Pensieve

I dreamt of you

one autumn night

the stars etched as on stone

never blinking but

an eye

And paradise startled

me,

with its soft feet

sinking, through the grass,

in despair

Wander,

wander through

dusty roads,

The steep sun unkind

never near, ever—

Maybe you’ll find me

thinking

On a rock,

pensive and strong.

I know no other

except you

In the streams of beauty that surround me

When I breathe,

and the clock striking new time—

A minute passed,

I thought of you

Now,

what next?

Strongly discordant

the nemesis arrives

incoherent, unknown—

Must I think of you

as a paean of beauty

since I carve you in

these lines?

Decipher me like an April breeze,

So non-existent, that I can weep

for a flutter of an eyelash, or a heart

Steeped in dusk

in vain,

in acres of lacquer

those grief driven eyes—transient with woe:

how shall I cast myself about you?

FREE FALL

wanton memories

plunge me into a free fall

of verse

and non sense

the world swirls by

and I stream past myself

in my many moods.

when I crash, there shall be nothing

but a paper envelope

flat out on a piece of earth.

Ecstasies dwindle

mechanically,

Risqué in their disappearance.

I tried to hold them back

but my fingers crushed and

crumbled

Left me insensible—

polarized

and thoughtful.

Blanched in joy,

parakeets purple—

and summer cleaves to the edges

so long steeped with dark.

The murmurs reach a crescendo

of dominant moods,

apparent in echoes.

I strive to secure you now,

in beauty and truth

and the jeweled lacquer of my eyes—

Let us dream in oxymorons.

Rage

Every obsessed thought

is really a jangled

maudlin of entities

and gratifications—

Perhaps also a silver thread…

of heartbeats and the

wringing of hands,

And foreheads and palms

Of esoteric fantasies

When you touch my skin,

Do you hear the murmurings of

an evanescent song?

I hear you labouring

to possess the

concept of me—

Kindling broken visages

With an aura—

—of a smile—

Is an art in itself,

a mixture of smooth scented pinheads,

sharp against the trope of foreheads,

Covered with scars

—my nails painting your skin—

In a ramble of vermilions

smeared over me-

I hear the envy of

the daemons

Who have inhabited and mortgaged,

And every feeling,

and every sigh-

Bundle up in her long tresses

In a lie in a truth,

there lies a lie again

And again and again

The shrieks enfold,

Where the roaring ceases

Caverns open and sleep in

vacuumed recesses

Menanger lurks,

uncontrollable

Seething to fulfill her rage.

....cross-stitched on the verandah wall,

sunshine droops...

sleep stills the heavy air, i pause to breathe--

and the memories come back,
come back;
they fill my soul with dreams...
And love becomes a Vision
of past-perfects and future continuous

The present is lost to daydreamings....

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