Scraps from a dialogue diatribe

On reading 'Paradise Lost', by Milton~

Aesthetics: Eve's spine is harmony.
Ethics: But was the snake historically grievanced?
Metaphysics: Thy will always be done.
Feminist: Revolution- death to the sexist tongues.
Avantgarde: Two-ness= 1ness+ otherness.

Adam: Where am I?
Milton: You are why the apples are savoury.

nonsense verse, mindscaping earnestly:)

To My Valentine-Ogden Nash

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That’s how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That’s how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oathes,
That’s how you’re loved by me.

Poker PotLuck, a scene re-enacted.

Scene: Sunny morning. A colonial club in Maymyo, Burma. two gentlemen shake hands, exchange names, Byron, an experienced pokerface urges Ballistic, the curious newcomer, novice-at-poker to the table. ...

52 cards unfurl,

Byron: Should we deal than?
Ballistic: I have dealt in microfinance in detail.
Byron: Lay them cards, mate. Lemme show you the Royal Flush, first.
Ballistic: O brimmingbroomsticksbloomsburydale, you are of noble blood, after all!!!
Byron: Foul!

Delight!

Let all your fantasies fly
To a bower-garden under
the window.
Lots of green;
and mauve flowers,
smooth petals and
soft pollen on the tips of tendrils.
Kite-flying festival
Overhead,
In autumn’s titillating temperatures;
we hug closer in
our bower-tower
and gaze out at the painted
blues skies dotted
with multiple bearded sheep
stretched out on a vast canvas
for our hungry eyes.

23 Oct’10

Ambers and Woodsmoke

Inhale, Exhale,
The mist turns a shade heavier;
As the story unravels mystically
High notes of bird- song
fill the stealthy time:
One catches the wayward breezes
Who whisper erotically
at doorsteps,
woodsmoke smell mingled with pungent sweat
water-diluted brushes of black paint
smudged with charcoal stiffs…


Fire crackles,
Colors explode,
Senses heighten,
As our feet dangle
on the edges of our dreams.

August'10, Vattakannal.

time warp looking glass

time is in a loop, i am in a warp
in a strip that can be
continuously replayed,

like a new vibrant dream,
like, a strange explorative landscape,
like a powerful work of art,
a hollow scream inside your visera,
waiting to burst out
flow through you raptured,
and,
rock gently the ruptures
of faith and desire.

In the name of the Destroyer

Today the forget-me-not blooms
anticipating its monsoon;
Dogs announce the advent of a restive summer;
This season, summer outsmarts spring
And monsoon is a wayward witch.

This watermelon seller wanders around the old city
Singing with a parched throated voice
Of oriental princesses bound by a curse
and of the estrangement of Nature.
City-dwellers hear his refrain
Their tastebuds tingling with a known thirst,
a desire for the here and unknown beyond..
Flesh, seeds and rind
might just quench these primitive urges.

Harlequin dance-theaters
with a twist of magpie-like flitting romances,
high on tales of raconteurs cooling off,
stealing time to smell the scents of flora and fruit:

a desert dust always mixed in the air.
No sea in sight
The (hot) earth will swallow these waterdrops…