The angel asks me, "What may I do for you at this juncture of your existence?"

I want to milk this divine offer. So, I contemplate a while so as to conjure up the optimum request. Then, I consult the phrase I had carefully calligraphed a recent enough while ago that it should still be fresh and germane. I clear my phrenic passages and think:

"I want to discover undying precepts of my very own. I want, then, to define and articulate these ruminations by dint of my incontrovertible finesse as a usageaster. I want to apply these precepts, which should infuse me with strength and vigour, with sagacity whenever beneficial."

The benign seraph says benevolently, "Will do, Mihir. Stand by for fulfillment of your wish. Nicely composed request too, by the way, if I may."

Come, kiss

Transient, but it lingers
For long enough to be tasted.
Fleeting no longer,
It ceases to elude capture,
And embeds itself softly
But surely in the pores
Of my mind.

A vast fullness
Envelops the atmosphere.
There's no space
That's beyond my eyes.
If some does lurk,
In some shadowily painted corner
Its screaming secrecy
Betrays its presence
To me.

Wait till I unleash
My eyes on your form.
You won't know
Which way to look,
Or which way to swarm.

Would it really be
So bad if you just
Came over
To my place
And stayed there
Till I drink
You up
To
My
Fill?

Promise premise

Call me from the high throne.
Make sure your voice reaches me on the phone.
I'm not hard of hearing
but I do like for sound to seep,
and to penetrate
real deep.

Drop your string of yarn
in cascading fluid curls.
Pour that viscous mix
up the chute.
Shoot your bull's eye
at point blank range
and fill up the space
with neurons
that sparkle.

Twinkling eyes, they see,
and gleam in my sockets.
Gleaning data packets
osmotically and
gravitationally.

PRemise: my name is Mihir.
Powers latent in me
suffer silently
in a self-imposed state
of dormancy and sterility
due to a diffidence
born out of their being stationed
in an unviable, hostile environment.
I don't feel kindred with my co-fauNA.

But rest assured, O Conscience,
that I will succeed in persuading
you to seek and find your fulfillment
in your lot. And if you cannot
give up your asphyxiating obduracy,
I will create for you
an environment you will be
enticed to blossom in.

Armed rosary

Step away from that pot of gold.
It's mine, in case you didn't know.
Be along on your thieving stroll.
My beans for you won't grow.

I stalk my predators.
My viagra runs in their fangs.
In my veins, a myriad nectars course.
I scheme from behind my bangs.

Your arrows fall limp like dead poodles.
Flat, long and impotent.
I suck down the bowlful of noodles.
The china plate has a gulp-shaped dent.

Manning the ring are my minions.
They number six-and-infinity.
They wield scimitars and pinions.
I'm geared for divinity.

I know you were daring a heist.
But that was before you knew about us.
Begone before I set on you my feist.
The hound will ravage you without fuss.

Breath by breath, I thrive with my knack.
The more you fume, the more toasty I get.
Bred for potency, my bricks I stack.
Let go of my puzzle; that's my jigsaw set.

Peace be with you.
Be with me if you will.
Know that I want my space and my view.
I shall exercise my skill.

Where Thee at?

These bohemians are slandering Your name,
thinking it fashionable to badmouth
You, Who seem to have left as soon as You came,
And Who created a diaspora between the North and the South.
They want to render You nonexistent
So they can make their contradictions consistent
With one another; they seek
To befuddle, with their unverifiable libel, the meek.
Ironically, the barbarians are more
To be pitied than censured, for
They try to tell apart Krishna and Thor,
And, failing to split the atom, disparage The Core.

Are they entrapped by Nihilism, surely not!
I, more than anyone I know,
Had been infected by the rot,
But never saw the tumour successfully grow
Into anything sturdy and tenable.
I have found I must be amenable
To Thy true form, whatever It be,
And allow It to gambol within Me.
Shall I venture why You, to them, are a nonentity?
Your absconding renders them blasé;
When You, the Top Cat, are away, they, the bandicoots, will play
Fast and loose with Your identity.

I'm forced to invent
Names for You, one for each of Your myriad hues.
In order to circumvent
The desolation of Your apparent desertion, I muse
On my memory of You.
But at times, when the morass thickens (the plot too),
My shoulders threaten to buckle under
The sheer weight of the blunder
You committed (cough, cough)
When you upped and left (You deserter!),
When, without a word or murmur,
You simply took off!

Your absence is oppressive! I demand
That You show Yourself -- like You did
To the horizon this morning, and
To Pandora, when she unclasped that lid.
In a torrent You will come rushing
Like the frothy waves that come gushing
To scoop the straggling turtle hatchling up
Into its foamy embrace, as it yodels, "Surf's up!"
I must thank all that I have seen, each mountain
I'm coerced to scale by the force
Of Your Will, which, with my own, I will forge,
And then head up to the source of Your fountain!

Waxing Official

One cycle had passed since the Neophyte started drawing his income for shifting with the lunar pearl. Came D-day, however, he was feeling a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction over what he couldn't help but feel was a distressingly mundane culmination. Then, not one to be crushed by anvil-shaped feathers, the Neophyte began to reflect on a mirror, which he held backwards while simultaneously laying the cleansing carpet out. To the acolyte's right, an inquisitive Quorum, sat chomping on each other's fat. What chew say? the members of the Quorum were often heard inquiring of one another. The Chubby Minister held the Industrious Honey's attention with the timeless benjamin, information. The CM burped out well-digested digestibles. The Neophyte, meanwhile, sat muttering his mantras within himself. These mantras were inaudible, imperceptible, at the time, to the Neophyte himself. For you see, the mantras had, after months of diligent and assiduous repetition on his part, accreted into a deeply embedded, automated internal skill that lay beneath too many fathoms to be fathomable at a superficial glance. As the Neophyte keyed in the self-sufficing prophetic words, he sensed he should acknowledge the venerable presence of the Knowledgeable Saintly Man, for he had just learnt that everyone was keenly aware of everyone's doings, and it would be amiss if he should omit this sage from the Quorum. The KSM was, therefore, duly noted and imbibed. Within his caffienated chamber, the impish livewire went about his administrative obligations before he may wink 40 times. The Neophyte had organised his inner space so as to attract and assimilate any and all lessons; so he absorbed the teachings and was eager for more. For there was much information yet to glean, many mountains of treasures waiting scheduled to be discovered.

Gems bond with the wind

The diamond in the dirt decided it was time to come clean. It had spent much borrowed time burrowed deep in obscurity. Of course, this newfound urge to stick its head above ground would not mean it must emerge to peek dangerously out from a hole in a snake pit. Venom corrodes the purest of jewels; the diamond will not let itself be tainted. No, it is much too pristine and rare a thing for such mistreatment. The precious stone would do laps within its inner marathon grounds, lest it lapse into atrophy. It was a trophy that it would award itself. On a daily basis. Life would be a breeze. With every zephyr that condescended to caress its softly gleaming exterior, and with every purr elicited, would catalyse its dogged commitment to petting itself with feeling care.

And the breadth of its breath would serve to be its daily bread.