After realitY

To KKT:

There you'll stand with a flame
when eyes brighten and
hearts lighten
You have the fire of a candle
in your eyes and
the glow of the fire
in your lips
No one can fail
to see you shine,
in the midst of hearts
that grope
to find some sunshine.
A flame that will light
hearts forever,
the 'you' so fresh and new
that enlivens life itself.

To A(music):

I heard a voice
that resonated with my own
when I dreamt the other day,
I woke up to see
it was no fantasy.
I stood so in touch
with reality,
and so intangible
my resonance with you
that I envy the God
who could touch it.

You will always be remembered
for the voice
that echoes through
all the musical theatres to come
and those that went by,
but you -the unpretentious soul
will echo in my heart
for what you are
and what you have always been.

To S:

You are a breath of fresh air
amidst a claustrophobia;
a retreat to silence
in a cacophonic outdoor;
an oasis for the most thirsty
when deserted;
and the moment of truth
that slices through the 'now'
that shakes those that always
wait to cheat
not just the world
but also themselves.
You are the rare pearl
the ocean's ever got.

To M (palace-specific):

I see no future
When we met each other
I see no past
When I will fly together

Into the sky
Filled with zillion stars
Fire and light and revolution
And chaos
I look through at the sky
from a distance
I know I see your radiant skin
Calm, unchaotic, peaceful
Bright, cheerful, Shining
Like the sky just washed its face
with a chemical-less face wash
smooth, no cracks,
gliding clouds in eyes
but yet
I know
There I will stumble
Every night
Or the alternate ones
To magically look for the palace
We built

With sand and golden air
With moisture
Lightening to blend its bends
I know it will remain
There amidst the heavens
For you and me will never know
If we will live there
Forever
later.

I will be knocking at the door
And a fairy will arrive
With silver spade
And a sparkling white
Shining streaks of hair
An adorning crown
A pair of hands
Arms outstretched
Till the hinges of either door
There she stands
At the door of the house
Which has become home
Once was castle.

I dissolve in her silveriness
And become her
Holding the silver spade
With the power
To provide a wish at will
I walk past the magnificent hall
Which rings of piano
I breathe only oxygen
I hear the soprano
It’s magical

I will search for you
Your breath
Your locket of humanness

I could feel it
And I will settle before I cast the wish
Of finding you
There I will stand in the castle
Knowing you are there
Always.

I don't have to find you
You just are here.

To Y:

From those eyes
that were taught what it is
to look at the world
in a gravel of sand

and those that learnt
by themselves
to live in a world
inside a water bubble

to know where to slide
and feel pain
when it breaks

to know where it rose
and feel joy
for creating it

to know when it burst
into your own eyes
and closely burnt

to know when it caust
the same bubbled joy
in your hole-d holy self

to know how it dissolved
the gravel of sand

to learn how it is,
is not taught
nor shown
not brought
in and blown
for you

its just the freedom

to look,
feel the bubble
around and on

it rolls on
revolves
rotates
shines
declines
breathes
above- stops

to step
beneath your toes,
the bubble

as fragile
and as labile

as fearsome
and as courageous

as human
and as animose

as gruesome
and as gorgeous

as foe-man
and as virtuous

you know what
i was taught

you can not know
what i learnt

n it remains mine
my own reality
n realitY
n real-it-y.

To K:

its a solitude
one always dares to seek
a courage
that is so unfaithful and lacking
a belief
that is so difficult from shaking
a trust
that is too big to itself being
a cliche
that so hides oneself behind
a face
that is hard enough to show
a phase
that had and will have its trow

a trek
to the invisible land of justice
an honesty
that is earth-shattering but true
a brevity
that is so dishonestly human
a fear
i possess of all i know
a thunder
i have always wondered about
a fight
that i will never say a no to

a prize
that costs life itself
the price
given if you buy it with more than your own life
a curse
to think of the goodness around
a fret
to allow badness into you

then threat
of making it all good
of sadness
its even otherwise

i don't care if i do the latter
more often
i won't become fatter
or thinner if i did the former
though i know
the ocean still kisses
the pair of feet
yours and mine
separately

if you are thin fat ugly beautiful
if you are a thing mat simply wonderful
if you are through with love
or hate
or don't know to differentiate both

its you at the end of the day
standing and watching the bay
of bengal,
world works well
loneliness has a meaning there.

