The Stars Walk Backward

The
bitter beauty
of a falsetto day,
branded with
the tusks of absurdity,
gathers its guests
for its arsenal of flies.

The garden unfurls itself in the honour,
of each colour's tribe and origin of unselfish
bearing.

Pariahs and mad saints
all gather forth,
to drink from the saliva,
of tarnished brass rituals-

too cold and crass and murdered from last night's hell.

The world sinks itself into the wisdom,
of careful observation,
and
metallic hopelessness
-of every street urchin's worn out lace-dreams.

Specially when, human meat is packaged into eloquent metaphors of war casualty and degeneration of collective "consciousness",
I tremble brown and flaky.
A little hungry and split headached.
Churning, into a self cannibalizing vortex.

Becoming soft and incoherent
and slight and flighted.

At times,
I tremble for the melted pain in deep-set eyes,
the colour of Bombay black.

I feel
small
and ill at the altar of
the backdoor tide.

So enraged
and divided.
Emasculated
and partitioned thereafter;

by the private game of civilized society
that everyone seems to play.

Once I saw chaos in the sky of my dream.
Once i saw the hurricane of death fornicating.
Once I saw the coal of ambition burn.
through my shins.

And
split
me
endlessly
into
strips
of
technicoloured
nausea.

Where are the stars we were
promised
?

Husk And Raw Lips

The years will cough with grime...
And your face in its beauty will remain.
You will remain.
Your mustache.
Scars.
Lips like subtle beaks.
Your fingernails...
Gentle-
All of them.
The rough pores of your skin.
Your water-eyes.
The raw human-colour
of your lips.
Your soft hair,
covering the belly.
Brown arms,
the colour of beaten husk.
Sadness,
never bought,
but slipped into the ear.
Slowly, secretly,
as if on cue.
Your bones.
Malignant with a shudder.
The neck bent and broken
sideways-
Into the breast of a lover.
In the center of the almond skin,
blowing soft anger
on the texture of her rib.
Intersecting your heart and meridians
of loss,
into the sheets.
Into the muscle of the afternoon.
When summer yawns
translucent
lids of light
into your thigh
and mine.

The backs of my knees
become paper,
with barren warmth.
And salt erupts
under my soles.
My knees
uncurl,
sane.
But lift
like wings
separating
from the sinews
of shape.

I will hold you here
sexual and breathing.