the last sin
  pale ashen sky
a bleary eye
clouds of recurring screams...
i am a zoo
  an octopus leviathan
tentacles into an ocean
of unformed emotions...
syphilis and love  
  syphilitic pall
stifles the clear blue
i contort...
shell and pearl
  amidst highs and lows
in life's ocean flows
a shell peony-mouthed...
i am an unmarried mother
  fed on stings
of barbed milk morality
my child-plankton...
the lovers
  cell upon cell
bridge of their union
hung on the pillars...
  ogre of age
and time cavil
at a warm picture...
the young today
  innocence thaws
at the altar
of ambition...

3 short poems on a lacklustre June Sunday

not as simple as waiting for the muse

warring nerves
twitching throbbing
enveloping overwhelming
he is on the keyboard
actually mock-resisting
but words are not on his side
they sit perched
at a distance
and watch
his eleven year old girl
cherubic in her chestnut curls
comes to him
plants a kiss on his cheek

and his nerves give way

a conclave of crows

early morn
at Humayun’s Tomb
crows commune atop
a rocky slab
near a dried-up waterway
while the members
of the laughter club
clear their throats
a wellness ritual
morning walkers
pass by in a haze
the crows carry on
with their business
there is a solemnity
to their proceedings
a stark contrast
to the crass

violence of the silence

dark ungainly feral
wild as a bushfire
is unnerving
among other things
the best escape
is to take refuge
in the idiot box
pick up a book
or meander
in the murky bylanes
of cyberspace
everyday reality
can be managed
but the violence of the silence
is difficult to deal with
especially when the muse
has flown away

(6 June 2004)