Change of season:

This trapdoor of anger

Hangs loose

Unlatched

The winter fearing retribution

Wraps up its bundle

Children now begin to wear

The slight sweat on their skin

In between

A cat in a rigor mortis

Stinks up the boulevard of pansies

The tightening of the jaw

Accepts the loose anger

Like grace

The body now a blade

Prepares to cut

Through the conceit

Of an impending summer

Manifesto:

Yay

Shall we

Sallow sons of bitches

Bellow   our feeble hearts

Scarlet tainted

With guilt

Pitch the scream

At the heart of the mud

Harpoon through

The list of disregards?

Fight in the bar

Light on feet

Spite on lips

Lit up a bored room

Spit bubble bath

Hit the nail

A little beside the head

And the glass

Coy as spring kissed girls

Tinkled before shattering

On the floor

Encore

Sozzled men

Sizzled for a second

Then lights out

Saturday Night

A Chicken flight

To the ceiling and back

Next week will be better

Next life will be eagle

Higher on crack.

Tom and Jerry

Grimacing Jerry
Had a beer belly
Since taciturn Tom
Left the slapstick home
And lost his way
Among
The alley cats who think
All day of ways
To win
The whole world back.

A Three Liner

This insanity shuts me up
And me makes me worth
The silence

Today:

Ran a miracle mile, a song of hope, extracted from the poverty of pop, I want to write my hand in to your glove, to fit and then unwrap, kicked in the gut, birthday party from tomorrow, without the sound I cannot unwind, yeah, one two three, this is not my tongue, this my forked tongue, true to love, so true lip bitten blue, one face to another , yo-yo, crashed in style, no no you cannot ask me to be special, or the other way around, electric, electric evening, sparks of boredom, short circuit to endless nights, sleep in the morning, now I must rest, reset and relax, fax resignations, meet with quizzical greetings during lunch, ask me how I m, I have learnt to smile, just like a photograph.

Tomorrow:

Aged fourteen, jerking off in pretty teacher panties, heard the warm hiss, snakes surprised morning university, I want to dream, into sneak peaks, seven thirty dates with censored Bollywood, Manisha Koirala a princess in need, be good, be good please, don’t disappoint a multitude of one, two or three, count like king with pocketful of sixpence, bite of the bit, that he or she won’t chew, lining up a shot in pleasant dark, elsie whimpers and dies, a pair of spikes, dirt cheap, on the sidelines for ever, then burst open for fifteen minutes, hello son can you speak in English? Nahi, the north now has conquered me, come tomorrow, come quickly.

Yesterday:

Cloud cover, every night we smash a mercedez benz, Joplin laughter in choppy waters, I m coming home baby, following a tune, no pied piper shit, rats scurry over my feet, with no respect for rabies, or plague, create a commandment, tattooed on the forehead, just above the cut on the eye lid, will let things slide off, will learn the secret of the electric eel. Will start a forest fire at the first opportunity, and then run, taking queue yesterday will turn into today, fritter away, fritter away, chirping peacocks, thank you for the world and everything. Morning prayer , our father the earliest riser in the prettiest heaven, have mercy.

What is the point? Cartographically or otherwise one answers in terms of direction, imagine the usual, crossroads, four way exits, or entry, whichever way one wants to see, usually away, farewell bash? Perhaps. Goldfish sewing forgetful flowers, not quite in full bloom, is interested in the texture of things, will move down south to become hollywood. That then is a point.

Fish and Bull stories are not always pleasant. Especially when they are precociously gifted. Especially when they can change into each other, where bulls have gills that breathe in the deep and fish has horns that tear apart clumps of hair. But then they switch. Again. Fish jumps back on dry land, no alcohol, arse frozen, museum of cold. Bull flies on an aeroplane, before cribbing around in city by the sea, fat men, hanging tongues, yoko ono shades, ah the electric embrace corrupted by local trains, unwelcome butt cracks of hosts on a two drag high. Fish in the meantime, lags behind late late nights,asks for forgiveness, from the larger gods of Switcheroo, so it can stop taking itself seriously, all the stink of the market,dead eyes bereft of pain, laughter sniggers, haltingly,prepares to move east for warmth. Bull is kind. Bull thinks about turning into twisted cat, white quilts, red in a colour blind world. Bull and fish pump blood to the heart. They are about to meet. Fish and bull decide to be nice to each other. Fish learns to cook and brings breakfast to the bed, buys bull and friends fancy hair gell, vibrating condoms. Happiness in a gas cylinder, grows, till medium gods of accident intervene, rips through the kitchen to leave scattered scales or flakes of horn, which one? i dont know which one blew up, the fish or the bull, for as one already knows they could change into each other..

