Friday, July 4

A Pervert Nostalgia.

Bending like a trained gymnast,
Lumps revealed.
Curving and arching.
My eyes wander on your scape,
I feel gooses and bumps.

This sparse growth
This thick bush,
Is trying to hide from me-
Big rocks scattered and a bent log, broken
Running long and thick between it.

Moist from the night's fall
Exotic smells and heightening senses.
These roads to Mussoorie.
This nostalgia.

My Stand Point.

For my musings are not literature, not even close.
They are mere reflections, characterless
Of the life that I lived, mediocre.
Compromised lovers and comfortable love stories.
A cheap book made into a cheaper film.

Half Bitch.

Slipped at the age of 15
And never learnt a lesson.
Slipped again at 18 and 22
Well, nothing again.
I gave my heart in style
Succumbed when I got no replies.
Let is suffocate in a dingy chamber.
Till is ceased to exist
Or so I thought.
Love, in all its velocity
blew off me, my charm
Love in all its texture
corroded my being, my all.
For love it comes in such fierceness.
A simple rubbing on my shoulder,
is now a itchy red scar.
And now Im what they call
A stone hearted half bitch.

Thursday, June 26

A Devious Appeal.

Treason, rape, murder and theft
And how many more, shall I make you count?
You did these to my soul and my being,
Forsake my freedom, my love.
Love, the most essential,
Love, taken so forcefully.

Everyday I wake up,
I wish for you to change.
For humans to be more humane,
For masses to consider.
Adopt me.
I appeal again.

I do not ask of you, what is yours,
I just want a validation for what is mine.

I shall leave you alone, a promise.
For I breathe with my likes,
I thrive with them, just a handful.
But for when I venture out,
I want no raised eyebrows, or fists,
Or pointed fingers.
I need invisibility.
I need approval.

What I ask of you - less,
What I demand of you - essential.
What I pray for - survival.
Why then ignore it?
Why then fight it?
Why suppress?

I have begged and cried.
I was kind enough to not steal.
But know this, time and again,
Forced and deprived many a times;
Evil is not born, its made.

A hurt ego, and a bruised past,
A foggy future, with all to lose.
I would be a villain, classic.
For I tread on a path, without weakness.
Consider this an alarm.

Boiling on low flame,
You are brewing me to perfection,
Compelling me to spill, burn and scar.
Consider this a warning.

I’m hopeful and determined.
Its mine and I shall have it.
With the morals burning down,
An obsession is taking over.

This my final plead -
Hand me over what was never yours.  

A Writer's Block.

The swaying trees,
Rejoicing the monsoon,
And the falling water on my forehead.
Everything that is meant to be wonderful and poetic.
Everything a desperate romantic would hope for.
It was perfect, at-least it used to be.
But today, it made no sense
It didn't move me to write.
It didn't move me to tears.
The ripples today,
And the glowing fireflies, in hiding
Seemed more technical than magical.
And the miracle seems to have lifted.
Why so ? why this vision ? Devoid.
Something has changed.
Something has gone missing, for too long.
Could it be the happiness.
And the Love, divine.
For all write about love.
For all write about how wonderful it is.
No.
When I fall in love, I'm too busy.
Too busy, loving.
It sure is the anti, a heartbreak.
It sure is the misery, the pain,
The lack of a lover,
It makes me pick up my pen.
The hurt from a loved one,
Compels me to howl, on paper.
Till I feel it.
Till I have it in me.
And today its been long.
Since I fell in love, to break my heart.
Since I felt like a poet.
Since I wrote poetry.

A Tiff.

For today when he sat down in a perfect sitting with dim yellow lights, cool breeze and some drizzling, inspiration did not come to him. He fought hard, for the nib to scribble some words on the once blank sheet, now marked with desperation. After a couple of trials some lines appeared but they didn’t make any sense. A mediocre gibberish. Multiple topics of wonderful poetry passed his head, but none of them good enough. Nothing moved him today. He has been like this since the past few days. The writer in him was suffocating  and dying a painful death. It felt like that. 
 He desperately had to fall in love and get his heart broken again.

Subjective.

