Those Never Rain Cities

I will take a Taxi-cab to the moon

Celebrating the 40th Issue of Danse Macabre

Two of my poems

Once More For Lucy And For All Radio Stations

AND

A little more than the river Khorkai

From the bunker of this life

Sinuous snakes have toyed with our words.
Hands tremble in warmth – drip drop, the stones of sweat,
Love, love like incantation – the words,
Why did you shut your eyes because you missed it on the T.V.?
If everything were true, we could err,
We allowed scope for mistakes, but we shall not, for that reason
Abandon this body to wander anywhere else.
You shall be claimed for your own sake – this compulsion
simmers in the fire. Grant us shade. Unrelentingly
trample us – pure companion shadow – like a woman flowing!
When my armour gets scorched, heap more punishment.
No routes are left open except to swell the ranks.
Cold, clammy coils of snakes foreclose the streets of this birth.
This, my bunker-room, windowless and dark.
Come up and die, come, come and buy your death.
So he looks at him and through him to another
of his likeness, a different string a different symphony that leads
still further into that selfsame identity. The light
lay cached at the bottle’s bottom and now by my will
the light shall break into fragments, turn into dust and then dissolve.
I remember it’s a long time that I have not seen you
by the fire lit by my rubbing hands. Our children
never saw light, they were blotted among wads of cotton.
Come up and die. Come, come and buy your death.
I shall arrest and send that day as witness.
They scale the high fortress and invade, attack with their fangs.
O mother, how are you now in this soft night, how do you keep your vigil
Beside my father, sick and dumb? Did he not yet perceive
It had been wrong to have asked the painted breeze
‘Where did you go?’ Hush here again cometh
Tearing through the window, the howl of all the winds
And stinging, burning rain, covering the body,
Here no room is left, yet cram within these confines
The wounds of the sky, the guileless strings of faces
Father, go and die.


So much blood seeps in secretly through the laughter
Silence! Finger on your lips, the limp hand is lost itself,
Fists unclench, they can’t be raised – listen, come inside my head
Take firm hold of the clammy hand so it cannot slip
away from your grasp. Skip across the shadows and gather
A gulp full of grass in the hollow of your palm,
Wrong, wrong, everything starts going wrong again. I feel nauseated.
Oh Lord! The tits will swing open if you tug at the pull-rings,
Mystiques shall be possibilities no more. The intimate searches
For gold shall launch no more expeditions.
Yet suspended in Mephistopheles time, the lunatics dangle.
Rip, rip apart, but still from within the laughter
so much blood wells up, like melting water,
something wanders round and round, not having known
how to come to a stop,
I strain all my cells to inflate the pillow
I bury my face and rise, buy my death and die.
This cold clung to his limbs. Look a light shines
I know about the flying-fish whose wings
Are guilt ridden, soaked in the breeze,
I wander about, in search of a door,
Twisted affection instead of a hand, paper documents,
These bones – possibly nothing, worthless, sampling in vain, although
All these realities stayed unchanged as ever,
The knocking keeps on at the door.
I would reach to touch you, but the rains are pressing, keeps falling on and on,
Through the nightlong vigil, walls and colors
Appear as a game. Why do they go away, away,
the streets, the bubbles of grass?



Unless you close your eyes tomorrow holds out
Nothing. No color, no day, no money,
Time seeps away gazing at the pictures.



In order that I may stay with you
The storm and the rains arrived,
Oh blackness
I shall never be able to go out anymore,
After the tumultuous sounds the long algae are lying
without animation.



They have sent the secret papilions of pus. Smoke from streets rises and burns. Ashes of wisdom lie in chaos. No insect shall protect these thought sorrows. The plug for this growth is linked to the switch. Light, light, why there is so much light?



Every time it’s me who is the sinner
Because I am responsible, the rain drops do not fall.
The blood he recalls, may be, may be not
Only why somewhere deep inside do you get born, you light!
Find out your pus again, papilion,
I crossed over the field of magic fires to arrive,
All night burnt through to spot the marks of grass
If something more transcending there form should rise
As I put my hand on the vertebrae of grasses
Some polish came off into my hand. Green grass polish.
So long? Where had you been?
Nobody kept accounts of those days.
When this room, so daintily set, was profuse with sunshine,
Flower, you paid no heed to the evening.
Accountability should of course look green,
These colors of hell and of the sky are hung on the walls
So let the sunshine be snuffed. Come.
I do not want that you should get born, Radha,
I will buy and send death to you.

Brother Kalo And The Chickens

Brother Kalo once said it is good for digestion if you lie down on your left side. After having a sumptuous meal I use to wet my palm with water and moved it round and round my naval in clockwise motion chanting Agosto Agosto. From that time on to these days of indigestion this habit persists. In that one night two hundred chickens of Brother Kalo’s prized firm were dead. The chickens moved round and round shitting white like lime and died. For a few days chicken meat were in abundance. I was little afraid. But the greed for the meat was stronger than the fear of death. The chickens moved round and round shitting white like lime and died. I don’t believe in keeping any news of anybody. That is why I don’t know whether Brother Kalo is still alive or died moving round and round. If he is still alive, will die one day shitting white like lime. This write up does not have any obligations or responsibilities, even does not try to prove that I am the real junkie so I do not eat pie. After my father’s death he was kept on ice blocks so that my elder brother could come and see his dead body. A bed sheet was placed upon his body when we noticed he was having goose pimples from cold. You are supposed to touch the body and remain so until the final rites but the intense cold was almost freezing my balls. So I tied one end of a ribbon on his finger and held the other end ten feet away from his body and kept waiting for my big brother’s arrival. Before he lost consciousness I know my father’s head was also reeling like the chicken.

Once Upon A Time There Was A Man Named Bhetki

But I know for sure Bhetki cannot die.
My drunken poet friend
Whom poetry and liquor carried through
in these times of chaotic red stains of betel leaves
ever dripping from his perched lips.

He stopped writing poetry.
He stopped asking for a woman’s love.
He just said it is necessary to die now,
slanting his head on one side,
in the same way he use to say – come lets have some local hooch.

But I know for sure he is not dead.
He will come someday and we will do the last dance.

Drift

Death also walks alone
plays solitary football with brickbat
hides a lonesome tear drop yet in his mind
drifts the language hold yourself in this upsurge
be a little composed you will feel better
saying that I become restless
watching the drift to drift away
leaves behind the touch of solace pride attachment
I dislike you treating me as a beloved
As if you will be relieved if you can set yourself free
So this is the pleasure of attachment
The touches still remain so stupid unreasonable

Old Rust

When my head also reels I realize I have lived too long. It is necessary to die now – pat comes the inference of my friend, slanting his head on one side, in the same way he use to say – come lets have some local hooch. In his face looms the darkness of the new butterfly lights of the coffee house maybe walking inside a dream I will wake up to find myself lying under a mosquito net in that triangular room with one hand raised. Caressing the roof of the mosquito net with my right hand. The mosquito net also has the smell of my mother. Like old rust. Very dear. Which feels up your senses. Not like the breath smelling of cigarettes now burning like gunpowder. Very soft and easy. But I know that triangular room does not exist anymore. Kept folded in a dream box in a memory. When I will return to that memory I will ask the forest that day – did he not catch the same smell. Oh my Buddha lying on its side. The city won’t see the birth of a forest anymore.