no, terrible!

this inertial wasteland

long drawn out facelifts, (the corners still look droopy) the
catacombs of your cluttered affinity mutually
exclusive thats why I'd say it's too late a nameless face is worse than this faceless name you left me with

this loving you

is burnt into me.

a surfacing like seaweed wrapping around my lungs
my face grimaces in granular slow motion heart sinks
et voila ! I'm sixteen again
and going green at the thought of this insidious like crawling up your nostrils.
this thought of you disappearing is dizzying

this loving you is sickly green and crawly

purple like the curtain fluttering behind your head of curls, like the edges of the sky curling into night darkness

this loving you is carried over from another world
its watching a red meter ticking away seconds pulses words im contorting to catch to spin into my hair to hold under my nose when I'm cold and alone

its climbing thinking listening being a receptacle
for you-thoughts

its burnt into my ankle, its here and cannot leave.

yahaan

Here he is, the thin man I know
he says he is of constant
Sorrow but I disagree he is here
Inside my head he buzzes something like the shadow Ma had to look for
When I saw it crawl up the stairs something like the sunlight
In your eyes when you have to squint
To see me dancing like I’m being hung
Upside down zero gravity trying to unhook my toes from
The mossy ceiling no
don’t look at my velcroed toenails that will make me flop

but then again the post man says he’ll be here soon so I sit
at the gate under the gate it is yellow this gate but then so am I so
maybe he cannot see me? They tell me that the beauty of the postoffice it is my duty
but I stole their stamp so they do not like me now, no

Here we are this is a green room. Why always this particular shade of pistachio?
My parents first car too was this anemic vomit but then here a girl danc
es in what is truly only a desultory manner
wriggling her hips and spinning on her toes waggling and my feet
now look like feet, curling at the edges because the girl I thought was a prostitute was just dressed to look like the sun.

here I am curled up on a window sill and I remember an apple being bartered for love, a vicarious love punctuated with winter sunshine and swirls of smoky hindi songs or am thinking of the mornings?


"unhone socha ki vahaan pe swarg jaise hoga"