Music makes things easy. Bearable sunshine, desired tan, rabid radicals all buried, whilting evening melancholy, pure contagion infecting with happy deaths. A minor third doesn t fit in with some of these things, snap change in wrist psotions to fit into time, tucked inside tuxedos, simple major chord progression, one doesn't know much about these things. Boxed sets blare or soothe without agenda.Depends on how one is feeling. How are you doing? There is a tale about a lyre made up of bones of a musician who lost out in love, crossed out other pockets to delve into depths of invisble flesh, no label to take up a broken heart when it is not prepared to sell, lyre sounds are difficult to hear, music while making things easy washes away history, sparkling, bubble gum teeth, clear like a knopfler note, sound of water on water.

Four o clock is a not yet. Like a sleep is a not yet. It will come. The comfort and certainity of futures that remain simple. Motor reaction like, knee jerk, not half as calamitious. Bordering on the banal. The story was on a ship. Sailing across sea, chasm like, vacuum cleaner in suction mode , at night, things remained rudimentary. There was work at day, there was work at night, there was work in between. Like air. Enough for all to breathe in without worrying about greed. The crew couldn t talk. A breed of rats that had bred itself near the hull, brought in a plague once. None died. Only tongues started to rot. Cut off one by one, elements of conversation walked the plank. Silence was established. It was a fair deal. Sea was seldom not in suction mode. It needed things to feed on. Secrets that tongues might have hid fit the bill. Or so it seemed. There was still a treasure to search . As always there is. On better days it was called hope, on nights of lust it turned to gold. Where? On an island with the siren sitting on a tower with fancy flutemen dreesed in suave blue and nude fucked up fallen adams, sometimes eves too. All this magic but rarely any hares running down holes, slight hunger pangs, music from top of the tower, only song allowed to be sung, Ain't no jelly in the jelly fish darling, and doors, all shut with silver locks, a card game on the edge, these everybody wait for the crew to come, seperated by absence ,the two sets, the two thickened spaces, linked by a ship,yearn for the other. Absence sea lit, split wide wide open.

Only black comedy comes in and leaves without control. No sentries at the gate. Please. You are welcome. Do come in. Share your drink. Remember to be kind.

Monsoon sessions:some sounds beneath some hopes

The Spin Doctors:

Lets spin.
Wheels turn indiscriminately, this is such a cliché that the circle bends only at places that you and I cannot see
You I cannot see. Nevertheless one is comforted by visions that stretch without paying heed to Euclid.
On the same spot till I m dizzy, Let’s spin
I have too much time
Spent
To spend.

Persistence:
Lets keep at it something usually creeps up beneath the chaos.
What sounds can I hear now?
Can I not write about flowers in full bloom?
Yes, I believe that it isn’t that easy
But one must keep at it, usually lilies creep beneath the dying and the dead.
Without alchohol:
Why do cities conspire?
Dry days in the midst of rain
I can no longer remember people whom I ought to remember,
now, here,
the years haven’t passed me by yet.
Still small tragedies affect
How deeply?
Like dry days in midst of rain and tiny conspiratorial cities sheltering hooded men whispering secretively.

The ride II

The ride II

Wired sky skin shoots past through the car window,
the eye gets tuned into a sense of distance;
a land conquered by birds floating to and fro.

To begin with

there was a ride. i was in between, on super fast trains that run three hours late. Only the slight rocking of travel made sense. Policemen high strung with light machine guns moved up and down sometimes. At the end of the door a little man was caught smoking. Small sins magnified in air conditioned tombs. How far do we have to go? Whom do have to meet? And the triad will get completed, wait, what does this restlessness mean?
There is a stop. I step out. Black coat garbed men and truant school children try to remove the sun from their eyes. Deep inhalings of contenment. The morning cracks open like a skull on the edge of the tin station roof. How many hours? These questions disturb the complacency of thoughtlessness.
I m a thoughless man.
The green shines in a distance and things are programmed to leave. Some people are playing ball on a field that runs through i dont know where. A kid skims through two defenders and makes my day.
There is a place where the world is a trampoline.
But in the beginninig there is only the ride.