The Poetry Marathon

From my windows

I saw a snake

It was slipping around unnoticed

in poetry marathon pages

it was looking for my neck

to constrict my free speech

but i outflew it

and landed right in middle

making more trouble

than a snake or even monkey

they want to give me a name

make memes out of it

and memorabilise

my entry and exit

This window seat

gives me the vantage

to enjoy the view

and laugh along

till

I shut it close

and storms in tea-cups

seem mild

compared to howling winds

in tunnels of ears

whoooo, whooooosh,

shhh, shhhhh, shhhhhhh

is it the sea receding

or the sea-shells on benaulim beach singing

Through my window I spy

you under umbrellas yellow and blue

competing

using what i wrote

to gain green cards

but forgetting

it is an artificial sea bowl

the man in the ship on the other side

is the time-keeper

He is useless

when it comes to gaurding the coast

he’s let in

the dark crows who see it all

with red raven eyes

I miss us

Can this be the shortest poem ever?

I miss us

is such a long poem but;

But it may be shortened

to fit the one thing I miss about us;

If I mention it,

night would turn twilight,

day would end in a buzz;

because the thing I miss about us

is unmentionable,

just an experience;

You know it,

I know better

because it is me who misses that us

and the thing it does

Curves sit well on you

on your knobby fingers with sweet meat and pink fat,

a writer you must be weilding a feather for a pen

curves of flesh on arms intersect with shoulders

did you sit meditating squarely or kneading dough plenty gained

dimples inside elbows and in collars like small caves

curve of your nose pouts, curve of chin juts out

pinna of your ears neat strain neck

into cheeky tilt to look at something captive

That black eveing gown sits

darker on curve of breasts. its curvy cuts dipping into its cleaved groove

your paleness offset by stark darkness of a high round butt

you turn to watch something leftwards

your arms define the conflict

the right stands on tip-toes on table-top, yearning to steady the fate

while the left folds the gown slightly and drops down

in slight pause of the familiar being let behind

eyes fullstops of pitch black under comma of equal shade

Hyper– exagerrating

Hyper– child

Hyper–  activity

Hyper– acidity

Hyper—bole poem

Lie- —–truth on this side

wasp visits white hive

painted and hanging intact

swings on the door’s joint

Those stars we reach for

stay in a dark hole, infundibular store, somewhere in galactic fantasy

sucked in, they die; blown up, they light our night-sky

the darkness we hide is our reality, the rest is our playful imagination that crawls, walks, runs and flies

set in a space digitalised by our mental keypad strokes

scrolled up, down and aligned from left to right, right to left and every which way on whole

a dimension for each thought, a revelation for each belief, a prayer for the unimaginable unknown

in this multidimensional mirror maze, where our eyes gaze at each other from every corner and space

we are left to die or live in waste

if we do not create something in haste as soon as we are taught that a comatose child is the star

that dropped into our lap when it is just our imagination worked up to a solid white

its dark falling on the blind eye, creation sets creatures against each other

you die, i live, i die, you live or we all die together and others take over

In this space we create for ourselves we accomodate many who have eaten into our space

and we eat them, kill them, raze them, overthrow, we create more and more emptiness in our imaginary play field

filling it up with plastic, concrete and the immovable, indestructible even by us

thus we lend our idea of immortality to such things who edge us out one by one

killing our creativity by replacing it with routine, mundane existence

that has lost its power to know only one good thing

how to occupy space and darken it by blocking the sun that stood for our collective gifts

our collective gift of throwing light on what we could be had we been atoms

atoms that weren’t afraid to draw heat, share heat, fire-up, light-up, burn, ablaze with blitzkreig creativity

and explode into billions of sub-atomic light-giving diamonds of brilliance

hard to stare at, but lighting up the path to get out through the dark hole from which stars escape at night

Can we have

a table for two,

waiter?

It is so full…

Yes, sir, it is;

it is monsoon

and none will take

the outdoors and wind.

Oh, then lets settle, dear,

for the outdoorsy,

under the umbrella

with blue-yellow stripes,

let’s go sit;

Why not, darling

the chairs are so antique,

almost rustic;

the food here is same,

with watered down spices;

but the drinks would be mixed

with elixir of heavens.

Right, madam

you both are in good company

of each other

we always have table for two

but never two that were brought together

for such fine dining and wining.

It is usual for me

to forget things and lose things

no, forget faces and lose memory

no, forget sins and lose patience

no, forget courtsey and lose respect

no, forget the milk on fire and lose my ear-rings while taking the dress off

but all that is usual right?

What is unusual is that

I lost my measure of height and forgot I was half an inch higher

and so I married

a man half inch shorter and thats why

I am Jinn the jeanie

Who hid her weenie

In her jeans

and waddled in

smiling

into everybody’s dreams

They kept me bottled in

didnt let me find

the free-way

to escape

from the lamp’s tunnel

at the end of which

I held the light

Then Alladin happened

he rubbed me the right way

and she manifested

herself

like a giant who loomed

over every element of nature

and bent

the air, wind and water

to fulfill his wish

and when he wished for the princess

she knew he sinned

for he saw through her candour

and loved through her sins

my giant cross-existence

in guise of a jinn

ended.

He was phallus incarnate

rage and passion both carnal and sedate

his dance was of great rigour

but steeped in dew and ardour

no sarcasm, no guile

no details of cunning kind

only the pure blue feelings

stuck in his throat

he danced for days on end

and gained thus a reputation

for being and becoming

creation and adoration

his dance is the thunder

wearing anklets

his song the rain

soaking earth

a vast populace

opens its hearts

to his passion’s

ritual insinuatiion

the drum-beats

are small

but his trishul long

three pronged he kills

love, lust and avarice

with his big feet dancing

to rhythm and beat

he births

love, desire and mavericks