So what name do I give you
A stirrer, soul shaker
An amen, or a life restorer
Or just a one night stand.

Leaving Home.

For what joy did I move away from the town and the boys ?
For what reasons I escaped the haven of men, probable loves ?
Probably I was running out of reasons to Love.
Love, so venting, so demanding.
So heartbreaking.

Wednesday, May 7

The Call

How long has it been since wood excited me ?
Since the colors painted,
Sounds and smells around me ?
Brass in its luster seducing.
Stone in all its coolness, pacifying.
That muddy smell,
The erotic weathered paint,
Intoxication from an antique object.
One old unlikely embossed tanjore 
reminds me of a kingship.
Gold, rubies and reckless diamonds.
Ah the moth eaten carpets.
Have they become more beautiful with time.
The faded silk and some knots missing.
Those chipped ceramics andplastered faux
These are not the object of a Japanese king, appreciative,
But a broke indian king, spent.
It is a beautiful melody, dying.
A fragile dream, awaiting the intrusive morning.
I too shed a single tear
A silent protest
A helpless lover.

Wednesday, April 16

Offended of sorts.

This rapist and that molester
This corrupt politician, that suppressive leader.
Them, these men and women of the unethical-
They are after me.
A fragile flower admirer.
A jovial children lover
A worshipper of women
A helping hand for the incapable
A helper of sorts
I, a gay man,
A confused man.
A half man, a “more than a man”- man.
I a criminal?
I a sinner?
What I see today is a beautiful reflection.
A beautiful creation, in its flaws.
Not sexual but physical.
It’s me, now a criminal.
In a lands of hypocrisy and the unaware
In a land torn between irony and injustice.
In a land that is now ceasing to be.
In a land that seems no longer my own.

Saturday, April 12

Detached.

Altitude twists attitudes.
High floors brews philosophers.
There is something about these hanging balconies,
You can look away and beyond-
Far from the reality.
Once in a while I do give in to this temptation.
I sit too, in my balcony of a high apartment.
At night when the sounds are less, and light specks many.
A game of lego, only illuminated.
Block on blocks, blocks following blocks
Dazzled in patterns of black and yellow.
At night everything is one
No rich and no poor
That blue of the cheap plastic that coats the slum tops
That matt of the stone surface that adorns the beautiful ones
All submerge into one black, just yellow showy crystals.
But in this height, air deprived
I feel detached.
I feel removed.
No bodies to be seen.
No hands to be brushed against.
Eyes disappeared into the dark.
No glints, no hopes.
I’d rather be a thriving loafer,
Than a lonesome philosopher.
So I climb down
To collect another story
To fashion another poem.

Saturday, March 1

March.

The venomous hiss of an inky black backdrop,
Spill over hunting skeletons in cautious attires.
The liberals and the orthodox,
Rant and pray and hunt.
For the twilight is never far,
And the hours are never countless,
Desire is never content.
These forlorn suggestive statures
In the middle of nowhere, at an awkward hour.
Coincidence?
A staged drama indeed,
Ending in ironies and tragedies.
These actors are protagonists, all of them.
The stories, Shakespearean in their narration.
Bombay , stained by sin, awaits a monsoon.

Monday, February 10

Love.

"Help me to love you"- he said. 
"How ?" 
"Just love me and be hopeful."

Thursday, January 23

On The Go.

I saw five of them at Goregaon station
Three more got in at Andheri
By Bandra they had multiplied to 15 too many
Hurdled and aimed
An army of violaters, policing around.
So focused on breaking records.

Between Borivili  to Churchgate
How many men and how many stains ?

Counting Queers.

They are everywhere
Concealed and conspiring
Sometimes more opaque than the others
Animate and inanimate sometimes
But they are very much there.

These multi story buildings
I see them yonder
How many you say
Must there be my kind?
Some must be east facing, some west
Some under some and some on top.

These men around me
Headed to their homes
Some married and some to be
And some playing alive, dead.
How many of them must be
thinking what I'm thinking right now ?

