Lemon Drops

A black bird on a bare branch,bleak sky
half finished bottle of beer and a tall tumbler
of lemon ice tea is all that's left for me

Waking up to a world world without you,
feels like swallowing the smell
of liquid bleach,drowning in it.

There's no better way to describe this
and it really sucks to keep tugging at
 your presence only left in dreams.

One dimensional thoughts and origami hours,
Shadows of when you used to call for me
with soft taffeta sounds,scratching the door

I always liked abandoned houses,and empty tables,
away from crowds,old and forgotten,
and clear orange sunsets,it's all I find solace in.

The pink sun leaves me too,
a eulogy of country music for him-
our silence sits like poetry between old journal pages.

A dry flower lies pressed in a paper napkin
on my lap,a gift from a stranger,
but my lips can longer find thanks or prayers.

A black bird on a bare branch,bleak sky,
Half finished bottle of beer and a tall tumbler
of lemon ice,and a dry flower,I have plenty.

Tumbleweed

Sunsets make me sad
and remind me of my emptiness in crowded buses
filled with men I'll never see again.

Sunsets also make me happy
because in this world so full meaning,there are a few things
that do not need to be understood to be loved.

Sunsets remind me of trying to count time,
like looking at the huge clock with roman numerals
 instead of regular numbers,in somebody else's living room.

Sunsets make me nostalgic,
of all the nights spent staring at glow in the dark galaxies
stuck to the ceiling like lying awake in a dream.

Sunsets set me free,to hope that
 one day I turn into tumbleweed,wandering without purpose,
or a dandelion,disintegrating,dancing with the wind.

The glory days

Raindrops on car windows look like glitter when lights falls on them at night,as you drive to the supermarket where you'll walk down the aisles aimlessly,shopping cart empty."I just enjoy grocery shopping" you say to yourself.
You actually go there to watch a veil of smoke dance sensuously over the ice cream storage area,invoking your gaze to watch the screen of frost,a crowd of consumers walk past you looking for other things,or they look at you too long,and too hard,with the kind of scrutiny a scientist dedicates to a deadly microbe.
You need a brown paper bag with slits on the eyes to hide yourself from assault  and battery of gazes,later when you find yourself alone on a back alleyway or a footpath,next to overspilling garbage dumps,with a lone stray dog,you can puke your guts out into it,the smell of putrid smiles is nauseating.It has nothing to do with rainy days,you're used to them now.Start to wonder why ants and rants have such long straight lines,intersecting each other like there's no tomorrow,and conclude that coffee is a boon to all of mankind.It's only Friday night when the city's on it's streets,a flock,a fleet,shuffling to a beat they blindly grind their two left feet too each day,every week,for months and years,galore.It's a textbook excuse of a living.
A child of accident is a lucky one because he has someone to bag the blame on to,or maybe it just blows more because he shouldn't have belonged,had it not been for the lack of a second thought.Why,India needs the colors of fall to adorn October to make it warmer and colder at the same time,until you feel just fine.
The smell of celery is so enticing only to you,oh,the sweet smell of greens.Songs from different decades shuffle through your brain..Maybe you should zone out like a zombie instead of sending messages across hemispheres inside the globe of your head, when you stare at shadows on ceilings,maybe you should dance on the streets to celebrate what you feel.What it feels like to be a skeletal soul.Raw,raw,rugged,whole.Wholesome as a bowl of soup.
Indigo tiles on kitchen walls are soothing like magazine rifles are soothing against the cool skin of your temples.
Hitler and Gandhi were the same person in cardinal essence,their lives just spiraled towards different ends.
Why do dogs have that light in their eyes like sparklers on Diwali,who stole the light from your eyes.
You know that feeling when you skip through the lawn sprinklers on a summer day and get your clothes all dirty and your mother screams at you because mothers scream at children and children make castles out of mud,with little flowers at the windows,such skilled masonry and the drill perpetuates into long summer nights of hide and seek where you have to pee so bad,you can't breathe.Such imagery it suffocates you,like when you're standing on stage and your mouth forgets to move and your throat dries itself up,forgetting it can produce sound.What a wastage of memory space,nahi?
But yet you never forget to include the irrelevant details like rattling swings,ceramic bowls heaped onto each other,striped umbrellas,hot cups of cocoa and the sunlight on white spaces that looks like a rod of  rainbow colours.
Drink up your rose milk,or flush it down,the staircase where you sat talking to the stars still has the sharp edges where you once fell.The scar running along your back is memory of who became you in the eyes of those who watch. Where did you go,where did they go,the days galore?