther away from you,
Almost as if, you’re giving up the struggle.
The slope is just as cold, as the nearest friend,
Or the cruelest fate. Unlike physical
Ailments, leach therapy will not suck
Bad energies, or any infective strain,
Right out of circulation. The mind was supposed
To be a beautiful spaghetti dish,
Not the tender breast of a green lemon.



In the foremost moment,
You chuck in happy in the form of balmy,
The same way you look at an apple. 
Malus and malady, pulp and plague,
Metamorphosing your lips, your cheeks,
Everything other than your mind,
Looming to first kill – primavera.
Every assassination, straight or gay,
Is a little kill at best or worst.

For the gay man, the metaphor is simple,
Either you are a towed vehicle
Or the towing truck. Still you look at cars
That crash in plain missionary,
And gloat to your people, the happy type,
How beautiful it is to be towed,
To move your momentum in one direction,
To learn that synchrony is beauty,
And the grunt is the beast and in you and him,
There is a fairy tale, gaining form.

To be towed is beautiful, even at its least,
Just how stiff my cord becomes, without even seeing
The face of my lover. This privilege
I hear, makes the tow-truck glow
From chin to hairline. Austerity is how
Little we need to salvage, to be bedfellows,
How little it takes to stretch the cord
And tie the truck. How breathtaking it is,
To be dazzled by two cheeky hemispheres
And be drawn to the line of the equator,
In that silly phenomenon
That the meteorologists call,
The Coriolis Effect.



A muscle spindle is fusiform
In shape, so is a leaf, spelling out
That nature is filled with
Fusiform geometries. I learn that medicine
Too has fusiform, blood clots
And aneurisms, which can give
You death in an instant.
Then there are pasta, also spindle
Shaped, as fusilli, the Latin word
For fusiform. Then I look at my wife’s lips
They too taper at the lip-end
And the pout being the rounded part.
I look at all the wonderful things
Fusiform and then, I happen
notice my tummy, a little Fusiform
Just a little like Humpty Dumpty
And oh boy, what I would do to
Lose my belly.

I look at the handles of the wooden rolling pin
That my wife uses to flatten out
The dough. I sprawl to the ground
To do an abs workout. I do 20 pushups
And I’m done, panting overcoming
My patience. Life is a medley of fusiform moments.
Some we like, some we don’t.
The English alphabet too has a letter
That looks fusiform, the “O”,
Which is like climbing a mountain
With an extra oxygen tank. Oxygen
Too is O, the element that pumps
The lungs to make chemical energy
That makes my wife pout scream
Many things that I’m not – Oh Boy, God etc,
Little windy expressions. O is the reason
Some of us live, to let the ocean climb
Out through little cracks in our skin.

Fusiform, is the summer years, that tapers off
To middle age, when you start to get
A little cynical, like I am at 40.
Fusiform too, is the many leaflets of a marijuana plant
As are the hash-muffins, and fusiform
Is every one of my neurons that tell
Me to keep off weed. At 40, how many
Times you become stoned is the riddle at hand,
Unlike the 20s when you counted
The number of times you got laid.
One day I will finally smoke a joint as I say to myself
I cannot be a schizophrenic, at this age.
Still, even if I go cuckoo, I can always
Point at my crew-cut scalp, and
Proudly show to the world
My beautiful mind.

Stranger in Japan


The ocean reclines, ebbing away
Like the kimono of a geisha,
While in the next room, a foreigner
Waits for some pleasure. Entertainment
Turns itself on, in the submissiveness of a knee,
And the warmth of a tea cup.
They lose all their inhibitions, while
The corn flake skin on the stranger’s epidermis
Makes a crispy breaking noise.
Just like light, through a Shoji screen,
Their bodies diffuse out everything
That lay tormented inside. In this godless dominion
You could find the rustle of tatami, compiling a story
Of how there are strangers in this land,
Who loom into interfaces by nighfall,
Folding into their own geometries
To usher in the humility of lovemaking,
When every sweet pea bloom, is a goodbye, a sunset,
That fixes onto time’s embrace,
Like a red-spider-lily,
To be lost forever.




I was partial to you not knowing,
That you and I, would surrender to
Make us gods of bed manners,

And we seemed, only to entertain,
The practice of valuation of contact
And appreciation of taste or flavor,

The rocket science of feelings,
It tells you, let her climb the mountain,
Slowly, pacing along, the footpaths,

Love, it calls for an extra canister of oxygen
That you exhale on her, from her lips,
To her buttocks, combing the keratin blades,

And together, you’re just added on,
The droll of biochemical manifestation,
From protein to singularity, substrate to catalysis,

I am, you are, we will, to the etiquette,
Of designing an architectural wonder,
A temple that drives the chosen pilgrim

An interface, as strong as palms in prayer,
That anoints with sweat and makes-musk driven
Culinary dishes, into a wrestle of mad angles,

That can only simulate flying, without lift off,
Like how an ostrich proudly displays her plumage in dance.
We too gloat on how many times

We’ve killed a different species of bird.
Just to become a taxidermist by ritual,
Hanging mementos on an invisible wall

And dead creatures, they seem to come alive on the wall,
Especially at the dead heat of the night,
When you’re lying all alone in bed

When parrots are vocabularic, ostriches are dance-prone,
Song birds are hummers, and the magpies, are just
Scampering on your body; almost an aviary now.

And one day, you will open
The aviary door and let all the birds fly out.
While two feet walk into your home

You will not call her a bird of any nature.
When you will get to know, there’s a beautiful
World out there, beyond ornithology

A person who will never be a bird,
Only a birdbrain, who will fall for your lowest
Your “in spite of” and learn that love

Is aiming for the lowest, the dungeon,
And discovering the boundless wealth,
That exists on top.

New Born


The pink slip is an end,
Two pink lines was a beginning,
Which trickled to a pink-patch chord
Cut from her bud, to usher
In first singularity – life.

And in that never-ending story
Of the most obsessive feeling, trapped,
Inside a palpitation-prone pink enclosure
A labyrinth of valves and vessels,
All in shades of pink,

Transforming the maternal science,
Of a pinkie held inside the tight grip
Of the tiniest palm,

To blossom a trans-generational memory
That is so indestructible,

Just like the pink panther,
– Stolen forever, in touch.