curl up into fragments of breezes
drilling into the death of winter
embracing the hologram of breathing sand.
as they embark
upon the edges of southern winds
and Conifers scream their complaints from the north,
of life desolately oscillates
as a beacon from light houses
with paws of the carrier Griffin
proceeding in the shades,
improvising posthumous caveats
popping up as robot heads of night guards.
of an expedition,
crumble beneath old pirate-ships
(roaming in a nomadic famine struck by avarice)
in and spread again
upon the cushion of rootless waters
led by enigmatic winds
in unfolded folds of untold tales.
Unusual Shiver in Winter Days
was a creeping winter,
coiling and settling into the wardrobe
of my lined collections-
cassettes and clothes
(Scattered in a bachelorís room)
arranged by brands
fragranced by sensuous nights
brought by you moulded me
into a gentleman
below uncombed hairs
and unwashed hands.
into lessons to be clean
I was feeding on my love.
beside a pond
abound with weeping cranes
she was the only fish
in front of my hungry beaks.
Short-lived and destructive
as most pleasures are
I am wedged back
back into an untidy shiver
an act worthy of no mercy.
eyes amidst midnight cars
Boisterous beats were gearing down
the stairway of the pub
as I moved like a drifting horse
drowned in rum.
The night outside was carousing
through the unending noise
of crickets and frogs
penetrating the beats of heavy rain drops.
The swing of an imminent storm
and leaves shaking off their body freshness
into my carís windshield
was a natural trial to put me into the lap
of dark lords of mixed emotions.
loosened to the forced harlots visible
through their glittering skins
and biting lips
kindled me like a chided candle burning
a friable survival warned
by an uncertain tomorrow.
Poverty of screams
tattered parts of the hand woven fibres
naked poverty of screams
amid roaring drunk waves of wine bottles
whirling in synthesis with partying proverbs
echoes against posthumous walls
to add the colours to a faded terrain
sipping dripping sweats of a dead beat life
which has spent decades to get up from work
to smile at the gone days.
Foliages and twigs rejuvenate themselves
with the waters discarded out of the musical chair game
with splashing music dying out
in swimming strokes of fatigued hands.
day swimming fog blurs smiles
Crawling clouds dance with tears
and changing seasons paint poignant outbursts
and yet the little life left in some corner
takes a swing in the estate
where a Rolls-Royce warms up each evening
or Rolexes add motion to stillness.
While I Write
Not while rowing I would prefer to touch mermaids
for the wrinkled water is still deep....
not while writing I would prefer sitting with poets
for opinions would crumble thoughts
into a disease of dilemma.
Itís a just 00:00 am I want
amidst grass chairs owned by hanging vines
with midnight, moon light and dew ready to fall
into my starving heart and pour life
with the sound of water fall
hammering water against dusty soil or
at least pouring water into an unfilled glass.