that which can simulate,

(but does not inebriate),

aroma of fresh mornings appropriate;

that which can invigorate,

but does not intoxicate

surely must some ambrosia incorporate.

poured for every potentate,

sipped in every sultanate,

dark-brewed nirvana – siva incarnate!




In the real world – as also in faerie tales –

it is about thaumaturgy.

In the real world Alice is the monster

and the Jabberwock a virginal cherub,

logged on with the user name ‘bruised romantic’

…..and the password – Rumpelstiltskin.




of prompts – and other gimmicks:


dear me,

pretentious, pushing phifty;

what once was over the hill, now?

water under the bridge?


if i could, i would

love you to death.

because death will part us.


and on the burial fern-lilies would sway

to the plonk-plonk of a tinny piano,

chinese-lanterns in the waft of the

muted yet clear laughter of guests,

( she would wear her favourite patent leather boots).


like an unwritten elegy on snow,

branded in vodka, singed for weeks,

to none can one say no.


for at the end of that long stiletto-pocked night,

the morning would have broken

( like the first morning),


dear me!








once high upon the sullen rocks

i chanced upon a paradox,

when the rivers fury in molten might

cut through the layers of solid granite.

and all that was trivial turned profound,

in earth-shattering motion laid to ground,

and the great crumbled to eternal dust….




truisms and cliché:

brother of sleep,
our common fate,
(be not proud);
no one here gets out alive.


soft -stepping gazelle,

in woods turning brown;

lambent eyes and lustrous skin,

she wears a diadem of sorrel keratin.

mottled fingers caress slender hands,

soft like her name,

her lips – and the dulcet tone

when she speaks in a shy,

halting susurration.

soft curve against the teak and timber

of a bench; riparian setting,

for pulchritude clothed in the purple of passion….

…and unclothed by a piercing gaze


new shoes:

her memories,

dead skin against

my live one,

(…and right now, she’s winning!)


her lies,


shifting shadows,

seek walls….



her words,


hang on the lips of

a storm cloud

Whack the talk….


The subject used to be the tag-line for an older, now defunct,  blog on rediff.com. I would like to start writing again and am looking for an excuse to do that.

The time difference will be something to watch. Also I am in the Middle East and we traditionally work on Sundays.

Should be fun 🙂