Hyperboles are iced cakes in virtual markets.
only hate in finger nails...no blood trails
only the lust for omnipresence in a wart-sized world.
Sell what sells best
names look good in bold italics.
You know the worth of your name.
Here your fingers burn a night lamp
and there a door opens to the wolves.
You have nothing to lose
you never belonged to any of these rooms.
But when you have to answer that eye
locked in fear to the rosewood door
look away...walk away.
What free tongue
that can’t simply liberate itself from its own dark alleys
that has no vision beyond its own leaning.
Leeways of an eclipsed moon
growls of the sorry moorland
strands of silk lost in the ruffian bronze.
You must know
the house you live in is not yours alone.
How many suns more we need to see together.
How many crops of bajra we need to reap together.
Here we are. You and I.
I’m pinching my eye for a horseshoe
and you burn the last straw.
Here we are. You and I
no room for split talk.
to earn the ground beneath your feet
and then it doesn’t take long to love.
how far stretched can a war be with oneself.
(published in "New Asian Writing" and "Indiana Voice Journal")
I wouldn’t call you a nymph of the Orkney folklore
or a mermaid of the mythical sea.
Nothing fancy about losing both worlds!
Living on the periphery does strange things to you
a line of fiction
time, nothing but a pretty satin ribbon in your fingers
dress the falcon’s wings
the Pegasus cloud and your own ashen feet.
an empty epoch
ravaged sinful torn sullied.
a grey fable
and a glow-worm city turns into forest fire.
The devils dance on your brows
an illusion of the yaksha.
Back in the yard
and rivers turn crimson.
I wouldn’t call you a genie of the lamp
nothing fairy about a wanton wish
a rub of the thumb
nothing fairy about turning a kingdom into a sepia map
a scroll of lost identity
nothing fairy about letting the moths eat the borders.
(published in Indiana Voice Journal)