Poetic stimulation

Leave a comment

it is my soul

i am a hassle freak

burning my gray matter

with the coal tar of the black

sometimes it does prick

the quintessential conscience

of the life as it is lived

pessimistic steak of the soul

or the optimistic sunshine in the mind

the skies are muddled

by the silver lining of unbound thoughts

in the graveyard of information

i am still placed the last

whom to fall prey to

and whom to lend a roasted hand

dilemmas of the clever guilt

no answers from within

i create, as i wish

i resent, when i can

it is me, hassled

it is me, happy with it

it is me, unabashedly welcoming

it is my soul which pains

it is my soul which pains

in all of life’s mysteries

and mine

Leave a comment

Rain and a Leonard Cohen Song

I had two videos
opened simultaneously
one of an enigmatic poet
addressing a sweet crowd
in the sixties
smart, suave
and then he was walking down a street
smiling to himself
in a cold Toronto evening
in complete black and white
and no shades of grey
the second one i saw
was of an old man
with a tempered smile
singing “Suzanne”
his name was also Cohen
but then he was in a
world of sorrowful indulgence
singing sweet
and a tragic tune
in his constantly predictable voice
in a rain laced afternoon
when the music of the rain
lambasts my soul
his voice makes me sad
the black and white of him
was all adorable
the colours indeed fade into grey
when he sings
and then he brings me to thoughts of turmoil
of life and lifelessness
of the movement of innocence
towards the sublime
it has stopped raining now
the song has been playing all through
different versions
from more sweet to remorseful
the essence of the portrait
still the same
Suzanne lingers
with the chilly breeze
reminding me of a plethora of consciousness
the heart of the nomad
the weakness of emotions
solitude of man
rain triggers emotions
i am the conductor
and when the moisture gets drained
i envision myself
the song switches off
it rains all the more

Leave a comment

more and more


more and more

the fiery side of my existence

was ignited by her abandoning touch

letting me flow

in the wonderland of endless

tremors of passion

and when I touched

or clicked or explored or licked

the chant was for more

more and more

the atoms and the cells

vibrated with the pulse

and when I stopped to breathe

she took my breath away

by taking me in


making me succumb

to the delicious feeling

of rapturous consumption

and when I went down

into the groove of her core

the aqueous trine

the lips locked

the juices divine

couldn’t do anything else

but go deep down

down and inside out

down and down

drowning in her being

and the chant was for more

more and more

the night went on

thrusts after thrusts

more thirst

the decadent hunger

with momentum

more and more

more and more



Leave a comment


Don’t ask me the pronunciation

I find it euphonious though

the country does have an anthem

so nothing different from what we are

and few interesting people probably

love the interplay of an interlude of

the proverbial and the contemporary

in a tiny quiet hamlet

that’s what I guess

as I have never been there



mentally I wander

on the streets

are there many?


I am dreaming

of being a postman

dressed in a red uniform

talking to people

about life they live

and the world at large

or the largeness of it

the shiny summers

and the slimy, dull winters

don’t make me fret

I dwindle when it is astonishingly cold

but happy

with the place I am in

small, no enemies

still proud

I have an anthem

Leave a comment


Seagulls, lonely evenings at downtown

but a mesmerizing pebbled beach

sunset at 10

barbeque smelling of a distant dream

yet smoke filters the air

the last evening at Hove

makes me miss it more


I do not know anyone

yet I own that place, at that moment

I catch one pebble in my hand,

willing to take it back home,

to be transported illegally

and an old man, apparently tired,

winks at me


I take a long walk

down the pebbles

in conversation with my reality

wondering how would the people

be spending their morning and days

in this splendid place

of musical lyricism

and a connective coheres  

Brighton and Hove


Beer at the Imperial

facing waterfront

English sunset still far off

do the seagulls need my address?Image

Leave a comment

Of charcoal and chimes

Between the insinuated walls

is a periphery of untouched dust

a hazy picture of tattoos dancing

embodied in a frame

of charcoal and chimes


stupendous flow of charred emotions

groggy eyes,with valiant wisdom

the touch of a glass

morphine of decadence

radiant prophecies

of a light to emerge


crossing over the turmoil

there is an innocent drift

in the frequency of space

and there is a beam of light

and I see the light

and I see its coming

Leave a comment

Battered Souls

An oxymoron

battered in a fungal space

of flat batteries

tangled wires

at naphthalene dawn

shattered ideals

of clustered metamorphosis

epitome of brightness

a power switch

carousel of itch

on tenterhooks

my appetite for breath

so I may be a moron

without oxygen

plump batteries

of battered souls

at the charging point

at nemesis

of the beginning


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.