The storyline from,
The tip of the Deccan breast,
The trickle of Adam’s bridge,
The infant’s Jaffna lips suckling
His mother’s milk.
You find a child curving
Out the contours, the slopes
Covered by salt diapers,
To be a grown up boy
Who will one day,
Wear the Silk Road around him
To be a rightful prince
Who will transcend his heritage
To carve a little place for himself
As the boy who grew up
To tame the lion’s heart
And embrace the cartography
Of sustained serendipity
We orbit and the places we land
When we are like magnolias
In summer, quenching
Each day, holding it so tight,
Like God was trying
To take it all away from you,
Not knowing whether the places we land,
Are tarmacs or rocky ground,
And still we land, knowing
That the unsuspecting instinct,
Tells you that it is perfectly Ok,
To get lost, so lost, in the night,
And not to resurface at dawn.
And all you are at sunrise
Is a rum whore and a sex-drunk.
As dead as the mattress at a cheap hotel,
Too hungover to know, that the night before,
Had just been pimping out the rum,
While the body was soaked
By a woman, who at 10 AM the following morning
Was finally steady enough,
To look pleasing to the eye.
I began like an indiscreet crumpet
With holes in my poetry.
I’m no perfect poet, I’m just policing words,
Controlling their traffic,
With my baguette like limbs,
And all I want is, to be, just like a pancake,
Defined by an equation, approximating
To flaw-deficiency, and yet
I will only be good around the curves
On outer surfaces, mere perimeters.
I am culpable of being the bagel poet
With a huge hole in the middle
On which I pour chocolate sauce on
To make me as sweet as a donut and yet
I’m as dark as a pumpernickel, chiseling
A love poem which approximates to a ciabatta
And yet I’m just a loaf of fruit bread, with raisins
In it. My body, and my poetry, are tender for the commoner’s tongue,
The tit-bits of which I molest my ego with.
Some batter-fried vanity,
If I may, for some long-due love,
On the bathroom mirror.
In that far-fetched story,
Of an udderful of cow, jumping over the moon,
You find the mother of all metaphors,
To the naked eye or the telescopic lens
Is as cheesy and porous as it gets,
And yet the poet, observes, the full moon,
Like a famished mouse, starved of inspiration,
Gazing at a larger-than-life wheel,
Of irresistible Gouda
That more often than not, turns by nightfall,
Into the perfect muse.
The infection I cannot forego
The foreigner that came
To be a patriot. The La Fayette in me
Who looks every inch as conflicted
As a melee, and as disapproved, as a glass of moonshine,
And still I run the marathon of life
Like there are eagle wings at the end and that blind man
Who worships with his heart,
A woman who can bake just about anything,
Can only be a fool in faith, of that strange corridor
That stares at you from afar and narrows from the sides.
And how beautiful is claustrophilia,
Of knowing that the heart has
An ocular disease and all that you are,
Is just a presence to another, of that ill-defined feeling
Of liking a space that drifts nearer and nearer
Until you are perfectly incapacitated
Of uttering just about anything.
And in that dumbing tradition,
We prosper to what, touch reconciles
And taste defines.
A female mosquito
Defines in one act of salivation
The Sapphic indulgence of blood
From a buxom woman.
Which when adulterated with
The smallest existing life form,
Decimates a sculpture of flesh
Into decimals of dust.