I want to lay the language open with a knife,
and make her bleed through a gore so deep.
(I could do that too, I could be cruel.)
So that I could drink the syrup of poetry
that runs through her veins, to my minds full.
She would lie motionless, (her face calm and serene)
like a frog, etherized on the dissection table.
(Would she endure the boundless pain?)
I shall not stop until I have licked
her syrupy blood to the very last drop.
I shall cut open every bone to see,
if the marrow encloses the secrets of prose.
I shall dissect her heart and brain,
to see if a bit of soul rests there.
If I find one, I would give it wings,
to fly to the aboard of happiness, the sky.
At the end, I shall be able to publish,
A pound of freshly peeled flesh, which smells-
of blood, cut neatly from her heart.
And that would be my masterpiece.



In autumn, leaves fall down
to the gutters, rivers and pools.
Then, the naked tree sighs-
at the loss of his ornamental dress.
Some leaves fall on the terrace,
which are later removed by the broom,
along with twigs and bird droppings.
Some of them swirl into-
the public tanks, blocking-
the passage of water in the pipes.
Food for the microbes and earthworms
most leaves become; and there-
were some which made its way
into the naturalist’s potions.
A little girl picked one fallen leaf,
She pressed it inside her book,
and stacked weights on it until –
the leaf shrivelled and dried
to expose its veins and heart.
The leaf had started to give off
a little knowledge, when she-
showed it to me, pasted in her scrapbook.
When the doors of the rain open,
The scent of newly spaded soil erupts,
And none of the leaves are to be seen.
True, all leaves are buried, in the-
sands of time, except the one
owned by the little girl.

Delusions – II

The magical dust, shed by the moon

and the melodious song sung by your lips
Woke me from my deep sleep,
I opened my eyes and I saw you.
Silhouetted in the mirror, I saw-
your image, receding from my window.
Your anklets were giggling,
with the rhythm of your footsteps.
You were singing a forgotten song,
Sorry, I couldn’t make out the words.
Your hair, as dark as moonless night,
were dancing with the tune of your song.
You sailed away, leaving me
in the world of delusions.
I held you in my eyes,
Till your footsteps ceased to hear,
Till your song dissolved into the fog,
Till you vanished into nothingness.
Were you Dream?
Or was I dreaming?

The fate of a mango

On the roadside stood
a huge mango tree
full of flowers.

The tree bore a mango
coloured golden yellow
juicy and sweet.

The children eyed it
The squirrel poked it
And the birds pecked it.

The wind cradled it
cut its tender stalk
Down came the mango.

The golden yellow mango
fell on the road
wounding its skin.

A car to Calicut
rode on the mango
spilling its pulp.

A truck to Mumbai
ran on the mango
crushing its seed.

The golden yellow mango,
hit with a terrible fate,
died on the road.


When my weighted eyes
slowly slip down to sleep,
When my heart listens
to the rhythm of breath,
My soul breaks-
the invisible chain of consciousness,
to drift peacefully
in the sea of delusions.
Let my soul be carried away
in a swirl of whirlpool
into the depths of the dark sea …….
For, I love-
to explore the unexplored,
And to see the unseen.