In between we rest , in our long dozing hours
During which we manage to watch hot baths
And tired steam, in stylish Jacuzzi some times
To come back to money questions that bristle
With answers, four at a time, in knowledge
Games of old man and worshipful women
Behind keyboard ,that make screech sounds.
Old man is grandfather in film star’s stomach
When not asking his four-optioned questions.
We rest bodies on yellow sofas, figuring out
What our lady will make for lover’s breakfast
Her doe eyes in laughter make us want more.
We then rest in eyes, on televisions of laughter
Our comedies growing by the hour, our music.
We rest minds on businessmen heroes in suits
Horizontal in growth and story, love in brewing.
Love is in the air as black Shakespearean villains
Turn up in best suits to wreck love’s happiness.
( A day’s television viewing)
We mostly sit to worship, with the walls opposite to us
Leaving us no room for getting up and crossing the streets.
In the marble our gods listen, from the shelves of flowers
And fragrances, as if out in the garden ,in the early hours
Plucking white flowers from black darkness one by one.
The walls face us with their hanging gods smiling below
A hole that lets in morning sun and some pleasant wind.
Many times we lie to worship, with a false roof above us
Leaving no room for getting up and flying into space above.
We mostly worship under closed eyelids, our lips muttering.
In sleep our gods come dressed in vintage dresses and jewels
Of exquisite beauty,their light blinding us in our closed eyes.
We worship our gods in the dark caves, their bodies in stone
Sprouting lotuses in navels ,where a master craftsman is born.
It is he who chisels our foreheads, hiding our futures in them.
Three city women went missing
Under a garbage being foraged.
Their dusty death is suspected.
A hand juts out in the camera
Poking directly into your eyes.
Death is not fragrant ashes of incense
And mumbled prayers on tremulous lips .
Death enters eyes as a dust particle,
As a hand accuses, cries and sleeps.
It is love for God for the singer of melodies
The devout weaver-singer of a holy river bank.
Please do not be adamant that you will go away.
In the folds of his medieval melody is death.
A bodiless God who is just a contra-point
Sits there with an elephant- head presiding
Our fortunes without the rest of the body.
Beside him is a God in body that had died.
But my God does not die except in parts.
If you cannot concentrate on formlessness
Concentrate dead Gods sitting with beards.
It is they who will explain why that woman
Has to pretend illness in limbs to stay alive
Why her life’s melody has failed to take off
In the struggle of words as they surge in body
Bound in saline tubes and oxygen masks
That keep her body still but her mind flying
To weave fresh stories to keep melody alive.
We had always lived in holes,crawling with men.
We are now in bigger holes with smaller ones
Inside them for morning ablutions and yoga.
We now have separate holes for individual men.
Our holes smell nice with room fresheners
Made from the private parts of civets in heat.
We are a gated community, staring from gates
At the passers-by and listless cattle dropping
Their green feces on the wet road nonchalantly.
Our lawns are manicured green like our minds.
We buy all our cattle droppings by kilograms
For our green plants that have arrived like us.
Thank god we are now suited ,booted and gated.
It is in the hot words of wax in a cold syntax
Of a mobile talk between shoulder and head
As the former comes close to a sneezing head
The head is now leaning tower on motorcycle.
Such heads, leaning on shoulders, warm cops
In their pockets, their hearts, burning stoves.
Self-flagellating boy in a turmeric face
Is a mere picture word, self-whiplash
A fury and a sound, a pseudo despair
Of conjurer father’s clever poverty trick
With father beating drum on your pity.
Not much picture, I call it picture word.