Revising: Blues

My tale will never end
I will write more
For you
Today you are gone
But I still walk to your house
And romance with your furniture
I try to smell you on your phone
And sit on your chair

It’s the nearness to your belongings
That is my poem for you
That makes me sad
Yet content
Because I can still touch you

I wonder sometimes
If you can sense me?
When I leave
I wonder sometimes
If these small things make a difference to you

Two poems

-Bullets in my brain-

Bullets in my brain
Oscillate...
A dead dog
Colors the pale highway
And sings

Choked drains
Desire earthquakes
Fireflies twinkling
In gloomy and profound valleys
Want longer nights

A rose wants
To taste blood, the other red
Calendars will never
Ever show dates again

-The unplugged-

The unplugged and the untouched
The inseminated bitch
And the castrated dog
Will party today

A few strangers in the bucket
From lands unknown, some even unheard
Talking jargon dreams
Will rock today

Victim of time

How it passes

And what it does

To people

Once kids

Then boys and girls

Then men and women

The core

And the shell,

Question?

And silently answer, repel

Run and cry

Vision and then the eyes

It is named time

A futile power

A living dead

And a deceitful truth

They say

No point in holding on to it

Repeat and memorize

Daily once, twice, thrice

But Oh! The beauty

That passed by

Still blinks in my wet eyes

People named friends

Those days and trends

That garden and those benches

Still….. still….

A few certificates

Remind me of my victory

And their defeat

Prize money is all spent

That time is dead

Not even a year old

In this new world

Everybody inquires

Of my past life

And secretly laugh

When I turn my eyes

These photographs

Are deep

An ocean of time

Like two Samosa’s

Dipped in coconut chutney

Or a bottle of soft drink

That passed till last sip

See them

A lot more

Is beneath them

A tranquil layer of vodka,

Lime, ice and a pinch of salt,

The froth of beer,

Aroma of the coffee,

In million card houses.

Sound of music,

Debates on feminism,

Chains of smoke,

Libraries and their ambiance

Hugs and kisses,

Diary entries and dope,

Rushing to the college

To show what you wrote.

A car accident,

When we were broke.

Losing control, after 8 P.M

Sleeping in the girls’ room.

Rain in the desert,

Full moon in the bathtub,

The kurta with the shloks

The teachers who became friends,

That bonfire and the holy smoke

Ashes and dew drops

Think about them

So….. many

So many moments

Make these photographs

Always remember

It’s just me

Another victim of time

Book-worm Tag

I've been tagged!!!

Thank you, Gypsy. I'm supposed to

Pick up the nearest book.
Open page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.


Now I guess there is no way that I can stop this. This will bring out the truth about the kind of books I read. gosh...

OK....I am already embarrassed..... I know it sucks but the nearest book is "All about Six Sigma" by Warren Brussee

And this is what it says:


For less than a given outcome, like less than 3 heads out of 8 coin tosses, use the cumulative function True with the success at 1 less than the given value (3-1=2):
Success = 2
Trials = 8
p = 0.5
Cumulative : true The result is P = 0.1445

wtf....really.....Now that I have shared with you something that really doesn't mean anything....I tag:

Tairebabs
Emaan and/or Emaan' Mom
Anindita
Quarterpast7
Ranjana

I am pretty sure that they will have better books.......
Signing out,
Peace

543 Faces

543 faces

Smudged, ugly, vivacious

A pair of fervent eyes

Sees ‘em all

672 colors

Light, dark, bright

A single color

Explains ‘em all

This vision is your souvenir

And so are those ugly faces

Only if I could recall

Those 543 faces in 672 colors each

I wouldn’t need

A need for you

Surpass the disguise

Choke the wise

Accelerate all passion

Run, run

Speed up the light

Kill the Gods

For once let this vision

Be your guide

In the five page story

Of and on life

@ office !!

A few translucent blocks

The trapped bodies and their mighty souls

People move in blocks

And a glass separates lovers

That is me in that cabin

And I listen to music

The background score of my life

Baked clay

Its smell and harsh texture

Is all over my body

Cold heat sweat

And junctions of passion

Divisions on morals

And critics fucking the stories

I sit on all these

Or may be somewhere in between them

And emit that thing called vigor