To A(lights):

You are my poem
-less
person.

Where there was

Where there was blood,
there was life and
where there was life,
there was love.

Where there is blood,
there is no vein.
Bloodstained roads,
dustbins, dead skin.

Where there are veins,
no nerves.
No nerve left
to fight.

Where there is nerve
there is no heartbeat.
Slipped out of heart
just a beat ago.

Where there is heartbeat,
there is no more heart,
but cut pieces of flesh
and shattered bone.

Born Iyer - Flesh Instinct

I want your flesh
to eat, to bite
to suck, to drink;
I want to sip
at the soup
of your thigh,
suck at the end of your bones
from your fingers and toes;
I want to pierce the muscles
under your nose with mine and
eat them -
I don't care if it'd hurt you.
I wonder what's beneath
those dark nipples
which make me want
them between my teeth;
I want to grind your lips
with my molars;

I wish I could taste your chalice
in my gastrointestinal tract
and digest it when I suck you
and still possibly
leave you behind intact.
I wish I could eat you with my blade;
I wish I could chop you
and blend you when I hug you
and sip you down through my straw;
I'd like it when you come
with some taste of honey,
metal and tomato -
blood couldn't be a better sauce.
I groan to smell you
through the hair under your armpit,
uncooked.
I would substitute your nails,
for my protein deficiency.

I see no point in avoiding
fish, chicken or crab.
They are made of flesh,
bones and muscles,
and a heart throb like you.

Just that the terms are different -
'orgasmic' delight and
'gastronomic' delight.

I am born iyer
because of flesh instinct,
I am iyer-born with
psychological stains for
having flesh instincts;

I have accumulated enough sins
for desiring flesh
and for my incessant passion
to perpetuate it.
I will have infinite lives,
simply because
I will sin everytime.

After winter

Missing the mist of winter
Kissing the lips of dawn and dusk
there rises spring
in Chennai's golden sun
with shrunken eyes
and heated dust;

We will create more holes
in ozone
with conditioner of air
till hair,
winter or summer
the sun dies and resurrects.

It's the lonely soul
inspired by every season
when dumped in
crunchy emotions.

Blow me away soon

My firing lights of enthusiasm

are crumpled into nanoparticles.

The tireless night spears across it

and converts it to exasperation.

I know it''s time to blow

the candle, Myself;

but I like flickering to

the wind, Truth;

it's no merriment,

every twist aches.

The wind is merciless;

every wiggle of my toe or

the nod of my head

is elightened with excruciation.

It is only you who can blow me away

to lit me up.

Blow me away soon.

I can't wait for your breath.

Candle conversation

Wax:
I could stand alone
it is because you need me
for your erection.

Thread:
When I burn through you
and you melt down into drops,
orgasmic de-'light'.

Muse

Soon I shall remember my pain and good will

though coexistent might allow me to be pretentiously supreme

in all my endeavours of niceties

though incoherent all my voice and words will be heard only by the deaf,

written by my pen only to be seen by the blind,

and my sacrifices can be spoken well only by the dumb.

Silence and poetry are married in the garden of light,

darkness holding a live-n relationship of noise and words

- words that are belied of making my poems.

Jugal attempted a spin-off:

memories of pain

are but poetry

coexistent

goodwill

is but the meter

only rhythm

coherent

to the deaf

is rhythm enough

for a poem

only images visible

to the blind

are metaphors

in a poem

poetry is yet

another chaotic incarnation

of silence.

darkness is yet

another

poem written

when light tries to sing.