The Bruised Lips of the Lilies and other poems

The Bruised Lips of the Lilies and other poems

The Bruised Lips of the Lilies

Once while sitting for an agreement with silence  
we both encountered the brutality of a seismic surety    
quenching the thirst once every forty days like a camel’s DNA 
chopping up the restive breathing like a deceptive oasis  
now we take all care to swath our injured void      
and preserve our death in mummies  
the anatomy of solitude dwelled indoors with a mystery
and after this we’re in a different circa! 

The worn-out messages of the old mysticism has no teeth      
when the time skins itself like a snake  
to have a new incarnation we see a flowery deal 
our memories bruise the lips of those cuss words     
once before my rebirth and after my long sickness  
at 2 am in the morning of September 27 in 2002  
while meeting a triangular passivity in full inebriation     
the last quarter of the deserted peninsular got   
drowsily drowned like the fate of the Titanic  
we keep waiting even today for the providence of agility   
though we couldn’t witness an anesthetic apocalypse 
we meet life perennially fooling the truth of death.     

The Other Day I Watched a Pelican

The other day I watched a pelican
preying on an Indian enigma in a hungry lake 
a huge crowd carved on the pages of onomatopoeia  
along the Sea of Galilee, a new heaven was budding. 

In the evening that day, I was anxious 
for different paraphernalia  of different syllabi  
of heart full of music, art and aesthetics of historicity.
I think my ten-year-old son is the next Picasso     
his brushes play the mouth piano on canvas
his pensive eyes decipher the beatitudes of oceans’ art   
and all unrevealed etymology of filament and figment     
embroidered by poignancy of sheer promises.

These days when I go to bed late night 
I kiss a dream of a peculiar nomenclature of milk’s white 
that resembles the fecundity of Cleopatra’s deception 
and I meet the pelican blazing as a dim light   
to celebrate the Passover-the festival of peace  
while chanting the Archimedes’ theory.


Is there no room for a second birth called saxophone?   
Defuse the dystopia of a false history; if you can.
That island was trapped in a crocodile’s bellybutton  
in a watery petticoat, it screamed like Cherrapunji    
later it’s brought to the notice of an itinerary illusion.
A few strokes of cigarettes with a few hugs of the atma 
and of course some pegs of betrayal was like a casino of kisses.

Someone’s divinity in the bracket of slimness reverberates    
the healing of chemotherapy reflects on a platter of broccoli.
The vacuum of bourbon may be little closer to me 
else it pricks though like a familiar pain    
that last time was a subterfuge I merged with a semicolon!  


And I find an agnostic conscience sitting snugly with a whore  
and somewhere the Pacific is a puddle to sail vignette dreams
a few stars fall off while night-surfing and lollygagging   
a sky full of diamonds moisturizes that orphan plateau    
a tiny deciduous crop field of green promiscuity  
gets procrastinated overnight for no reason—tragic! 

Lately the Bay of Bengal has started drifting off
when the moon takes a hiatus to get a body massage    
you have tepid tears to have the holy communion  
and you take a lot of time to chant hallelujah  
a bunch of lesser gods pray in various syntaxes in full spirit 
to release the masses of chained elegies and their grief! 


You walk past just throwing a smile of ceramic porosity   
how does the ventricle pulsate with such syllables? 
At the end of the day the assurance you dole out   
melts like the evidence in September’s horoscope  
there’re big brass cups, silver medals, and mementos
they clandestinely pray  
wrapping their mouths with tissues mock at the morgue near by    
certainly, that’s enough to assess your accomplishments.
I was sunk neck-deep and was praying for an exodus        
our plane had an emergency landing in the zero gravity
between the two junctions of cataract of Coromandel   
there’s no geography around us then 
though you’re an anxious idiom of solace and bhakti   
I was coming out of a forest of pink and desert’s trepidation    
to reciprocate the gratitude and fetch the deluge of assurance! 

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