Early

But the song of the early bird

And the other early song of the bird

(Yet to be taken a shot at -

Crying for immunity and polyester)

Till the lost cows come home

Much later: after the break of dawn

(Dusk was her name, if I remember right

Or was it that she just smelt like musk

And was dusky of skin? Ah memory!)

Early night late evening like rain

Needles of silence: nothing is audible:

Immune to needle pierce shrieks - 

Noise of the world (but for) the words

She breathes in her sleep - gentle

Murmur of every word's worth

(So romantic, wandering lonely like a cloud)

Get to hear the song of the early worm

And the other early song of the worm

Not (an important thought)

(Once the bird 
Said
That it swam 
in the air

And the fish
Said
That it flew
in  water)

Uh, oh, oh!

So, who’s going to go?

Go?

Yeah, go, you know?

Oh!

So, who’s going to go?

Why, though?

For a better tomorrow?

Everybody says that, you know?

Is that a problem though?

No?

No!

Oh!

So, who’s going to go?

Go?

Yeah, go, you know?

Oh!

Will you go?

I think so…

Ok, cheerio!

in between

in between dreams

happens the dream that always happens

in between

cowngaroo

you
kangaroo!

too
blue?

ooh
deja vu

do
undo

rue
misconstrue

ooh
et tu?

clue?
shoe!

deep blue?
bright blue!

shoo
kangaroo

boo!
boo!

screw
you!

moo!
moo?

how?
cow!

kangaroo?
cowngaroo!

seas

A thousand stories have been told ever since the seas dried up.
Where are the rain clouds that sucked the seas dry?
There is no sea blue no more, no aqua marine.
There is sea brown but there is no blue.
Blue?
No blue.

The forty fifth story was about a crane that digested a droplet of the sea and flew.
It looked like a cloud they said.
The sea was never to be seen; fishes bought new walking sticks and walked the land.
Story seventy seven was about a mother who couldn’t cry anymore and that the sea dried up in shame.
Blue?
No blue.

Story nine hundred and seven is about the gigantic plant that grew from the ground to the sky that sucked up all the oceans.
Another story - five hundred or so said the seas migrated to mars on an autumn evening.
Sleepers slept and those who woke up woke up to a land of no seas.
My windows face not the sea.
There is no sea for at least a hundred miles from here.
Our camels walk on sand with hardened feet.
At the end of the world where there were supposed to be seas, there is more dry land that brings you back to where you started from.
Blue?
No blue.

mug shot

a black and white mug shot was found
drying on the line, inside the dark room
where the photographs were left to dry

the photographer, found dead outside
the dark room, inside the studio, besides
the camera, a bullet hole on his forehead

the frame that held the killer in the mug
shot did not disclose the hand that held
the gun, the face only looked innocent

the gray eyes, the cold stare, the folds
on the lines of his denim shirt did not
give away any intentions of a murder

so there was a crime, one in the studio
and many in the papers the next day -
many stories of speculation & suspense

long

with the surrounding
shortness of time
one or two or another
failed rhyme
with every minute of
assumed time in my hands
i only know i got no time
for long term plans

(a deep gray sky, almost black)

silence breaks through the walls
of yet another cold night -
(a deep gray sky, almost black)
'what worth was it?' - the
question uttered, echoing
in unison - a million silent voices
inside a million turbulent minds - cutting
through the surrounding stillness
of the night with hopes, almost
greedy - that the question is only
one's own and none else's.

the night stills itself further
strengthening every secret belief -
'it's only me that feels this way'
while the song of every soul
is just the same, only in a
different tongue. some do it
with a hiss and some with a
sigh. silence freezes and hardens
itself around every thought and
every question.
(the deep gray sky, almost black)

D (II)

a zen like detachment
is only a third person view
of things - he, she, it and them

let's just pretend -
it's their business anyway

consciousness

consciousness

can and must only be a blend
of brighter shades of blue
and purple

to smell the roses...

just another. story?

"No beginning, no end, hanging there somewhere, I do not like them. But that's only my opinion, you keep writing..."

The pencil lead broke.

persistence of memory

fluttering in the wind,
casting long shadows
in broad day light, bright
sunshine of the mind -

memories dry
on clothes lines...

persistence of memory

On the blank sheet of paper, he drew a stick figure.

It resembled someone he had seen in her dreams, but never in real life.

song for that moment

'Oh! is this that song?'
'No!'
'But well...'
'But well?'
'Well, it could have been...'
'Well, it could have been!'

And once again

The crowd gasped. Buddha opened his eyes, looked around, said ‘I had that dream again’ and wept, uncontrollably.

He closed his eyes again.

Deja vu

'I don't lie!' he and she said, in unison.

That was one deja vu each.

And when he wakes up

He stares into the darkness, sees the concrete wall that has now replaced the window.

No not this

'Let's not take this road' she tells him - 'too many known faces'.

They take a quick turn into the other unknown road.