Kandy Town

Climbing the hills
Is never easy for the 1000 cc
Engine of a Suzuki Swift.
And in that cold night
I climbed the ascent that is my wife,
Slowly like the Hanthana hill,
The pines caressed by the northward wind
Whispering forget-me-nots,
While I hung onto her like a gluttonous leech
Sucking every drop of passion out of her,
Until we came down like a lightning flash.
We looked out of the window of a room
In the Queens hotel, to see jaywalkers
Scampering about hustling precious time,
Like the venomous brown ants do
All around Sri Lanka.
While we let the surrounding lull
Of a thick-bricked hotel room
Blanket us, like the pine-hills
Enwrap a dainty town inside of her
Almost like an expectant mother
Wraps her unborn fetus.

Coriolis Effect

whirlpool 2

They say that the rotation of a turquoise planet
Makes wispy movements on ponds
On bathroom bowls, forces tornados
And relays cyclones and other ballets of nature

And we too know, how we make
Rotation part of our daily anatomies.
How we rotate the stem of a ripe mango
To pluck it, how we plunge a corkscrew
To open a vintage wine, or how Shane Warne
Spins the leg break to bamboozle batsmen.

And still we are slaves of spins
Of how a little magnetism around a radius
Makes us fall in love. And yet we are consumed
By another’s orbitals – where are we now?,
Where to next?, is she procrastinating?, will we work
In the long run?, is she a hurricane and a banshee in bed?
Oh God, is she wife-material?.

We pirouette to another’s orbitals.
What keeps us hostage, the gyres that stream us
The vortices that baffle us, the vertigos that giddy us
The whirlpools that sink us. All stemming from one creature’s
Orbitals of the heart and mind.

Yet we have our own helices that define us.
The DNA of a man that can see past the doubt
To make it work. How we can resonate
Are spins, like figure skaters do, or how your hands
Master the pottery wheel, knowing deep
Down that what matters is not the orbitals
But the ground states.

And we are grounded to those baffling genes.
What makes me a romantic and her a realist.
And when we meet in the middle
We know that there’s another planet
That we need to inhabit. Like Mars and Venus
Need earth for a rendez-vous.

We are imperfect humans. Perfect freaks
Who overthink everything we do. When love is
Just about finding a common torque, to spin.
And making love is absenting your spins; becoming nonsensical,
Folly dancing all over, while trade winds blow.

As you become one singularity, one flesh,
At the equator.

Creatures of the Dark

Sea Breaching Ocean Humpback Whale Mammal Animal

There is beauty in light, like in the luciferin
Hidden on the ventral side
Of winged beetles; creatures we call fireflies,
And they turn luminous green
Underneath their abdomen
Emanating chemi-luminescence.
And these flying lanterns,
– Soft-bodied creatures flying with their elytra -,
Make children run on the trimmed lawn
And the inner child climb out
Of able-bodied cocoons.

There is still beauty
In darkness, when two people sleep
To each other’s lullaby, nocturnal creatures
That smolder like twigs in winter.
Pitch black is when you become only as lucid
As the clarity of her body on yours,
Drowning you in a landslide.
When you let the invisible hand
Guide you to the heart of the tempest;
Huracan raging in wind, fire and storm
Ravaging the ravenous.

And you feel all sorts of creatures in the dark
Sharks inside your lips pillaging hers
Little dinoflagellates inside margins of your irises
Whales waiting to burst out through a sweet spot
And the ocean flowing from inside to out
Through every pore in your skin.



When you’re a tiny toddler
Who’s just found his feet and bum
You learn the art of the spoon
When your mommy feeds you
And you in turn feed mommy
Just to make a mouthful stand.
A symbiosis of feeding each other
Some pureed vegetables.

And you learn later on,
That making love is no different
You carry a spoon to feed an opening
With curvier lips
And just like a gorging throat
A gap swallows it all in
And leaves a little out.

And the spoon defines you
The circus acts you pull off
The Russian roulettes
The times you’re embarrassed
When you’ve failed to launch
And the sugar rushes
Of your closing act.

And you’re spoon fed
On traditions; and what else
Is more custom-designed that the spoon traditions
You foster. The spoon is the greatest piece
Of charity ever-developed.
It makes another, sated of the
Very thing you spoon out in gratuity.

A whopping helping of love.

Kama Sutra

Kama Sutra

In a book with little illustrations
And text, lies what takes place
On thrones and slums,
On rickshaws and cabins inside Jet airways,
Where little geometries
Are arranged, inversed, slanted
To make chemistries titillate.
And this book holds the corporeal truths
Few speak in sheer honesty
Or do in shameless subordination,
When in those close encounters
Anatomies and misanatomies are bashfully contravened
To make bare necessities
A bonanza of skill and articulation.
And all it takes is a small book
To make a man the god of little things;
Of all the naughty little acts in 64 positions
That we ignore in shame and yet
We bounce off anatomies, like questions being posed
By extensions of our bodies.
Pages that miseducate the sane
To make folly, with all the little
Places that are reachable by anatomical devices,
And of all the desires that the body conceals,
Only barefaced is worthy,
To be recorded long into memory,
When you became less than yourself
And still that little creature
Inside of you, embraces the savageness
Of all the unholy truths
Scripted inside your own
Body of secrets.

The Tomato


I’m my own worst enemy.
Time and again, I’ve played in my head
How it would all unentangle as we knotted,
In tentacle clasp and covalent chemistries.
Hunters call this the taut line hitch
The type that pulls it all tight.
The common man romances it to making love.

I was a nervous wreck, the actin and myosin filaments
Turning to a ghostly white as all my blood
Was flowing elsewhere, to a little brain,
That in spite of all the nervous energy,
Was starting to stiffen, even shiver like a guitar string
Snout like a pointing dog, showing the direction of the hunt

And I pulled her towards me
Unwrapped the floral printed cotton dress and
Sliced open her body like a fresh tomato
That was perfectly ripened for a little taste.

And we made something that night.
It’s just a blur now. The torn sail made it easier
To bounce through the skyward waves. I was Poseidon
Who gazed at his trident lifting a salt fortress
Crashing against her hull,
The creaking timbers moaning
Like they were about to separate out
And become driftwood

And after a while, we were just
Like the beach and the tide, juxtaposed and yet entwined
Together on the wading zone.
She was in shades of red, like a bloated plum
Blushing in autumn colors.
And I was the slashed bough of a baobab.
I had opened like a showerhead
And sprinkled the sap of my xylem
Through a crack on her surface.

I was no longer the untouched one.
I was now a constellation from head to foot
And the moon shimmered between my dimples.
It was beautiful to discover, even this late,
What everybody knew for so long.

I was now primed like an oiled engine
Pining to get back on the road again. The man who waited
38 long years to see the inner workings of a sliced tomato
And to feel the beauty of cucumber mixing
With the cut slices of a red fruit. .
How beautifully simple a salad was,
Yin and yang mixing in endless geometries,
Surrendering in so many twists and turns.

And, I look at her – stretched like a rubber band
From fingers to toes – sore in places, sweet in others
As I tell myself, why did I wait this long to feel the beauty
Of a ripened tomato; a little succulent fruit,
Cut into half, moist as the tongue.

And all I did was use some brain power
And it was no Einsteinian theory only Newtonian physics.
Of how much gravity a little crack could hide.

I discovered a few things that day;
– G-force and G-spot; and how they collide
To bring out a little French on two blushing visages.
Ooh La la, Le petite mort…