Kalpurush

Deep beyond the wild blue yonder There is no over and there is no under The stars they shine like jellyfish at play And the sun rises beneath our feet by day The Sun rays filter through the gaps in our fingers And there is a gentleness thereafter that lingers Until the Moon takes her rightful place in the dark Whereby gently through a lullaby upon an adventure we hark

Two dead animals lie beside one another One inside a cage and the other out One loved once, Saw the day once, Kissed the clouds once. And the other never breathed, Never opened his eyes, Never even spoke. The one inside sleeps in eternal peace. He's calm, soft, cuddly. The one outside had seen better days. The one outside could have had it better. All she wanted was water. All she wanted was air. The one inside never was alive and never will be. And the one outside once was, but now it won't be. The one outside was killed By the makers of the one inside. They took away her air, Her water, Her flight, Her feathers. They tried giving all of that to the one inside. But no matter how much they tried, He wouldn't bark, He wouldn't sniff, He wouldn't love. He would be loved by the young ones of them to come And then one day he would wear and tear and gather dirt Out of neglect of the same creators that tried to give him life. He will never know the taste of freedom as he burns in the incinerator. When his time is long gone, When he has overdone his stay. And that's when the one outside will laugh From high above. She was alive once. She breathed once. She would laugh in agony and anger, And disdain and hunger. She would know the wrath of nature and how it treats those children Who have overdone their stay. She would know it because she was her one of her children She would know it, because she is her.

When my poetry stagnates, I know the world is on fire. I know the world is on fire, for my poetry does not sing. It is not born out of misery, my words, But squeezed instead out of the last remaining willfull happiness I have left within me. This happiness that writhes in pain, Asking to be let free. In my misery I drink of the world. I embody the cowardice my forefathers taught me to seek. I am flesh and I am bone and the misery of this earth Does not entail me. And neither does my poetry. Dried up sands within fall like an inch of time pasing by from a higher cliff And atop it I sit, wondering When shall the end be near me.

Angry beats of an angry song in my ears. Guitar strums of words so revolutionary that they feel jarring. They bleed the numbness away.

Life becomes an endless bus journey. Life is filled with such endless roads that lead to nowhere hearts, And unknown halls that breed dead trees; No Garden of Eden in sight.

This is God's hell where we abide!

Unseen faces pass by on both sides As I run dead center with blinders in my eyes. I try and fixate my sight on one of them, For a moment I turn my head. But before I can focus, it vanishes into chaos.

I stretch my hands out and it hurts as the fingers scrape walls that never fall, rebuilt over one another. And the bones crack as they collide with the railings racing past.

Yellow lights brighter than fireflies scorch my eyes. I stay awake at night and every now and then I hear the mad dog cry. The mad dog drives me mad and I know I should sympathize but I can't.

He's dying. I know he's dying.

But this is God's hell where we abide!

Where nothing we do makes it to those who need us, And nothing we say makes it to those who feed us.

Nothing's permanent. It all ends.

And we're doomed to watch us destroy ourselves.

Romeo touches the feet of his lover Juliet dies at war Her pristine white gown stains in crimson As she lies still on the grass with dark skies above

“She sleeps beautifully”, he declares And their unborn child sucks on watermelon seeds As the feet of the bride touches heaven Countless red rivers drain into seas

She prays her lover can see her once more Romeo downstairs laughs hysterically He's happy that her bride smiles in death He will always be proud of her bravery

Juliet lies very still among other bodies With a flower in her hand of which no petals remain Romeo in his dreams runs in a sea of poppies Towards his lover, in a land of no restrain

Where blue skies bleed into yellow fields Where sirens are unheard of Where children don't pick bomb shells at the beach Where white pigeons fly high above

French Romanticism reached my city

Walking through sleepy afternoon lanes I hear meal heavy stomachs heave out sighs Of a momentary relief of illusion Roads seem blurry, Skies seem hazy, Dogs and crowds scream no more.

French Romanticism reached my city

The nights are quiet and chilly. Somewhere in the neighbourhood you'll hear a bark or two The windows are closed but the life from within seeps out into the open The street lamp outshines it all unless you look high enough And there within the clouds you'll see The face of tomorrow

French Romanticism reached my city

Through screens I watch road after road I watch feet, I watch slogans and I watch bloodshed Tilaks of red and orange mark people's foreheads Green isn't confined to just the trees. Blues and whites are a rare sight Black lies within these hearts

French Romanticism reached my city

Here people like to call everything a Revolution Songs of days gone by resurface, Lyrics of a bygone time make more sense with every passing day Writers have it easy these days, Storytellers don't. Ashes turn to ashes, But my bones, no they won't.

