Current Feelings

The saddest water
I found in the canal.
Green, a burnt green
of snubbed-out desire.
Thick, murky aftertaste
of layered longings.
Twigs and seeds, feathers and shells
melting between grinding planes
of current.

Salt from unspent tears
feeding ugly, lethargic, unforgiving,
smirking, whiskered fish.

Then, from nowhere,
an Amber glow falls.

Painshore

Every day I take a long winding walk
on the shores of disease.
People I meet smile
and make pleasant talk.
“What colour is your pain today”,
an old woman asks.
A white dog wags its tail
a baby cries softly
a bird hoots.
I walk on.

In the tea-stall,
a smiling man offers tea.
In his glass cupboard,
deep-fried bananas reflect
the sunset glow.

I seek you
in the sand speckled with baby sea-shells
in the wind that breathes salt
in the sky that slowly starts to bleed.

I walk on.

Mind the Monkey

Where does he go?

What does he touch?

Who does he bare
his sleaze-yellow teeth at?

What's his perch?

Rain-gobbled bark
of wilting mangosteen,

rotting leaves layered
with dead drying dung,

alabaster alcove, gilded spire,

driftwood dynasty
or mossy rooftop?

What does he hold?
Memories woven lazily
into gossamer globes,
luminous and warm?
Fear, singeing the skin
off barrels of wasted hope?

What does he speak?
Elegies bursting with manic laughter,
Sufi-words stranded as beads
on shiny rolling string,
incense swirling up, soothing
raw, ragged nerve-tips?

Mind, the monkey -
cageless, wanton, naked beast;
first to appear
and last
to leave.

Spring Cleaning

Layers off.

Clothes.

Skin.

Bone.

Marrow.

Guts.

What was left

flew out

through the window.

Way to Go

Yes, all entry sealed.
Steel dust ground into contacts
sentries guarding heart,
posted at each valve and ventricle.
Filters over ear drums,
deodorizers in nostrils,
number locks with Swahili numerals
on chastity belt.

Maybe I should try breaking into
Fort Knox instead.

Damp

Rain.
The city is one grey damp huge slushy
wet blanket.
The sun sprinkles powdered light
that gets filtered and scattered
miles above.
Wet crows, wet bullocks, wet
dreams shelter the hearts of damp memories.

Morning.
Face up on a park bench
granite digging backbone,
tamarind leaf canopy superimposed
on grey clouds.
Why does cloud 21 take the shape
of your nose?
Why does the pie-dog’s white patch
remind me of an old holiday?

Life’s questions are beyond me
today.

Rain Tree

You’ve visited my house, yes; many times,
But have you seen my rain tree?
The one with clouds for leaves
rainbows for fruits and little droplets for seeds?
Come with me, touch it.
Shake its branches, let the crystal drops descend on you.
See how wet the roots are.
See the damp bark, the rain-filled hollows
And the gum-mingled resin
trickling from the pores.

This is my rain tree
this is me.
Don’t hurt it, please,
even with a blade.

Conspiracy

God was in a benign mood.
He said, take my diamond mines
To park your thoughts.
Close to the core of the earth,
Where old secrets jostle
The fire of my loins.

God was in a forgiving mood.
He said, come sit on the apex
Of my shoulders, where the Everest breathes
Silence into the breaks between clouds
And rest awhile.

God was in a relaxed mood.
He said, come keep your heart
In my valley of flowers,
Let it cool with the dew
From the slumbering tulips and daisies.

God was in an indulgent mood.
He said, let me soothe your face
With a shimmer of silk, the breath of cherubs
And a serenade of peacock feathers.

I said,
Let me lay my thoughts on a park bench.
Let me perch on the step outside the washroom.
Let me keep my heart in a parking lot, and
Let my face be soothed by a reckless monsoon drop.

God looked over my shoulder
At you
And smiled.

23/04/09

Feelers

For a change,
Let us touch
With our bodies.

Lay bare our hungry skins
Reach for slippery corners
(not of our minds, this time)
And feel a different fulfillment
Rise.

Let us journey on different wings
Cling to different cliffs
Ease a different rhythm
Tease a different ink

Leave Kant for cont-
entment
Keats for heat
Brecht for breast
Sinclair for sin

And roll up some grass
In a page of Grass
Afterwards.

Brown Eyes

The baker said,I want brown.
Sin-steeped chocolate sauce,
Caramel crusty and burnt,
Cashew roasted to an infinite dark.

The painter said,
I want brown.
Raw umber, tempered
With a downy fawn and spiked
With shots of bronze.

The chef said,
I want brown.
The goo off the overdone sausage,
The edge from the cinnamon stick,
The fat from the greased
Old turkey.

The farmer said,
I want brown.
Early light glinting off the wheat
The patch between the calf’s little horns
Bushels ripe in silent wait
And twilight.

Then you opened your eyes
And all fell silent.