You know, I know

Cows moo dogs bark and cuckoos coo
And you sing your song like a snare drum
Then you walk up the sand
Under the moonlight
And off you go
And I sing, who sings now?
You know I know who you are
As I travel home to get my hat
And my guitar and my rucksack
It’s still so dark
But I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
 
(I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you)
 
Now I’m back home
In my tent
I’ve been to God knows where
I’m freezing cold
And I’m lonely
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
 
(I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you
I know I’ll find you)
 
And I sing, who sings now?
You know, I know.

Naked Music

 Naked music of a Tuesday morning (after a cup of coffee thinking about all the saffron that grows all around growing hatred planting seeds of hate trees haittrees if you will, after the rain of the night before thinking about not thinking and sentimental states of vacuum in the minds of the thinker who creepily thinks about reading science fiction books quotes about which reach him immediately in a minute or two more before or after the end of the works inside brown glass bottles of cough-syrup worn around your eyes watching the world in the brown diffraction of light bending to prove a point like a little thin slim blade of grass in the woods right outside the doors of wooden log cabins built by recluse philosophers) plays nice and slow and comfortably loud while yet another batch of coffee brews inside my mind in the shape of you because the music is naked this morning of this Tuesday

_*_

last page of my book
the candle dies
the end
no more shadows

i fall asleep

last night

i left my windows open last night
there was moonlight on my bed

i pushed my sheet away
i shrouded myself
in the silver light that spread
all over the bed

the moon didn't let me sleep
i didn't let the moon sleep

through the night we spoke -
me and the moon, i think it was
just us, who were awake
the last night 

talking about everything
that slept

^o)

aimless fish fly the sky having lost their way
oh it's another day the restless dogs bark
bent spoons reflect your moon and eye
sit by the fence afraid of the dark
on Y branches near the junction are nests
inside which sleep little birds yet to fly
mother beaks with dead worms hover above
isn't it a song worth remembering
isn't it a sight worth a day past, to last?

Bombay, July 2011

This is not the best of times, not the worst
But this is just time, time and time
The best and worst are already past
Or are on their way here, but it’s not now
Because here has shown me some good
And some bad somewhen and then there
Are they that were there in times
Of good or bad

I mind not the rain outside the window
Or the mist on the insides of the window pane
Of this air-conditioned room somewhere here
On the highway with perpetual horns blowing
Through my head, and inside alone I
Only struggle to answer my question –
Libido or Libidon’t?

poles

blf

L

Not a Monday

on blessed nights of late saturdays
moons grow brighter and larger
33% they say
and it isn't hard to believe

and a little earlier, it was time
when friday nights ripened
with bamboo poles that could
take unwanted liberties through
wanted windows and news
of the world that covered
the outside of an all too familiar
world from the inside

it was time for short-hand
recipes for baby faced angels
or angel faced babies

Scrabble

have you ever thought about it?

since october we have spent our days trying to be proper.
remember all the words spoken with much caution
and all the things done with utmost care?
february now, and still haven't we mastered
the art of being ourselves with ourselves.
if it is the fear that should keep us well behaved
(the way we would want to think of, as the way to be -
not to hurt nor to cross the boundaries of personal space)
we might not have to take these fears seriously
for what lies in real without the put on proper-ness
in the absense of unspeakable fears
beyond every definition of perceived reality
could be much more brilliant and vibrant.

have you ever thought about it?

nexpect

restlessness fills the insides
of the hollow shells of inspiration

hollow lightnings too
shine on the surface

something soon, at my door
will be at dawn

something soon, at my door
will beat me down

thinkers

Heh

Vortex

Sleep

Half an Octopus (almost)

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