There's a butterfly in my basement It grows every time I see it On each visit it spreads its wings And allows me to pet it

It's colours are one of a kind Hint of brown in a shade of green It flutters around in my absence It keeps my basement clean

The moss that accumulate every summer Are the same colour as it's wings The butterfly eats my moss covered floor And when it's done, the doorbell rings

I have a doorbell at the entrance of my basement door It's useful, at times like these This butterfly unlike any others in the wild Loves ringing it as a code for “Please”

“Please come in, give me a visit, Please come look how clean I've made your floor. Please comment on how much you like it, And when you leave, please don't close the door.”

The butterfly in my basement is hungry for colours It's seen glimpses of yellow and blue Red, and purple and violet and pink, It wants to visit my living room too

The butterfly in my basement now sits in my bedroom It lies by the window sill Calm and quite not bothering a soul It tends to my house when I fall ill

The butterfly in my basement is all colourful now Shades of rainbow paint it's wings The moss covered basement sits abandoned now The doorbell no longer rings

The butterfly in my basement grows and grows While I shrink just enough to give the space it needs After all the moss in the basement was not enough for it's nourishment Now my grey house is on what it feeds.

In every universe we don't see, Do you think we always end up away from each other?

Its hard not to write stolen lines when thinking about you. The me I could've been with you.

Departed lips still bound by vines so strong That they break the illusion of you within me. Vines so old, vines so few You're so old, I'm so new Forgetting you with all the courage I had in me Was the best I could do.

Leave me be, Anastasia Leave me be.....

Let me suffer in this downtrodden earth My sweet home where my dying bed lies solemnly Let me die here, let me perish here.

I don't want to taste your lips anymore No more in my dreams, no more.

T4T representation, that's it

“oh...” She says, and pauses. He freezes up a little.

He knew this was coming, the realisation, and he's fully prepared for the rejection too.

“You're not a 'real' man then, are you?” She speaks in that deep voice of hers that makes something rumble deep in his core. Something raw and something carnal, something that makes her so much more desirable than other women.

“No...” He says simply, looking up and meeting her eyes as she returns the gaze. “I guess I'm not,” he adds as he continues to look into her eyes intently, accepting defeat, being the ultimate form of vulnerable that was left to be done in front of her.

A smile grows on her face, and she traces a finger along his jaw. It gives him shivers but he forces himself not to break eye contact. She shifts her eyes down to his lips and then back.

“Yes, you are, darling....” She finally says, voice deeper than usual. “Of course you're a Real man,” she puts stress on the word 'real' as she keeps gently caressing his jaw and then his neck, his collarbone and to the shoulder. She slides her fingers under his shirt and pushes off the fabric further to expose his full left shoulder. It's simple, it's subtle, but the act causes a fire to burn in the pit of his stomach.

“You're the Realest man I have ever met.....”

There's a pause. A breath. A sharp intake. And a smile, begrudgingly.

“So are you, by the way,” the man says after his long silence, still not having moved his eyes from her face while she painted him with hers. “The Realest woman I've ever met.”

She looks back up, and there's a glint in her eyes. They both know now, and they both care and don't care at the same time. She chuckles a little and that makes him smile probably the most genuine smile he smiled all evening, ignoring the countless times those present at the party a few hours ago extracted the faux gesture from him by force of habit. She prefers this one, she thinks. She lets him know. He is grateful, and he melts into her. She lets him and pulls him in as for the first time he experiences not being devoured.

She paints on him her long awaited masterpiece and he writes on her skin line after line of poetry he'd rather bottle up any other time.

For both of them, it's freeing. For both of them, it's divine.

Noise A constant How do measure time with it? Sound A calamity Beauty within the music of traffic Asphalt makes love with the grey fumes A product of insanity A product of humanity The street lights flicker Painting the roads white and dark White and dark Glaciers would tremble underneath their fluorescent wrath Bamboo structures paint the city Onset of the component of preparation Makes up the syllable of celebration Wonder is witnessed from stolen glances Unusual height amongst a moving traffic Curiosity from atop the lorry A product of insanity A product of humanity