Doing Mr.Khan

One of my affairs.
Longing, pain and suffering.
It was quite virtual,
But quite real indeed.
I was left unfulfilled and drained.
I was here, this side of the screen,
And Mr.Khan was dancing there.
The way he delivered,
That glint in the eye,
That curling of the lip,
That sly shy.
I’d immerse myself,
And reply before the heroine,
To his brewing magic and building emotions,
I’d reply with overflowing eyes.
Oh he was so good.
A perfect man to be.
Bounty in all values
And pretty like a cherry tree.
At one point I really thought
That we were meant to be
One for the other.
No inconsequence just pure glee.
In time I compromised,
And thought being a secret lover befitted,
For he was too important and known,
And I might cause him to crumble.


And so I let him be.

Instruction Manual for Local Travel.

May I have your attention please!
Passengers are requested
Not to travel on rooftops.
Tops and bottoms,
And the curious likes.
You are requested not to climb out,
Or even sit on the cerulean surfaces.
Just stand up and mingle in,
Near the doors and the passages,
Become a thick gelatinous smog,
Felt but never caught.
Be on the moving floor, juggling.
Aspire not for the high roof,
But the erect of these men.
Don’t reach out,
But lower down.
For there lies everything unachievable above,
And what’s worth life, love
Is below.
Sometime peeking sometime hidden.





The Demanding Messenger.

Morning made me reach down.
A familiar rigidity, demanding and irritating.
No mood of defiance,
And futile efforts to pacify it.
To suppress, to restrain and to repress,
Or to get done with it,
Nothing works.
For it is bored of me.
It demands guest hands and untried mouths.
In silent protests, it pulsates,
Irritating and embarrassing.
It is ever growing,
A slave rebellion for liberation.

It now rebukes in public places too.

Frail.

And when the night comes announced
I shall cover you up secure.
One shadow we shall cast in the moon,
Like a single canopy of a million leaves.
For they wont understand our love
And how deep we run.
Much like the sound of silence.
Much like nothingness.

A Kiss.

On tasting my breath this morning, such familiarity.
A dried up mouth and cracked lips,
A tongue restrained from its erotic acrobatics,
And teeth the silent witness.
How long shall this wait go on ?
For another winter has passed
Without a kiss.

Friday, January 17

Musings.

A

For my retreat doesn’t matter.
At one point of time or the other
I “have to” come out.


B

I’m a painter, a poet and a singer
A dreamer, untidy and lazy
And oh, I also happen to be gay.


C

That girl in the neighborhood
Made me so jealous
My cricket bat,
Her dazzling doll.


D

And of course they would like me
Them girls and boys
For I was fair and slender,
But how was I too choose ?
And so I chose someone like me


E

For when we played doctor,
All diseases big and small,
Cured by nudging and tugging on our privates
Ah! Simplicity of that time and age.


 F

On 10th December 1994
We slipped our hands into each others pocket
And felt life pulsating, warm.
On 10th December 1996
He behaves like nothing happened.
That is my first love story.


G

Horrid year this is.
None of the boys felt me,
And certainly didn’t want me to.
For we have graduated to high school.
Things are going to be a little different now.

Thursday, January 16

Narcissism and Devoid.

If we do not cross it today
Then I shall shut my gates forever
Like the ramadan's moon
Like tsunami
I shall happen but only once and today
I shall not on the festivals
For the colors are brighter than my skin
The crackers more shiny than me
I chose this redundant dark day
Devoid of the stars and the moon
Devoid of people and beauty
For I'm the only focus, 
And so devoid of you as well.

Saturday, January 4

Exploring the Redundant.

It must have been a gay mosquito.
You know that one with the showy hinds,
Stripped and patterned ?
It bit me and bit me bad.
For after that I have been gay.

Do you think it was the doll.
For there was something about its eyes.
Once or twice I slyly played with it.
I fear that stare has me hypnotized.
For after that I have been gay.

It could have been my tiffin box
Bright and bubbly, like how you see all girls.
For I always seemed like that as well.
It must have poisoned my lunch everyday.
For after that I have been gay.

O, a probable half culprit.
That boy living next doors.
That bumble bee, in lovely tee
That one to enter my thoughts.
He must have ceased my development,
My evolution and my being.
I touched him well, once and twice

And after that I have been gay.