days of 13

ignoring the clouds, sitting

on top of a mountain

listening to butterfly songs

11

there was a desert -
i had to be there
at that desert

we had to be there, yes
on that day -
i remember it better today

i wish i had remembered it then too
but i got lost
in a world (of too much running around)

that was there around then -
today, now
i remember the desert

here still, is the desert - where i stand
wishing it was the day
when i should have been there

i stand here, alone
casting a long shadow
that should have been cast

some other day
and i think to myself
why didn't i do it?

why didn't i do it?
why didn't i do it?
three times in a row

43

we hold our conversations
in an alien tongue
i don't understand what you say
you don't understand what i say
and because nobody understands nothing -
exist
our conversations

5/13

we drench ourselves in the rain of conversations -

another conversation comes to an end, creating a sense of loss

the way the end of a good book does -

every sense of self, time and the world around is lost

i wring myself and hang me on the line to dry

moments slowly pass and the world returns slowly -

things begin to make sense, reality spreads all around

a droplet of blue ink on blotting paper, drenched in rain

with a bunch of feathers that the birds that flew away left behind

i sweep the floor carefully and gather

all our words that lay scattered all around

i put them inside a box and hide it safe in a dark corner

and try not to think about it till the time is right

for me to go back to it again

the stars twinkle in the night sky and shooting stars fall

outside my window

there will be another day, later, a long time away from now

another night like this, when the blue moon will rise -

then i'll stand by my window, clutching the box to my chest

i'll look at the night sky and listen to familiar tunes of the breeze

like the night of some other time - the night will feel the same -

the same stars will twinkle and the same shooting stars will fly

everything and everyone that had to go would have left

then i'll open the box full of words from old conversations -

sitting on the floor, i'll let the blue glow of the moon

spread my shadow on the floor - on which i'll arrange the words

one after another, one after another -

recreating a conversation that once was -

creating again all alone a world that once was, with those words

and i think i'll smile to myself then -

but till such a night arrives, the box will stay hidden in the dark

with all the words and the attempts to forget them

or the tries just not to remember them -

till a night like this is back again

7

when it is almost the end of the run
always appear out of nowhere - seven more
last steps before one can stop running -
before it is time to spread the wings and fly
seven steps at a time, seven more at every end
the run never ends -

the feathers, like the pages
of an intimidatingly thick book (or a boring one,
for that matter) never see get to see
the light

5

the sky is an unusual shade of coffee and smoke
a cloud the shape of the distorted shadow of a postbox
stretched lazily across the sky
distant pistons and stomping feet set the rhythm of the evening
directions disappear, north is east and everything is everywhere
they wear a thin film of sweat in between skins and clothes
keys are carrots, cabbage locks - flowers wilt, leaves fall
sighs and car horns sound alike, as they punctuate the river
of breeze that flows and falls, flows and falls in between
my feet move along the seashore - my breath, steady -
with every step i breathe out seven names at a time
and i wish to see them all as one - a lost rabbit
comes and deposits a letter in the shadow of the postbox
salt in my nose and the scent of another evening lost, on my mind
and i stop - in front of me, the sea
and another day that has reached here much earlier than it should have -
yet another sunset and my last day, in front of me
another unsent letter and an unsmiled smile
the sky is an unusual shade of coffee and smoke
a cloud the shape of the distorted shadow of a postbox
stretched lazily across the sky

0 - 1

Having searched for familiar names

In lexica, almanacs (and also in between the sheets of waking up)

(on forgotten mornings of lost nights)

For a really long time now

The colours and lines of the songs and faces (known or unknown)

Seem to have faded away, the twinkling of the surreal stars that last just a night or two (is probably imaginary)

The probability of the rebirth of all beliefs old however (amidst vehement denial)

Is spread everywhere (or lies anywhere) between zero and one

Nothing (not a name, nor a face) begins anything new

Nothing (not a name, nor a face) begins a new phase nor something new with a name (or no name)

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!

again

Cat at my window –

Burning coal bits for eyes

Diamonds! Stars! Lightning!

Beautiful, yet a little frightening

The night before – there were skies

Lethal stars, similar glow

not

not a day - and yes,
not a dream &
not a night ~ naked ~
the orange year -
segments seven - plus
plus seven or seven plus
plus - all - wrapped ~
around a nut that fell
shell

tv rainbow

i didn't ask for a TV rainbow
but for a real one - the static only
makes it worse - on TV or in real

life?

worlds

your world, as you say, is inside your head
and the world mine, is inside the head, mine

the world ours -
is nothing beyond the worlds - yours
and mine

our world - is what we made
for ourselves - inside our own heads
and of none besides - removing us

from us, there is nothing else that
has to stay, but us

they are nowhere there, in there -
their world theirs,
made inside their heads

recreating our world, when we make it -
worlds - yours and mine
they have their own worlds - inside their heads

alone and together

end of rainy evenings

late evening rain
writes a thousand letters
on the outside of a glass window

on the wall of every room

when seen from inside
the little bits of poetry from behind
can make one cry

or make one just ignore them

when in a hurry
to not think of many things, anything
and thus ends an evening

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

june

so there has been a face change
'ah worry not, it's just a phase' i hear them say
what gently falls down from the tree is not just a leaf
well-worn faces, faces, faces they fall
it's june, like it was the year before and the year before that
it could have been may it could have been november
it just happens to be june
it's not just now, almost always - out of tune
pieces of broken faces lie scattered there
below the tree
they still say 'ah worry not, it's only a phase'
his face too, her face too, falls slowly, from the tree

now

i want it now.
what? you want it now too?
ok. we want it now.
but you do know that we won't get it, right?
come, sit here.
say 'i want it now!'

we won't get it, but asking for it never hurts.
say 'i want it now!'
i've been here since morning.
i've been chanting ever since -
'i want it now!'

go on, you say it too.
i want it now.
i want it now.
i want it now.

ah, if you get bored - somewhen in between
just look up at the sky, for a moment or two
and continue.

i want it now.
i want it now.
i want it now.

wait

let them fingers rest a while
when the eyes close to see patterns
in moments real or surreal that can happen
to one or many with no time to expect nothing
no more pointless stars, no more pointed agitation
sleepless days and nights over blank sheets of paper
built are my forts on real mountain slopes where you ran
playing screaming laughing crying flying your blue green kite
that once flew high and floated slow in my room gathering cobwebs
i'll wait a little longer than required, longer than usual, to learn our song

before we sing it

escape

another night of cryptic words, the shape of cobwebs
floating all around, slowly falling
what could keep some occupied would keep one alone -
thanks to that, thanks to this night of everyone's preoccupation
3000 words in 5 minutes, 300 seconds
another five years from now, you should have learnt
to fly away, out of places you don't belong - away from places where
you know you shouldn't be at
cobwebs the shape of words would still fall
but wouldn't bother you no more

helpless

we left the sun behind us
and walked on our shadows
even the shadow
of my outstretched hand couldn't
stop the flower from falling

chamutangete

he who was the king was a king no more
he who was the king was a pawn
when the winds of time changed direction
when the wind was locked up in cages
of black lines drawn left to right and top to bottom

he who became the pawn was a pawn no more
he who was the pawn was a horse
when there were people and things
to be moved from here to there or there to here
when the war broke out, when more was less

he who became the horse was a horse no more
he who was the horse was a bird
when the world grew smaller and their thirst grew large
when the cage wasn't big no more
to go out and look around when all was nothing

he who became a bird was a bird no more
he who became a bird was a looking glass
when all around was all of what was there already
in the shapes of the king, the pawn, the horse and the bird
showing everything that changed, without a change