to her

Pound me with your high heels
Grind me in your kitchen grinder

A wish in bangalore

Once i had a lover
who thought i was a rubber.
She thought i would go back
to where i was.
She was bit in hurry
she changed from pink to yellow
waitng for no seasons
she took me to the chemist shop
in the morning
holding me through voice
from shop to shop
looking for Nycil
she loved tomato salad

I took her to pee
at nights
she wanted to get married
all i asked was for sometime
to feel my heart beats
but she is gone now

where is she?
O tomatoes of Ema keithel!
did she come here
with her father?
I remain her lover

O cyclists on the road
did you see her
with her bicycle?
She must have been around
she doesnt cycle that fast

If i meet her again
and if there is no one by her side
I would hold her tight
till im eighty or seventy

Just for a night

whether you accept it or not
 Let me present myself to you
I will not grow the china rose
out of your navel in your sleep
I will never again take away
the sleep from you eyes with my filthy kisses

Im next to you lying
when you spread your hands or legs
in ur sleep
please be careful
Im fragile
I may break anytime
Im softer than what you are
Just touch me tenderly
I will touch you back dearly

just for a night
just for moment

my hammer

To the ones she loves
She is a cushion
or a furniture.
But to me
She is a hammer


In kurta he comes with beard
From north
and replace me

her love comes wearing a hat
from east
then she keeps me aside

Saying I will never change
I weep
then she gives me a tissue

the rain pours as we stand
under the shed
I smile as I have an umbrella

but a man with a raincoat
comes from south
and they walk away

we meet again after spring
she comes from west
but she wears a thing called ring

Ode to Music at Dawn of March 22, 2010

There are too many beautiful music
with which I can Kill myself.

A Suicidal Drama Hero (When spring comes)

a suicidal drama hero
dreamt next to the cemetery
with crosses sending signals of silence

the moon above so big and low
making a vow
to the curtains of his windows

how do the trees know it is spring time
when i dont know what's in my mind

spring be my lover
insanity be my spring
Soko be my insomnia
Charles Bukowski be me
wondering 4am in the morning
what such a lifeless poem
doing upon my white pages of me-peace-lover

dawn time, no more caffeine in my vein
the chinese pencil broke its lead
leaving a hole in my dirty pillow

I heard this purple city
singing colours
and i sang black and white
and the morning sky showered loneliness
and everybody in the streets got an umbrella
except me and i was wet,
wet like in dreams of night swimming

A sucidal drama hero
who was stuffed with songs of fraud in his mouth
at drunken nights of Bangalore, I am

some hopes some loves
some tear drops some spits
I left on the dusty roads
for those who love to pick up

cry for me, spring
with your new leaves of old trees
and the wind shall mop away the fallen leaves.

die for me, you street dogs,
with your howl
showing off your naked vein-full of testicles
in winter morning

save some love for me, lovers,
on the warm benches
where you hold each others' hand
Im going to lie flat on the benches

flower for me, you tiny little red roses,
at places where my lover lives
Im not going there anymore

Sing for me, you beggar singers inside the bus,
the song i have betrayed from my heart
to sing for “Dear Country” and its glory.
Im not gonna sing that ever.

Kill me, you killers,
for i have no purpose nor my poems
burn me alive with my suicidal instinct
like those effigies they kicked and slapped
and tore before being burnt.

Steal me, you theives
from such times of my life
place me at times of innocent laughters

whistle for me, you night trains
the tune that i once listened to along with her voice
at nights of beating my head against the wall

write for me, you liar poets,
with your good handwriting
read them out to your audience
they will have a good laugh,,

Gossip for me, you gossipers,
I am poor, Im rich
I need a stitch
but for every words you have
i can write you a poem
my words shall run faster than your automobiles
my poems shall be longer than your hair

A nest for me, you morning sparrows,
in the tree i can name Home
where i see no chameleon in the morning sun
where i can lavishly write poems of your fallen feathers
and my grey hair

My Blue Bag

I bought a blue bag
on my way to post office
with my aunt
to collect the things
that come sailing across the ocean

I hanged it around my shoulder,
(I love it)
here and there
as i walked
empty and vacant as my soul

Even while reading Bukowski
I remembered it
and thought how wud it be to carry
a quarter of cheap rum in it

i told my friend from sikkim
that i carried it even to grocery shops
she said she would never do it
and asked me to carry my harmonica in it,
an apple or a banana
or a diary and pen;
(but no to pen down this poetry for sure)
or a hanky to blow my nose
remembering the mother goose

I would still love to carry
it to the vegetables market
and fill it with tomatoes
and feel the weight of red

my blue bag is not fake
It got its blue from the sky
it got its emptiness from my soul
as i am a man in Nirvana
who has seen love
and known it is too easy to fall in love

my blue bag
I aint a sad story
lets pluck some flowers
for these streets of my feet

Thoughts in Kongu Express

carried a bag on my back
wearing an old pair of slippers
i stood waiting for the train
while the cobbler came
looking at my dirty slippers
so gave them away to be polished
while he let me wore his chappals
my feet felt the softness of his feet
for ten ruppees...

the train came howling shining
unlike those which go to Guwahati

of the crisscrossing dirty tracks
i did not care
all i saw was the starving crows
as it was not the season for farmers
to commit suicide

the fields were lifeless
like the farmers
but my yellow mustard flowers
all over spreading
like my dreams of daffodils

i let the wind blew on my face
through the rusty iron windows
let the wind wrote of a new face

the monkey shook the branches of a dead tree
waking the death out of it
like a mother in my valley
shaking the body of her dead son

the railway track labourers squat
holding empty water bottles next to the track
showing off their sad smiles
as if telling me like there is nothing ahead
except emptiness like their bottles

the far away chimney smoked
against the empty sky of blue
like an old man with his naked chest
that coughs out blood for the socialist poets 
to write poems with their propaganda

Bhopal arrived with hot sweet little samosas
but i had bolied chanas with green chilli
Smell of hot biryani carried the train further to Hyderabad
I wanted to take Charminar with me for my lover
but she didn't want it as she had no place for historical monuments
in her heart as it was already filled with stories of "You wont believe me"
So i just smoked a Charminar Cigarette

And Egypt turned so cheap in the Newspaper
every page talked of it
"Mubarak, We have go to take bath"
I saw a man reading tehelka next to my cabin
here again they showed the face of the man
who begged for his life with joined hands
and the caption said "One man that made the nation cries"
but who made him cry?
everyone knows, he who sits upon lotus like god.

trashing away the thought of Gujarat Carnage
i looked out again across the fields
the crisscrossing of the wires and tracks bothered me

'i want to own a sugar cane farm in cuba
not in india
 as lives of farmers last only a season

I have a friend who is pink
His fists are red
University never let him hold a chalk
 to write on black board
Now universities are teaching Pornography
calling it sociology'

with my mind like dirts in a pothole
I arrived here in Bangalore
That night I was just a whore
raped by my own existence
with my own poems and thoughts