Sunday, December 20, 2009

In my eyes

Butter knives carve out sharp mice
to go with the shy cutlery.
Virgin spoons clang themselves
in ceremonial cushionings.

A walk to remember
reveals the time-bound sentence
that will get eased
by heavy steam engines that grew up
to be used in songs of
distilled truth.

You can do no wrong
to savour the safety of a hidden voice
within layers of musicated poison.
It can't lead you wrong.
The path mostly leads to the pulpit.

A strained marriage
eventually birthed a vindicated fate
that would be tired of shouting its wisdom hoarse
if only I could hear.

Ears sighted the waves approaching
and signalled for the eye to receive them.
The nose lay out the red carpet
and the gust of wind was skinned alive.

More hairs stood on end
as the barbershop quartet brought their weapon closer.
The follicles did not know what hit them.
The hairs appreciated the independence from their colonial roots.

Monday, December 7, 2009

fingering the winds

Each step it took seemed like fortification for the soul. Its feet thudded lightly over the pavement tiles. The tiles were numbered and colour-coded in such a way that they injected strength into whoever walked on them. Some light reading about morality later, it resumed on its way.

It was concocting words in its head. And they made sense. They were words that would guide its sense of goodness whenever an iceberg came along. Icebergs cannot help themselves. It was the job of the literate ones to draw up formulae to divert the ship into safer waters.

It pondered on hurt and its surreality. Hurt could be chosen or left alone. Hurt was as real as an egg omlette. But humans had the gift of distracting themselves from hurt with a timely twirl of their magical fingers. Tap into that source mein freund, remind the winds.

negatory mister

a dog on the streets
ventured out into the calming shadow
of the pallid streetlamp,
and then thought better of its courage.

grooves dug themselves out into the wood
and water flowed through them
like pearly smoke
blown by wasted turbines.

knowledgeable kids waved to their friends.
they saw mirrors walking on streets all day,
and met them like the fleeting stay
of a bullet on a pebble.

the riddle walked untainted
as mundane cars whizzed past.
it thought of itself then,
and then of them.

upturned books wait for their perusing masters,
so that they may lure them
into their articulate mystery,
devour their ignorance
and then rob them of their brains.